Remembrance
Dramatis Personae
New Imperium Diktat: Grand Moff Gene Rytor
Minister of War:
Sector Admiral Gaius Adonai (Human male from Empress Teta)
Head of Fleet Operations: Sector Admiral Stan Sanders (Human male from Eriadu)
Commander, Ground Forces: Field Marshal Rodin Kaler (Human male from Coruscant)
Commander, Logistics Support: Fleet Admiral Jann Percy (Human male from Commenor)
Commander, Jedi Operations: Grand Master Alyx Misnera (Human male from Varnus)
Commander, Special Projects: Admiral/CEO Walt Amason (Human male from Bonadan)
Executive Officer, Research and Development: CEO ‘Silverfox’ K’bail (Trianii male from Brochiib)
* * *
GM Xar Kerensky (Human male from Varnus) – overall Jedi Grand Master
GM Alyx Misnera (Human male from Varnus) – acting Grand Master of Division Affairs
JM Jacob "Jinx" Skipper (Human male from Renastatia) – Deputy Grand Master
JM Mathis "Billbob" Organa (Human male from Alderaan) - Chancellor
JM Gaius Adonai
(Human male from Empress Teta) – Overseer of Defense and Military Affairs
Adept Atridd Xoan (Human male from Coruscant) - Head of Special Ops
JM Kiz Thrakus (Human male from Corellia) – Kensai and Head Instructor of Combat
Adept Vynd “Delta 1” Archaron) - (Human male from Coruscant) – Warden and Academy Dean
JM Nico Flygras (Human male from Cyagar) – Former Deputy Grand Master, currently in a coma
Bren (Lasitus) (Human male from Golron VII)
Templar Nadia Ispen (Human female from Coruscant)
Crusader Rynn Mariel (Human female from Kryos)
Adept Ralagos Akala (Togorian male from Togoria)
General Maarek Stele (Human male from Kuan)
Colonel Rivian Donitz (Human male from Ziost)
Ex-Imperial Sovereign Guard Kir Kanos (aka. Jac Railler) (Human male from Coruscant)
Cozeeke (CO-ZK Multipurpose Droid belonging to Jac Railler)
Icis Novitaar (Human/Ka’jeat Traveler from Kajarn)
Angol Moa - Oldest of the Travelers
Moa Gault - Father of Icis Novitaar.
Noa Rintor (Traveler as Human male) – Traveler assigned to Epsilon Sector
Malduke (Ancient evil Traveler sealed in Galbagos Nebula)
Jedi Adept Kurt (Former Jedi Warden – now AD agent)
Dr. Erim Vannik (Human male from Varnus)
Rydon Kerensky (Human male from Varnus)
Illiana Nakotov (Human female from Varnus)
Ret. Diktat/Sector Admiral Arfann Dogar (Canoid male from Canis)
Fleet Admiral S’cill Shokfer (Bothan male from Bothawui)
Fleet Admiral Caramon Majere (Human male from Coruscant)
Quat (Human male from Coruscant) – Aide to Diktat Rytor
* * *
Altima (Humanoid male from Had Abbadon - Supreme Warlord) Former name: Elan Mossin
Sado (Human male from Tython)
Zalaria (Elerian female from Merinama)
Kronos (Human male from Ondos) Former name: Thule Vionin
Asellus (Human female from Notron) Former name: Onrai
Raftina (Crinn female Queen Mother)
Akargan (Human male from G’rho)
Velius (Human male from Kashi) Former name: Jarthanis (Guardians of the Breath)
Strife (Human male from Palawa) Former name: Kijiras (Chatos Academy Paladins)
Elidibsatianouka (Duinougwuin male from The Graveyard of the Dragons)
Calvernic (Human male from AD galaxy)
Queklain (Alien in Human male Rofel’s body)
Nimrod (Elerian male from Merinama – deceased)
Mordachus (Human male from AD galaxy – deceased)
* * *
Naguis'Vox'Donn (Human male, COM of the Grand Crusader)
Naguis'Vox'Donn (Human male, COM of the Cataclysm)
Naguis'Vox'Donn (Human male, COM of the Ascendancy)
Naguis’Dakor Alona (Jedicon female under Strife)
Naguis’Dakor Chele (Jedicon female under Stife)
Naguis’Dakor Moyabi (Jedicon male under Akargan)
* * *
Titan-class Battleships
New Imperium – Grand Crusader, Cataclysm, Ascendancy,
Nimbus
Akargan – Overlord, Warhawk, Extinction, Exterminator
Strife – Eternity, Abyss, Oblivion, Maelstrom
Asellus – Dark Sun, Vertigo, Nightlord
Velius – Violator, Defiler, Tormentor
Calvernic – Invasion of Light
Kronos – Death Wing
* * *
Military Personnel
Command, Task Force Crusader:
Command, Task Force Cataclysm:
Command, Task Force Ascendancy: Fleet Admiral Tam Eulicid (Human male from Rendili)
Commodore of the MC-120 Darkstar: Admiral Jingo Yatai (Human male from Coruscant)
Commodore of the ISD Stormwatch: Admiral Aaron Melvar (Human male from Bakura)
Executive, R&D Division: CEO Trident (Human male from Ammuud)
Executive, R&D Division: CEO Kasei Sarthik (Trianii male from Brochiib)
* * *
Inferno One: Maj. Salle Darl (Human female from Kolath)
Inferno Two: Gren Pabos (Human male from Renastatia)
Inferno Five: Kikitik (Sigman male from Sigma)
Inferno Nine: Narm Greyrunner (Human Male from Abregado)
* * *
Grand Master
GM Xar Kerensky (Human male from Varnus) – overall Jedi Grand Master
GM Alyx Misnera (Human male from Varnus) – acting Grand Master of Division Affairs
Jedi Council
JM Jacob "Jinx" Skipper (Human male from Renastatia) – Deputy Grand Master
JM Mathis "Billbob" Organa (Human male from Alderaan) - Chancellor
JM Gaius Adonai (Human male from Empress Teta) – Overseer of
Defense and Military Affairs
Adept Atridd Xoan (Human male from Coruscant) - Head of Special Ops
JM Kiz Thrakus (Human male from Corellia) – Kensai and Head Instructor of Combat
Adept Vynd “Delta 1” Archaron) - (Human male from Coruscant) – Warden and Academy Dean
Former Council
Members:
JM Nico Flygras (Human male from Cyagar) – Former Deputy Grand Master, currently in a coma
Adept Gui Sun Paan (Human male from Tatooine) - Head of Special Ops – (KIA at Battle of Varnus)
Other Memberrs:
Vykk Olyronn, Draken Ar’Kell,
Colin Moore, Sim Zaphod, Junor Brajo, Varanus Templar, Satai Dukhat, Roger
Macreed, Neres Warjan, Mrax Satai, Rilke Darcunter, Eric Donos, Aethar
Daemonstar Nadia Ispen
Prologue: Aftermath
The first time he
regained consciousness, it was like rising from the depths of a dark ocean,
light slowly filtering down to where dark creatures resided. The light slowly
grew brighter, expanding and glowing until only white light filled his vision,
rippling like surface waves in front of his eyes. That light resolved into
several brighter spots, occasionally broken by dark shadows that danced in
front of them. Memories floated just beyond reach, refusing to come. Even
thoughts appeared only briefly, quickly disappearing again, like a wisp.
Those overhead shadows
became outlines of figures, people. A dark figure whose face was covered by a
mask loomed above, his arms reaching downwards. Voices came to his ears, but
were muffled, impossible to make out. Where
am I? What’s happening? The thoughts were fleeting, ephemeral.
The vision narrowed,
and gave way to darkness again.
Dreams came, the dreams
of deep sleep, making no logical sense yet seeming very real. In them he was
fighting against something or someone, trying to get towards a certain goal – a
person, an event. In others, he was running, escaping the conspiracy of an
evil, corrupt entity that only he dared resist. In his dreams he was always
fighting or running, and each time, the circumstances were different, but held
a strain of familiarity, like he had witnessed all this before.
The next time he awoke,
he felt cool air rushing into his lungs, filling him with a refreshing sense of
life. He opened his eyes, but closed them again immediately; there was
something touching them. Something liquid. Oddly
though, his eyes weren’t burning. He opened them again, and saw a greenish blue
blur all around him. He blinked, and then he could make out the tube snaking
its way down to his mouth, and the glassed-in walls of the cylinder he was
floating in. Blurred shapes moved around outside his tank. He was in a bacta
bath. Funny, how that familiar sense reassured him. He floated there, naked
except for his underpants, tried to look down at himself. His body felt numb.
Fresh, life-giving air continued to flow through his nose and mouth. Probably mixed with a high dose of oxygen, too. He was being
treated for his injuries.
The crash. Suddenly memories came rushing back. Kamren Thansil. The duel. And before that, Rann Wosper and
Tanya Vinikoro, plunging to their deaths in the streets of Vectur. His
own fighter, diving downwards, the ground rushing up to meet him, knowing this
would be his final moment…
Sleep came again, but this time, the dreams were real.
He relived that moment, watching Rann and Tanya die, feeling the helplessness,
the anger, and the terror of knowing that he was next. The
shame and denial, and the desperation. In his dreams, he yelled at them
to pull out, to wake up from the trances they’d been placed in. But every time
he was too late. They were gone. He had failed.
Maarek Stele awoke once more, and this time, he was in
a room, lying in a relatively comfortable bed. As his eyes opened, the familiar
white walls of what had to be the palace medbay greeted him, along with the
smells – sanitizing liquids, freshly-washed linens and sheets, freshly scrubbed
and dried air filling his nostrils with each breath. Also familiar were the
sounds – the steady beeping of monitors, the more random beeps of anomalies and
alerts, and the whirring of medical droids and their synthetic voices.
Two blobs at the end of the bed resolved themselves
into Maarek’s legs. His feet were there, too, sticking up out from beneath the
thin white sheet covering his torso and legs. Experimentally, he wiggled his
toes; all ten of them were still there.
At his sides were his arms, and he raised them up to
look at his hands. Still there. Ten fingers, too. So
he was still in one piece. There was pain, though. In his
legs, in his shoulder, and along his side. He blinked, and the rest of
the medbay recovery room came into slightly better focus. Was something wrong
with his eyes?
“Ah, you’re awake.”
A dark-skinned man with gray hair dressed in doctor’s
garb stepped in front of the bed. Maarek recognized Doctor Erim Vannik, chief
physician of the Royal Palace, immediately. He looked tired; there were dark
bags under his eyes. Maarek couldn’t imagine how many injured he must have
treated during the battle, and since.
“How do you feel?” Vannik asked, looking down at him.
Maarek had to swallow before he was able to speak. “I’ve
been better,” he croaked. He felt like he’d been run over by a tank. His throat
was dry.
“Here. There are some things we need to go over,”
Vannik said, offering him a cup of water.
Maarek gingerly took the paper cup in his hand and
took a careful sip. “I’m sure. How long was I out?”
“Ten days,” Vannik responded, pursing his lips
together. “You were in a coma for seven of those. I wasn’t sure you were coming
out.” He put his hands on his hips and gave a grim smile. “Don’t worry, the
battle was won. Obvious, that, or we wouldn’t be here otherwise. Or perhaps it
would be better to call it a stalemate. Anyway, we’re safe, for the time being.”
The words made no sense to Maarek’s ears. A million
questions ran through his mind. “My squadron…” he began to ask.
“They’ve tried to get in here a few times, but Medbay
has been on strict visitation rules. There’s still the fear of AD agents hiding
somewhere inside the palace. There have been a few incidents.” He gestured to a
piece of paper on the tray hanging off the side of Maarek’s bed. “They did drop
that off for you.”
Reaching over, Maarek set down the cup and took the
paper in hand. It was a card, full of well wishes and signed by the members of
his squadron. The surviving members. He eagerly
scanned the names. Salle Darl. Gren Pabos. Narm Greyrunner. Also Kikitik – he’d
managed to eject safely after being shot down.
Some names were missing. Bast
Vlagen. Rann Wosper. Tanya Vinikoro. Maarek closed his eyes. When he
opened them again, the room seemed to sway a bit in front of his eyes. He
suddenly felt lightheaded.
“What’s my prognosis?” he asked.
A pair of nurses passed behind Vannik,
pushing a mobile bed containing another patient, clad in white sheets. Vannik
shook his head after they’d passed.
“You were in bad shape. Two broken
legs, a shattered bone in your upper arm, four cracked ribs and a collapsed
lung. Three of your vertebrae were damaged and required surgery. All
that’s healed now, or at least on the mend. It’s your
head that’s giving us the biggest problem.”
Vannik gestured upwards, and Maarek followed his hand
to a mirror built into the ceiling over the bed. He gave a start as his saw his
reflection. He was bald! Or, at least, his head was completely shaved. A thin
scar ran from the top of his head down towards the back, passing out of sight.
“You’ll find another scar about eight centimeters in
length running horizontally back there,” Vannik explained. “There was a
sizeable piece of transparisteel lodged into the back of your skull. Gave me a
bit of trouble, digging that out.”
“Why am I getting so nauseated?” Maarek asked, feeling
along the back side of his head. Sure enough, there was an obvious crease
there.
The doctor didn't reply for a while. He just stood
there, looking thoughtful, and his eyes held a hint of sadness that Maarek
could detect.
"Well?" Maarek asked. He didn't like waiting
in suspense, and from the look of Vannik, the news was bad.
Finally, Vannik blew out a long sigh and shook his
head. “I don’t know how to tell you this, Maarek, so I’m just going to say it.
You suffered serious brain damage from the crash. That’s why you were in a
coma. Now you’re suffering from an acute kind of vertigo. Spacer’s vertigo,
some call it. Your whole brain’s out of equilibrium. I operated directly on the
brain to try and repair the damage, and after that didn’t work I even used an
experimental new drug which I inserted directly into your cranial cavity. We’ll
have to wait and see how effective that is. And by the way, I did have to shave
your head for the procedure, of course. Your hair will grow back, but as a side
effect from the medication I injected…” He shrugged. “Well, let’s just say
you’ll probably go bald earlier than you normally would have.” He reached up
and rubbed his own head, where his curled, graying
hair was thinning, and had receded about a quarter of the way back along the
top of his head.
Maarek shook his head, then glanced back up at his
reflection again – a little too fast – the world started swimming again. “So…”
he began, then waited for everything to settle again.
“Are you saying this dizziness may not go away?”
“I can’t say for sure. I’ve done all I can do to treat
it, and there is a medication you’ll need to take that will help you get around
to at least a limited extent. With the medication, you’ll be able to walk and
probably live a normal life, maybe even travel, as long as it’s on a large
transport or freighter. With time, you might even be able to ride in an
airspeeder. But I’m afraid that’s as far as it goes. Sooner or later you’re
going to have to face it, Maarek: You’ll never fly a fighter again.”
Before he even realized it, Maarek had forced himself
upright and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His mind was numb with
shock. Better to tell a man he was dying and be done with it – this was worse,
far worse. This couldn’t be happening. Not to Maarek Stele. He could not stop
flying! He had to get out of here!
Suddenly the world swam again, far worse than before.
Everything tilted, like the room had suddenly turned itself sideways.
Desperately Maarek flailed about with his arms, trying to catch himself from
falling. He heard a thud and felt his head bounce off the floor painfully.
Suddenly he was looking up at the bed, and at Vannik, who was stepping over
him, cursing loudly.
“Blasted
fool! What do you think you’re doing?” Vannik’s voice rang dimly in his
ears. “Nurse! Get some help over here!”
* * *
Personal
Quarters
Royal
Palace, Varnus
2040
Hours
Rynn Mariel,
standing in the refresher’s shower unit, hung her head low and let the falling water
pour down onto her head and down her body. The heat soaked into her skin,
warming her, filling the air with a thin cloud of steam. Her dark auburn hair –
now only extending down to her neck – was plastered onto her scalp and against
her face, an unusual sensation. The rest of her once waist-length hair lay in a
waste basket in the living room, cut away – just as a part of her had been cut
away.
Tears occasionally
welled up, falling down to her cheeks where they
merged with the stream of falling water and were gone, as though they’d never
existed.
Why did he have to die? The thought pressed in on her mind, just as
it did every few moments, unanswerable, inescapable. It wasn’t fair. The battle
had been over. He hadn’t deserved it. He’d had so much potential…
The door chime to her
quarters sounded dimly above the water pelting her scalp.
Oh, the galaxy was
cruel place! Why did life keep going on so easily, as if nothing had even
happened? Derek had been her friend, one of the only ones left in the entire
world. Didn’t everyone understand that? It was as though something had been
stolen from her very soul. Her heart clenched like a fist, the despair inside
overwhelming.
Knees buckling, Rynn
sank down to the shower floor and collapsed there, the water still pouring down
over her. What was she to do now? How was she supposed to react? Derek had been
like a brother to her, had replaced the brother she’d lost five years ago. Now
the pain of both losses had returned together – with a vengeance.
The door chime sounded
again. Why don’t they just give up and go
away?
She continued to sit
there, unable to fight the sense of loss and despair that overwhelmed her. She
felt bone-weary, as though her strength had been sapped, all drive to continue
on lost. What was she going to do now? She had no place left to go. Her whole
family was dead – and now Derek, too. The world had changed around her, and
everything she’d cherished was gone, now. Nothing was the same anymore.
The door chimed a third
time. They were persistent.
Reaching up, she pulled
the lever that would stop the flow of water, and it trickled to a stop, then
she opened the door and hit a small, waterproof comm unit just outside the
shower. “Just a minute,” she called out. Thankfully, the device would carry her
words outside.
Forcing herself
upright, she grabbed a plush towel next to the opening and gave herself a quick
pat-down, then took her bathrobe from its hook and tied it around her. “Who is
it?” she asked.
“It’s Jinx,” came the reply over the comm.
“Come in,” she said,
breathing a sigh of relief. It was the only person she could have hoped for.
And she knew she could use the company right now. She made into her quarters’
sitting area when the door slid open.
Rynn’s
living area was well furbished, far more than she’d ever needed it to be. There
was a plush, sectional sofa in the center, a large work desk in the corner, and
a gigantic holoscreen on one wall, which she hardly ever used. Despite its luxury,
she had only sparsely decorated, including some holo images and trinkets
featuring some of her favorite animals. She’d studied some of those species,
what seemed like a lifetime ago.
“Hey.” Jacob Skipper stood in the doorway, looking at
her with his kind, concern-filled eyes. He wore a dark jacket, and the one
white lock in his dark hair shone in the entrance light. Most of his facial
injuries seemed to have healed since the battle, restoring his natural,
handsome features. “I thought I would come check on
you. Is it a good time?”
“It always is,” she said, smiling.
Jacob grinned slightly. His eyes told Rynn that he’d
noticed her new look, and that he approved. He took a couple of steps into her
rooms, but paused as his boot landed on a piece of paper lying on the rug just inside
the door. “What’s this?” he said. “Looks like a note.” He picked it up, turning
it over in his hands. “It’s for you. From Bren.”
Rynn quickly crossed through her sleeping quarters to
Jinx was waiting. Jinx gave her the letter and she sat down on the edge of the
sofa. Jinx sat down beside her.
“Well, it looks like they’re finally letting people in
and out of the palace again,” he said, making some small talk. “I’m still
waiting to hear from Alyx what we’re going to do next.”
She nodded absently. Thumbing the letter’s
seal aside, she opened the paper and scanned the handwritten note there.
Dear
Rynn, it began:
Words
cannot express how sorry I am for what has happened. You must know that this is
all my fault. If you cannot forgive me, please do not
hate me for it, at least. I have done terrible things. I have killed again, and
I took pleasure in it. Great pleasure. I can never
atone for the sins I committed, nor can I bring back that which was lost
forever. So I must leave now. I cannot remain; to do so would be a threat to
the palace, to you, and to everything the Jedi and the New Imperium stand for.
I have to find my own way. I have to find myself again. Perhaps we will meet
again. Until that time, farewell. Bren
The
note fell from her fingers as she finished reading the last line. Shaking her
head in disbelief, she leaned over against Skipper, seeking his warmth and
comfort, the tears beginning to flow freely once more. His arms encircled her
gently. “Poor Bren…” she heard him whisper.
“Oh, Jacob,” she sobbed, burying her head
in his chest. “He was only a boy. He was only a boy!”
* * *
Diktat’s
Office
Senate
Complex, Tralaria
1700
Hours
The
doors to the office parted abruptly, admitting a man of medium size and build,
with shoulder-length hair tied behind his head, but otherwise quite
unremarkable features. His appearance suggested no more than thirty years of
age, and he was dressed in the uniform of one of the Senate Complex cleaning
staff, but the arrogant swagger he used as he entered belonged to no humble
janitor. The fact that he could even deign to pose as a lowly servant still
amazed the Diktat to no end.
The visitor came to a halt on the plush carpet resting
in front of the Diktat's massive desk, a rug emblazoned with the New Imperial
symbol - the former Imperial crest encircled with laurel leaves - and crossed
his arms.
“What do you think you’re doing, Rytor?" Queklain
snarled.
Gene Rytor forced his expression to remain neutral. It
would be premature to show his hand so hastily. He continued sitting in his
plush, opulent seat, the bulk of the dark wooden desk between him and Queklain,
though that distance was hardly reassuring. The Warlord didn't have to touch
Rytor to kill him. "What are you talking about?" he asked, feigning
innocence.
The Warlord's eyes were full of contempt as he stared
down at him. "What’s this I hear of the fleet structure changing? Of putting Zalaria in charge? About using
Nimrod’s Titans as our command ships? This isn’t what we agreed upon!”
“I think it’s time to rethink our strategy,” Rytor
told him. He folded his hands on his desk, upon which saw stacks of papers to
sign, data pads to read, his computer terminal, and a flask full of fine
Correllian brandy. It was the brandy he could use most, right now. The papers
held no good news; economies collapsing all across the New Imperium, casualty
and damage reports from the military, refugee statistics and requests for aid
from virtually every world in the NI. Pressing as they might be, he couldn’t
afford to focus on all those at the moment.
Queklain waved his comments away. "I don't care
what you think," he countered, his voice menacing. "You obey me. It
seems you have forgotten yourself, Rytor. Too much power corrupts the mortal
mind far too easily."
Rytor fixed his gaze ahead, forcing himself not to
think about his aide, Quat, or the soldiers moving into position outside, or of
the carefully-laid plans he'd been working on for months to rid himself of the
Warlord's iron grip. He knew that Queklain could probably read his mind. He
forced anger into his voice, focusing on everything that enraged him about the
unwelcome Warlord’s presence, hoping his quarry would take it as indignation.
He’d been a spy once, himself, and misdirection had always been a vital
component of his arsenal.
"I have done everything necessary for the good of
the New Imperium," he said, laying his words out clearly and carefully.
"You never told me what you intended to do with us. I've done the best
that I could. And despite all of your plans, Nimrod took nearly all of our
territory. We had next to nothing
left - he was on our very doorstep. If not for some miracle by which he was
killed on Varnus, both they and we would have fallen on the same day and the
New Imperium would have been finished!
We may still be, considering the damage we’ve taken. Half the population wants
to leave the sector! And all of this no thanks to you at
all."
There. That was it, the trigger had been set. Now, how
would the Warlord react?
He didn't have to wait for long. "You insolent
fool," Queklain growled. He raised a hand, and Rytor felt something
tighten around his throat. He gagged involuntarily, but when he tried to suck
in more air, nothing came. He put a hand to his throat, trying to remain calm.
Now would be a good time.
"You've defied me for the last time," the
Warlord continued, staring murder at him as Rytor continued to gasp -
ineffectually - for air. His lungs were beginning to burn, but he tried his
best to keep his face straight. What was Quat doing? Burn the man!
"I have been lenient with you, but you did not
appreciate my kindness. I told you I could replace you any time I wished. Now
that time has..."
Queklain broke off at the same instant the pressure on
Rytor's neck vanished. Suddenly free, he took a couple of deep breaths - and
was, at that moment, truly thankful to be alive.
Snarling, Queklain spun around and ran for the exit.
In that instant, a full squad of stormtroopers came rushing through the doors,
their blasters trained on him, and the Warlord came to a sudden halt.
"That's far enough," Rytor said loudly.
Fairly confident he wouldn't pass out - his vision had started to dim a little,
near the end - he stood up. "You are hereby placed under arrest for the
murder of Secretary Ken Brucmack and the attempted murder of myself."
Queklain turned back toward him as the troops fanned
out and formed a rough circle around him. They kept their distance, though, at
least few meters - they'd been briefed on who they were dealing with. Who was
to say that the Warlord was truly incapacitated even inside the bubble of
anti-Force he was in? Even Rytor had had doubts.
"Very clever." Queklain
locked eyes with Rytor and smiled. "A Null Sphere.
Doubtless you obtained it from Zalaria's forces?"
"Actually, this one was in a treasure vault
discovered on Moro, some years ago," Rytor said. "The Jedi Division
was kind enough to let me borrow it."
Quat finally entered from behind the
soldiers, moving around them to the desk and producing the actual Null Sphere
from one of the drawers inside. He’d had it activated remotely, by an assistant
unaware of its purpose, keyed to flip a switch after a certain key phrase had
been said. Rytor had wanted to take no chances with the Warlord’s Danger Sense.
“Stay close to him, Quat,” he told his
aide. If that Null Sphere failed for even a second, he knew they would all be
dead.
"So what do you plan to do with me?"
Queklain’s voice held what seemed to be genuine mirth. Well, perhaps this would
wipe the smile off his face.
“I had already compiled enough evidence against you to
convince our security forces you’d killed Secretary Brucmack," Rytor
announced. "But now, being caught in the act of attempted assassination of
the Diktat himself…” He shook his head. “We’re in times of war, my friend. That
is high treason, and traitors may be executed summarily without a trial. Wartime rules.”
“You fool. Do you really think you can kill me?
You will die, Rytor. Your pitiful
rule is at an end."
Rytor smiled, dismissing his idle threats. “I think
not.” They had to be idle. He was
betting everything on this.
He stood and walked around the desk, coming within
only a few meters of his quarry, whose hands were even now being shackled
behind his back by the increasingly confident guards. Rytor stepped even
closer, letting his voice drop to just above a whisper.
“I’ve heard that it’s your immense Force power that
grants you Immortality,” said Rytor. “I don’t know if that’s true or not, but I
have thought long and hard about this little dilemma that I’m in. And I’ve been
wondering; what happens to a Warlord if you kill one after taking that very
Force from him?”
He thought he saw something in the Warlord's eyes,
then. Could it have been fear? If so, he recovered quickly. “It won’t work,
Rytor,” Queklain said, his voice dripping venom. “It was a good idea, but I
will always return. And rest assured I will skin you alive when I come back for
you.”
“We’ll see. I'm willing to take that chance,” Rytor
replied stoically. The truth was, it was his only
chance.
The Warlord suddenly became stone-faced. His eyes,
however, still bore holes through Rytor. He said nothing else. Rytor waved to
the guards, already turning to pour himself a drink.
“Take him away.”
* * *
Battlefield
Plains
Planet
Morodin
1,003
Years before the founding of the Republic
Joren Xun, High General of the Followers of Ashla under the
Galactic Alliance of Free Systems, ascended the small hillock that had been the
epicenter of the battle. Here, closer to the planet’s northern pole, the
normally fetid jungles of Morodin gave way to more temperate climates. The
broad, grassy valley with gently sloping hills all around had been the perfect
site for what had unknowingly become the biggest battle of the war – what they
had begun calling the Great War – to date. A battle that Joren and the
Followers had won.
Around him lay the bodies of tens of thousands of
warriors on both sides, spreading outwards from the central point that Joren
now approached. The dead and dying lay all around him, their blood staining the
grass red and soaking into the dark earth beneath. The moans of the injured
wafted through the air, but there were far too few physicians to help. It was a
horrendous scene – but they had won it. The Morodin had been freed from their
slavery by the cruel Altarin’Dakor Warlords that had held them captive here.
He finally ascended the hillock and looked down in
satisfaction at what lay there. Surrounding him were his top men, including
gray-headed Warmaster Vane, his armor chinked and outright melted in some
places; Bladesmaster Brincan, with two hypersabers attached to his belt;
Joren’s own personal aide Dorcan, who was skilled in over a dozen alien trade
languages and schooled in half a dozen methods of Force instruction; and also a
few dozen of Joren’s other high commanders, all seasoned veterans, warriors who
had been fighting this war all their lives. They had trained from birth to
fight the Altarin’Dakor and defend the galaxy.
“Dorcan,” he called out, removing his helmet to let
the breeze dry his scalp. “Send a message to the Council of Grand Masters. Tell
them the new technique is a success.”
The young warrior saluted and eagerly ran off towards
the communications substation. The Council was, of course, scattered into
secret locations all throughout the galaxy – otherwise should a Shok’Thola find
their location, he could suddenly appear and kill of them in one place – but
the Council had to be informed of this. It was a discovery of immense
proportions. It could alter the course of the war.
Two of the Altarin’Dakor Shok’Thola, Hashmalum and Mateus, had been defeated this day. Along
with them was an army of their so-called Jedicon. Today, at long last, they had
turned the tide of the war. The word itself – Jedi – had been invented by the
Followers during the course of the war to denote the galaxy’s defenders. Joren
would not allow the Altarin’Dakor to usurp that name any longer. He and the
Followers were the rightful denizens and defenders of this galaxy. The
Altarin’Dakor were the invaders, no matter what they
or any media outlet said.
Still, Joren could not think on it long, this day. The
excitement was palpable; he himself felt giddy with elation despite a lifetime
of brutal combat. His tactic had actually worked. After twenty-five hundred
years of fighting the Altarin’Dakor, the Alliance had finally discovered a
weakness in the Shok’Thola, a way to
neutralize their Immortality, their most valuable weapon. Now Joren and his
army had slain two Shok’Thola in one
battle, and this time the deaths were permanent; he could tell by the horrible
expressions on their faces as they’d finally met their doom. They’d known they
were dying for the last time. Joren had no pity for them whatsoever; they
deserved far worse than they had received.
But there had been a terrible cost to both sides.
Joren had taken over twelve hundred Jedi warriors into this battle. He’d
emerged victorious with less than four hundred remaining. At such a rate, the
number of Followers would steadily dwindle and become more
rare in the galaxy. Still, these four hundred now knew the secret to
defeating a Shok’Thola. This was a
victory unlike any other they’d seen in the war. With the key to killing
the Warlords in their grasp, the end might finally come within Joren’s own
lifetime.
“This is a great victory,” Vane spoke up, voicing
Joren’s own thoughts. “You led us well, Joren. Your father would be proud.”
Jornen nodded his appreciation, his stark white hair
swaying around his head. His own father had been High General before him, and
had died fighting the forces of the Shok’Thola
Asellus. Jornen had sworn to follow his father’s footsteps, and finally find a
way to stop the dreaded Shok’Thola.
To think that he had actually succeeded was almost too much to believe. He
turned and clasped arms with Vane. The Warmaster had been like a second father
to him. This victory would never have been possible without him.
“Black ashes!” someone exclaimed.
Joren felt the presence immediately, and spun around.
There, standing directly in the center where the two Warlords had fallen, was a
figure clad in golden armor. He’d simply appeared out of thin air – Joren had
felt nothing before this moment, and still felt nothing through Ashla itself.
The space had been empty before, and now it was not. That fact, and coupled
with the golden armor – he knew it could only mean one thing – made his stomach
knot up inside of him. Suddenly, all thoughts of victory vanished.
“Fall back! Get away!” The shouts of soldiers began to
reverberate throughout the regiment as men and women fought to gain their
distance. Joren stood his ground, transfixed. Could this really be it? Was he
facing the supreme leader of the Altarin’Dakor, right here? He was simply
standing there, immobile, like an apparition. There was no indication that he was
real at all.
“It is Altima,” Vane rasped, his voice nearly a croak.
Then, as they watched, the overlapping golden flakes
that composed the figure’s armor began to pull away from the head area, folding
in on themselves and dropping inside as though the
armor itself were alive. Shadowtech,
he realized with a disgusted feeling. The helmet virtually melted away,
revealing the face of the enemy he had learned about even as a child. He braced
himself for what he was about to see…
He was completely taken aback. Was this really Altima?
The figure had the face of a young boy! There wasn’t a single hair on his head
or his youthful face at all. Joren would’ve wagered that he wasn’t a day over
eighteen years of age. “Is this really…?” he began to ask.
“It’s him. Believe it,” Vane shot back, his voice
filled with something Jornen had never heard before. Horror.
Jornen glanced at him, seeing a terror he’d never witnessed on the warmaster’s
face before.
Altima stood there, face devoid of any expression
whatsoever. He didn’t even blink. Joren had heard a legend that no one had ever
seen Altima’s face and lived to tell about it.
“This is it,” Brincan said beside him, his voice
dripping with ambition. “This is our chance. We can dispatch him right now and
end the whole war today!”
Joren began to nod, but stopped short when he heard
Vane snort loudly.
“Don’t for a moment underestimate who this is. My grandfather was part of an elite division of
warriors that was ambushed by Altima,” the grizzled Warmaster said. “He was one
of only two survivors of the attack. They used an Eolid Scanner to get a
reading on his power level at the time.” He paused, took a deep breath. “They
said it registered at over a million before the scanner blew.”
“What!? I don’t believe it!”
spat a livid Brincan. He glanced at the slim, golden figure standing in the
center of the Followers’ formation, still unmoving. “That’s… That’s impossible,
even for him!”
Joren blinked and swallowed hard. Eolid scanners were
the most powerful and accurate scanners known. They were rare; almost all had
been destroyed during the war to date. But Jornen had never even heard of a
power level that high before.
“We are all going to die today,” he heard someone
whisper behind him.
Jornen steeled his nerves and forced authority into
his voice. After all, it was only one man before them. He had four hundred
Followers with him, all experienced warriors. No Shok’Thola would face that many at once, especially now that their
weakness had been discovered. This Altima had made a mistake.
“It doesn’t matter how powerful he is,” Jornen
announced, feeling his confidence returning. “We have superior numbers. And we
have the technique. Now is the time to act. We end this war today!” He heard a
rumble of assent, and felt the bravery in all those around him rising up. “Followers, with me! Lend me your power! Attack
now!”
Drawing deeply on Ashla, Jornen sent all of it
barreling out towards the golden figure standing there, but not in any kind of
physical or energy attack. It was a ripple through Ashla itself, a technique
that could touch a person’s very soul, and the only way they’d discovered that
could disrupt whatever it was that gave a Shok’Thola
his Immortality. As he moved, he felt hundreds more around him doing the same,
their powers combining with his, their attack concentrated and focusing with
one another’s. Jornen had always surmised that the Warlords received their
powers and abilities from a source outside of themselves. Through
experimentation, he had discovered this technique. Now four hundred Followers
of Ashla attacked as one, their combined efforts focusing on the one, single
target in front of them.
The attack fell as one on Altima, the same way it had
when it hit the other Warlords, and stripped them of their Immortality. Their
shocked faces had been proof of the attack’s success.
The attack fell on Altima, and nothing happened.
Jornen blinked in shock. Why hadn’t it worked? Altima
was still standing there!
A hubbub broke out all around them as warriors broke
all protocol, swearing oaths and expressing the sheer disbelief that Jornen
felt. This was impossible; it had been their only real weapon to use against a
Shok’Thola. What had gone wrong? Wasn’t Altima a Shok’Thola, like the others?
Suddenly a high-pitched scream filled the air, and he
heard Brincan shout “No, Fostican!”
From behind Altima, a young warrior rose into the air,
his glowing blade overhead, a battle cry emanating from his throat. He landed
just behind the golden figure and struck downwards with all of his might. The
blade crashed off of the being’s armored shoulder to strike the Warlord
directly on the neck. Everyone held a collective breath.
Then Fostican went wide-eyed and backed away, his face
a mask of sheer terror. Where his blade had hit the armor, the golden flakes
were warped and melted, but there was no mark whatsoever on the side of
Altima’s neck.
“Nightmares of Tython,” Vane whispered.
“It… It can’t be!” someone screamed.
Then Altima’s eyes began to glow with an inner light,
and the corners of his mouth curved upwards in a smile. Slowly, he raised his
left arm from the elbow down, bringing his hand up until his palm faced the
sky, fingers spread wide.
Suddenly there was a flash, and a corona of white
enveloped Altima, rushing around him like a whirlwind, banishing all color
inside and turning the Warlord into stark black and white lines. Jornen stared
at it in dread fascination, frozen in place. He’d seen such halos around Shok’Thola before, but never like this.
It extended at least ten paces away from his body. Loose stones, weapons and
even bodies began to float free in the air around them. Warriors all around
them began to flee, running wildly to get away from the monstrosity in front of
them.
A ripple of light shot out from Altima, flashing
across the ground and spreading out to the edges of the valley in an instant.
Jornen blinked. What was that? he wondered. A Sphere of Projection?
Then the air exploded around Altima, and Jornen’s last
thought ceased in a flash of pure light.
The explosion expanded to the valley’s edges
instantaneously, consuming everything within. The Followers surrounding
Altima were vaporized, and the other warriors on the battlefield were blown to
pieces, unable to escape the field of destruction. Earth blasted out with a
force bordering on the relativistic. Skin peeled off of bodies, followed by
muscle and bone that was pulverized into thousands of fragments. Body parts
flew in all directions before being incinerated in the bright fire that burned
away everything within the entire valley. The surrounding hills melted away,
the ground collapsing in a crater as large as the valley was wide. The conflagration
rose into the sky, burning away the very atmosphere creating a swirling vortex
kilometers wide.
Then in an instant, Altima was gone. As he
disappeared, a flash shot deep into the planet's crust, and in its wake an
explosion of fire, earth and magma blasted out of the planet, doubling and
redoubling as it expanded like a shockwave from the epicenter where the blast
had occurred. Massive cracks shot across the surface of the world, reaching
across both hemispheres, filled with the glowing matter deep resting within the
world, riddling the surface like a cracked egg.
Finally, half the planet simply exploded away, blowing
a shockwave that rent the other half into massive chunks that spun out into the
void, and all that remained of the planet Morodin was a wreath of fire and rock
that slowly expanded outwards, its mark on the galaxy lost forever.
Fleet Admiral Jann Percy watched in stunned silence as
the Holo winked out of existence. Everyone in the room maintained that quiet
for a long moment. He glanced around at the faces, still transfixed by the
ancient recording that had filled the bulk of the Grand Crusader's briefing
room. Sector Admirals Stan Sanders and Gaius Adonai, the two fleet commanders, were there, along with most of the War Cabinet - Field
Marshall Rodin Kaler, Jedi Grand Master Alyx Misnera, Admiral Walt Amason, and
of course, their host - Zalaria.
Percy shook his head in disbelief. All he had said, “who is this Altima that everyone keeps talking about?” That
had turned into over an hour of lecturing and viewing of holorecordings from
eons past. Now he truly wished he’d never asked.
“We've seen enough." Gaius stated, crossing his
arms in front of him. "What was the purpose of this exercise?”
“Getting to know your enemy,” Zalaria said, eying him
sharply. She stood in the center of the room like a professor teaching her
students - or possibly a commander briefing her troops, about to send them into
battle. The air of authority around her was nearly palpable, and Percy had been
able to tell from the moment he'd walked in who was assuming command of the
situation.
"It looks more like you're trying to get us to
surrender," Rodin Kaler said, staring darkly at the woman. "If
he's that powerful, then what's the point of trying to fight? We could defeat
the entire Altarin'Dakor army, and it wouldn't even matter."
"That's precisely my point," she argued.
"We must ultimately deal with Altima himself or we will lose this war no
matter what."
"And how do you propose we do that?" Misnera
chimed in.
"I am still working on a strategy for that,"
she said.
Percy suppressed a groan. If she didn't even know by
now, then what chance did they have of winning at all?
"I have another question for you," Misnera
continued. "What’s wrong with Xar? Why isn't he involved? Just what are
you trying to do here without him?"
She paused. "Xar is... unavailable. He's taken a
leave of absence to deal with his grief."
"At the perfect time, I see," Misnera countered,
surprising Percy with his accusatory tone. Had something happened between him
and Kerensky?
"Maybe we should rethink our whole strategy about
this war," Kaler broke in. "We've just won a major victory, but it
cost us dearly. The enemy have pulled back. There is
no public support for this war whatsoever. The politicians are foaming at the
mouth, saying we should sue for peace."
"You all know that is merely wishful
thinking," she said. An awkward silence filled the room. They all knew she
was right.
"Then maybe it's a good time to leave Epsilon
Sector," Kaler said, dragging his words out carefully, even menacingly.
"Out of the question!"
Zalaria snapped.
“Why not?” Kaler
demanded, looking equally as angry as she, now.
She
shook her head once, roughly. "Our only choice is to fight! This sector is
the doorway to the rest of the entire galaxy. From here on we must take the
battle to the enemy. To not take advantage of this lull would be a fatal
mistake. That is why we are regrouping our forces. With these Titans, and the
ones I have sent for from Altarin’Dakor space and Nimrod’s renegades, which we
will inevitably track down, victory will become a strong possibility. We will
begin an immediate plan of offensive action to invade Altarin'Dakor space,
beginning with the Mizar System."
A chorus of dissent rose around the room, but cut off
as Gaius' clear, commanding voice pierced the air, claiming everyone's
attention.
"Just a second," he said, stepping forward.
The Sector Admiral was straight-faced, his posture erect, his voice
authoritative. "You are not in command of the New Imperium, nor of the New
Imperial Navy."
The eyes Zalaria turned on him seemed dark pools that
reflected the light shining from around her.
"This decision will be made collectively, and will
be taken to the Diktat for his approval," Gaius continued, not backing
down one centimeter. "The New Imperium will not allow this war to destroy
everything that we were founded on and that we stand for."
Percy felt a chill run over him as the two continued
to stare each other down, both figures totally expressionless. Zalaria stood
there like a dark angel, her gaze sending chills through him even though she
wasn’t looking at him. She was horrendously beautiful. It was uncanny, like she
wasn’t even real. How could anyone resist her?
Finally, Zalaria smiled.
"May I remind you, my dear Gaius," she intoned, "that eighty percent of the New Imperial
Navy's firepower is now comprised of Altarin'Dakor vessels. We control roughly
three-fourths of what was originally considered New Imperial territory. And you
are on a ship filled with more than six million trained Altarin'Dakor warriors,
expanding to over fifteen million if you include all the forces in this one
entire system. But of course, all that is irrelevant. I could destroy this
entire fleet myself so quickly no one would ever realize they were dying.
Therefore, my dear Gaius,” she said,
her eyes flaring, “if I so chose to take control, I could do so immediately and
without any opposition. So some respect in your tone would be immensely wise."
She inclined her head towards him in what might have been a deigning gesture, then continued after a moment. "However, as you say, we
are a democracy. In order to placate my gathered allies here, I will consult
with the War Cabinet and the Diktat, and we will decide together what to do. Is
that sufficient?"
Gaius remained still for a long moment, the silence
stretching as everyone watched and waited. Then, finally, he stepped back and
gave a nod.
"This meeting is dismissed," Misnera spoke
up, standing. "We all have important things to do. I'm not wasting any
more time."
As everyone began to file out, Percy watched them,
keeping a sharpest eye on Gaius, as well as their mysterious and intimidatingly
powerful host. He hoped that they could keep her in check. In the past two
weeks everything had changed for the New Imperium. Now they were in very real
jeopardy not just from without, but from within as well. Gaius seemed to have
enough nerve to stand up to her and keep her from taking over. That made him feel a bit better about it.
But what could even Gaius possibly do? After all, he
was only a Jedi Master. Compared with her, that meant nothing at all.
* * *
Royal
Palace Cemetery
Vectur,
Varnus
0900
Hours
It was a cold day on the planet Varnus.
It wasn’t the weather that made it cold.
Autumn was still just setting in, and the dry air was merely cool by Varnusian
standards. Of course, foreigners always seemed to feel it was colder here, even
in the warm seasons. A gust of wind swept Xar Kerensky’s cloak behind him, but
it wasn’t the wind that made it cold, either.
It was the stark white tombstone standing
in front of him. That was what made
it cold.
Lying beneath that stone was someone he’d
cared about more than anyone else in the world. Someone he’d poured his life
into. Someone he’d thought had a grand destiny.
Now he was gone forever, and nothing could
ever take his place.
Xar looked around to the others, the
gravestones marking the resting places of the Kerensky Royal Family. None of
them held any actual bodies. First were the ones representing his father,
Nikolas, and his mother, Sofiya, both killed during the devastation of Varnus.
Next to those were the stones marking Ulric, his elder brother, and Natasha,
his elder sister, also killed in the attack. Finally, off to the side was the
gravestone of Aron, his uncle, killed by Dasok Krun, and whose body had also
never been found. There were far more gravestones than there should have been.
Too many of them had died early deaths. Now he was the last living member of
the family, save for his brother Rydon, who had become no relation to him at
all now, in truth.
A thin layer of ash from the city’s fires
still covered most of the gravestones like a dusting of snow. The sound of
demolition machinery and crews filled the air, echoing from between the city’s
buildings and even around the palace itself. Clean up from the battle would
take a long, long time. Complete restoration might never occur at all.
Economies had collapsed all throughout the New Imperium. Perhaps this time it
would be just too much for the hardy Varnusians to bear.
The sound of hobbled footsteps padded on
the hard ground behind him. After a moment, a man leaning on a single crutch
came up beside him, his head shaved completely bald, his free hand stuffed in
the pocket of his overcoat as he gazed at the Royal Burial Grounds.
Xar gave no greeting. He hadn’t wanted any
visitors, this day. How had this man been able to find him?
After a long moment, the newcomer broke
the silence.
“I’m done. I’m out,” Maarek said.
Xar didn’t respond. The man’s status
didn’t concern him any longer. Instead Xar wondered when it would be his turn
to join his family and ancestors here in this graveyard. By all accounts, he
should be dead already. He was supposed to die on Varnus two weeks ago, but
fate had, impossibly, been altered. He was alive, even though he shouldn’t have
been. He had no destiny left, now. How much longer could he hold on? Life was…
meaningless now.
“Did you hear me? I’ve turned in my
resignation. Court-martial me if you want; I’ll be already gone by the time you
can. I’ve had my fill of all this,” Maarek said, disgust in his voice.
Xar stared straight ahead. He understood
what Maarek was saying. Yet he was somehow unable to feel emotion for the man. How
could his own problems compare with what Xar was faced with? Did he even know?
“Go ahead,” he said finally, turning to
the side. His words sounded hollow even to his own ears.
A pause. “That’s
it?” Xar could feel the other man staring at his back.
Finally Maarek’s sad voice came to his
ears. “I used to look up to you, back then. Now… Now I
don’t know what you are.”
Xar said nothing more. After a few
moments, he turned and looked back. The man was already gone.
* * *
Varnusian Productions Presents:
Royal Palace
Vectur, Planet Varnus
1200 Hours
Varanus Templar made his way
through the near-empty palace corridors.
It was eerie, seeing these hallways once so bustling
and full of people, now sparsely-populated and quiet, his footsteps actually
echoing off the walls. Many of the refugees that had taken shelter here had
been moved on, either back to their homes or to some planet that offered better
opportunities and protection than here.
Most of the rubble had been cleared from the palace
already, though there were clear visible signs of the damage that had occurred,
and repairs would be long in coming. Walls had gaping holes in them, some
leading right out onto balconies or into open air, and had yet to be barricaded
off. Floors had huge chunks blown out of them, or massive cracks splitting the
once polished tiles. Glowlamps, tapestries and
decorations had been destroyed by fire and explosions.
At least the bodies had all been removed, and blood no
longer stained the floors where he walked. Some of that had been blood he'd shed;
some of it had been his own.
The world had been turned on its head in the span of
the last two weeks. On the brink of its destruction, the New Imperium had
somehow survived, yet were still within the shadow of
their enemy, the Altarin'Dakor. The official story was that their leader had
been killed and a cease-fire arranged. Rumor said that the Altarin'Dakor had
inexplicably surrendered, though Varanus wasn't sure if that was true or not.
Now all the AD forces had retreated, but were still up
there in orbit, hovering like a menace. Rumors said they were under NI control,
or were at least working with them. But how could that be, after they'd nearly
been wiped out just two weeks ago? It was unthinkable. The mere thought nearly
drove him mad with anger.
Varanus burned with the desire for revenge. He could
still see Amleth, his mentor, the man who had recruited him into the Jedi
Order, rushing headlong to attack that monster. He hadn't stood a chance. So
what if Nimrod had been killed? His forces were still there. How could they
just sit here and not attack? Every single one of those heartless, kriffing AD
deserved to die.
Days ago there had been a mass funeral service, a
makeshift graveyard set up in what used to be one of the palace's larger
courtyards. There had been so many bodies. Even though only the Jedi members
were buried there, it had taken all day. Varanus had helped dig the graves
himself. The names on that list - those he would never forget. Gui Sun Paan. Ken Nandos. Val Ricaud
and Huan Knor'lian. Sturm Brightblade, leader of House Ar'Kell. And Amleth Uiara - leader of House Vortigern, Varanus' closest
friend. More than half the whole Order had been killed. Initiates now
outnumbered the higher ranks more than two to one. What were they going to do
now?
He could still remember yelling for Amleth to stop,
while cursing himself for not having the courage to step out there and face
certain death himself. How could he be dead? How were they going to kick that
brutal dictator Tains off of Sinorel, now? How was Amleth going to take his
birthright and avenge his parents' deaths? How could Varanus ever take his
place, fill his shoes? It wasn't right! The AD had to pay for what they'd done.
They had to!
He quickened his pace, mind racing as he ascended a
flight of stairs, heading towards his destination. He passed few people in the
hallways - most of them were workers cleaning up, anyway - and he returned no
greetings as he passed. More things had happened, faster than he could comfortably
deal with, and it would still take him some time to process.
He'd seen a Holonet news report this morning.
Apparently the network - wiped out by AD scouts to disrupt communications - had
been restored, and the first reports were coming out. Apparently what had
happened at Varnus had extended all across the territory taken by the
Altarin'Dakor, meaning that many of the captured worlds were now in the process
of being freed. But the cost - the sheer cost of it! The First Fleet had been
decimated, completely wiped out. The Second Fleet was heavily damaged before
the attack on Tralaria had been called off. Over three-fourths of NI space had
fallen before it was all over. Now Sector Admiral Arfann Dogar - War
Coordinator for the entire NI Navy - had suddenly retired, removing himself
from public life, and in his place Sector Admiral Gaius Adonai, a member of the
Order himself, had been elected to take his place.
Abruptly Varanus realized he'd reached his destination
- a set of wooden double doors set into the side of the hallway in front of
him. He knocked, waited a moment respectfully, then
entered.
The main conference and briefing room in the palace
had been severely damaged in the attack. As a result, the Jedi Council was
meeting in one of the palace's many convention and banquet halls. A massive
chandelier dominated the air, hanging from the ornately-carved ceiling, worked
in gold and crystal, with glowlamps blazing all around it. A polished wooden
table sat directly underneath, in the middle of the tiled floor and shaped in a
large circle, behind which sat the current members of the Council. Along one
side was the leadership of House Ar'Kell - Varanus' own house.
The new leaders, he reminded himself. Paladin Vykk
Olyronn was there, having survived a special mission along side Grand Master
Misnera, and beside him sat Paladin Draken Ar'Kell, the former Quaestor that
had come out of semi-retirement to assist in rebuilding the house. Also there
was Crusader Colin Moore, who had been captured by the AD, and Knights Brajo,
Zaphod, and Dukhat. Varanus moved over to take an empty seat next to them at
the end, and with a start realized that this was everyone in the house that was
at Knight level or above. Their losses became all the
more evident. It hurt, badly.
As he sat, Grand Master Alyx Misnera, sitting at the
central point of the angled table, gave him a nod. "Welcome, Varanus.
We're just getting started. As you are probably now aware, gentlemen, all the
commanding officers of House Ar'Kell are now assembled in this room." He
let the comment hang in the air for a long moment, giving them ample time to
consider the ramifications of his statement.
The members of Ar'Kell glanced at each other, and
Varanus saw more than a little unease and wariness in their eyes. He looked
away, instead focusing on the Council members sitting there. It kept his mind
off the lack of having Amleth there.
Aside from Misnera, there were four other Council
members present, two on each side of him, in truth the only active Council
members remaining. Two of them - newly-raised Jedi Master Jacob Skipper and
Adept Atridd Xoan - had just been appointed two weeks ago, after the battle.
Xoan was Head of Special Operations, filling Paan's place. Skipper was now
Deputy Grand Master, the Grand Master's right-hand man. But did that mean
Misnera, or Kerensky, who wasn't here?
Also present were Masters Kiz Thrakus - Kensai and
Head Instructor of Combat, and Vynd Archaron - Warden and Head Instructor of
Curriculums.
Noticeably missing aside from Grand Master Kerensky
were Master Mathis Organa, in the honorary Chancellor Position, and Master Nico
Flygras, who still hadn't come out of his coma, and wouldn't be going anywhere
anytime soon.
Finally Misnera continued, breaking the temporary
silence. “Thank you all for coming. First of all, some housekeeping. As you
know, Houses Aurora and Castellan are officially closed. They were already
practically closed even before the battle. Now we don't have enough command
officers left to run them."
The comments were met by a round of nods throughout
the room.
"The reason why I called you all here
today," he continued, "is that some changes are going to have to be
made. I want your input."
"We may need to rethink the whole way the
Division is run from now on," Thrakus added, speaking up. "Including the structuring. We've lost a lot of
members. In addition, the bases of both remaining Houses - Ar'Kell and
Vortigern - have been destroyed. Ar'Kell's was lost in that fiasco on Jengar
during Balfin's release. Vortigern's base on Ravick was wiped out by the
Altarin'Dakor. Neither House currently has a home outside of the Royal Palace,
here."
Misnera picked up where he left off. "So, gentlemen. The question
we have is, should we also close Ar'Kell and Vortigern and eliminate the House
system entirely?"
A ripple of shock went through the Ar'Kell members
present. Varanus felt a stab of panic. Ar'Kell, gone?
They couldn't! It was part of who he was! Ar'Kell members had bled and died to
protect the palace just two weeks ago! How could they even consider closing the
house?
"I can see that none of you are very keen on the
idea," Misnera said. "Speak your mind, but give it consideration
before you do."
The Ar'Kell members exchanged glances. Varanus caught
eyes with Vykk and shook his head. After a moment of quiet deliberation, in
which the Council members sat patiently, Vykk turned back to the Grand Master.
"Grand Master, the Houses have always been the
backbone of the Jedi Order," he said. "It's what gives us our
strength and our sense of belonging, of duty."
"You know where I stand," Draken added. His
last name, after all, was the name of the House. "I wouldn't give up on
Ar'Kell no matter what you decide. No disrespect intended."
"I understand. But the Houses are a product of
the past," Misnera countered. "We have to look to the future, to what
the New Imperium and the galaxy needs. There's no reason you can't be as
dedicated to the Order as you were to the Houses." The Grand Master folded
his hands on the table and sighed. “I don’t know, gentlemen. I’d just as rather
close all the houses and have just one Division. Let it all go.”
"Sir, please don't!" Varanus found himself
speaking up. All heads turned to look at him. He felt a flush of embarrassment,
but forced himself to continue.
"The houses are our time-honored tradition.
Without them, how can we be a Jedi Order at all? There is so much history in
both Ar'Kell and Vortigern," he explained. "Even Grand Master
Kerensky - even you, Grand Master Misnera - were once
members of Ar'Kell, weren't you? Why, without Ar'Kell, there would never have
been a Jedi Division - maybe not even a New Imperium!"
He cut off as he noticed a slight smile on Misnera's
lips. The Grand Master glanced at each of the other Ar'Kell members in turn.
"You all concur on this? You are sure?"
The other members all nodded vigorously.
"We of course anticipated that you would want to
protect the House system. But we also wanted to get your opinions before we
discuss the changes that need to be made. Things cannot remain as they are.
We'll keep the Houses."
Everyone visibly relaxed, including Varanus. But
Misnera wasn't finished.
"But from here on," he said, "until
this conflict is resolved, out of necessity the Order must be run more like a
military organization. Here is what we have decided. For now, the houses will
be less autonomous - more like divisions of the Order. The command structure
will remain the same, but the houses' primary purpose will be as cohesive units
following the direct instruction of the Council. The roles will comprise strike
team, police keeping, and support roles for the military." He held up a
hand. "I know that being a Jedi means more than just policing and
fighting. There is the study of the Force, diplomacy, training and teaching.
But those will have to wait until after the war. After that we will reconsider
reinstating the houses as before. There are still bases on Kolath and Ilfaygin
that haven't been damaged that could be used in the future."
He looked around at the members gathered. "Those
are my terms. Are you willing to agree to them?"
Varanus found himself nodding reluctantly, along with
everyone else. The loss of Ar'Kell's autonomy hurt, but he was glad to keep the
House, at least. You had to change with the times. He would try and do that,
now that Amleth was gone.
"We didn't expect to return to Jengar,
anyway," Vykk added in. "We know we have to move on. We're here for
whatever you need, sir. Just call on us."
"Thank you Vykk," Misnera said,
sincerity in his voice. "That's all I need you from you, for now. Dismissed."
After the Ar'Kell members left, Alyx sat with the others in
silence. Moments later, the doors opened again, and this time the remaining
members of Vortigern filed in and sat where their Ar'Kell counterparts had
moments before.
If Ar'Kell's remaining strength had been dismal,
Vortigern's was actually worse. Quaestor and Paladin Roger Macreed was still
there, having survived the ordeal onboard the Desolation with Alyx, and Paladin
Neres Warjan had survived the battle on Varnus, as well. But there were only
two Jedi Knights - Mrax Satai and Rilke Darcunter - who together with the
others comprised the upper ranks, the fighting force of Vortigern. Virtually
everyone else was still at Guardian or below.
Again Alyx comprised them of the situation and pitched
the same question he had to the Ar'Kell members. Did they want to keep running
their House, on a skeleton crew and with less autonomy, or just let it go
entirely?
They discussed it, but in the end, Vortigern's members
were just as adamant as Ar'Kell's had been. Their House was a mark of pride.
They would fight as hard to keep it as they had to defend the palace from the
invaders. Even Jinx chimed in; as Alyx knew, he had been a member of Vortigern
for years and had hosted their base on Ravick.
Once they were finished, Alyx told them the same thing
as before, laying out the rules for the way he planned to run the Division
until the end of the war. They accepted, however reluctantly, and filed out as
he dismissed them as before.
Four leaders in Vortigern. Seven in Ar'Kell. No, it wasn't just dismal. It was
catastrophic. He shared a glance with the other Council members present:
Atridd, Jinx, Kiz, and Vynd. Even the Council was half its former strength, and
there was no lack of tension there, either.
"Sir," Jinx spoke up once the House members had
gone. "There's something I need to talk to you about."
"What is it?" Alyx asked.
"Alyx, I don't want to be Deputy. My place is as
a soldier. Let me go back to Vortigern and to my people. Look at how much
they're hurting. We need to recover from what happened." Beside him,
Atridd glanced down and shook his head.
Alyx sighed again. "I agree, Jinx, but we need
someone to fill the position. We can't just leave it open while we wait and
hope Nico wakes up. Besides, you will still see action." He caught Kiz and
Atridd's eyes as well. "If we're like a military, then you members of the
Council are like generals. We don't have enough Jedi anymore to spare you from
combat. Besides, you'll have time to take care of your people here. It'll be a
while before we figure out what we're going to do next, especially before we're
ready to attack again.
"Xar and Zalaria want us to attack Mizar
immediately and chase the AD back where they came from," Atridd said,
drumming his fingers on the table. "What do you think about that?"
"We aren't going anywhere," Alyx countered flatly.
"We’d have to rely completely on the AD forces in orbit. Some of them were
stationed at Mizar. Are they going to kill their own comrades? Are our men
going to join forces with them after they killed so many of us? That’s why all
the AD have been restricted to orbit. I don't trust
any Jedi and Jedicon in the same room not to kill each other, much less fight
on the same side. So no, we aren't going anywhere for a while. We have to take
stock of ourselves, recover and rebuild before moving on."
"But Xar..." began Xoan.
"Xar hasn't been heard from in two weeks,"
Alyx cut him off. "If he can't perform his duties then he shouldn't be in
charge. And if he doesn't even care anymore, then he doesn't need to be Grand
Master."
"That's a dangerous thing to say."
"It's the truth.”
“Xar aside - with all due respect, sir - Zalara is the
one we're going to have to face, eventually.” Thrakus gave him a flat stare.
"She's the one in charge. Quite literally."
"Not quite. Gaius has the guts to stand up
to her, and so do I. Even if it kills me in the end."
He let that comment hang in the air a moment.
After a minute of stark silence, it was Vynd who
finally spoke up. "It might, you know," he said.
* * *
Royal Palace Hangar
Vectur, Varnus
1535 Hours
Salle
Darl was upset. She had just come back from a trip to the palace medbay, but
just like before, the guards there had politely refused to grant her entry to
the floor at all.
Again.
She had nearly given her life defending Varnus, and
now they wouldn't even let her down to sickbay? It wasn't like she was going to
attack someone!
She stalked back through the corridors, heading for
the pilot's hangar, her dark braid swaying behind her. All she'd wanted to do was visit the commander. She didn't even know
his status! The last she'd heard was that he'd woken up, but they still weren't
allowing any visitors. They said he'd suffered some serious trauma in the
crash. What if he didn't even know his squadron mates cared about him? What if
he was all alone, feeling abandoned?
Things had been kept tight ever since the mysterious
end of the battle. At first they wouldn't even let anyone in the palace. They'd
claimed that there were Jedicon still running around. But if the AD really had
surrendered, then why would there have been such danger that they wouldn't even
let anyone in? She was a soldier, for Kolath's sake!
After that, everything had gone downhill, fast. The
First Fleet had been blown to bits in the battle, and reports said the Second
Fleet hadn't fared much better. Captured AD ships hung in orbit, and rumors
were growing every day that NI troops would be working with them from now on.
But how was that possible? Those people had shot down Bast, Rann and Tanya, not
to mention thousands of other NI pilots! How was Salle supposed to work with
them?
What was the point of the whole war, then?
Why had they fought so hard, only to turn around and fight with them? How could they expect NI soldiers to stand next to the
enemy they’d just previously had in their crosshairs? Someone had better
explain things a bit better. Instead of celebrating a last-minute victory
captured from the brink of defeat, the NI was in a state of shock. Troop morale
was the lowest she’d ever seen it. Everyone was confused.
She shook her head; she hoped Commander Stele
recovered quickly. They were going to need his help rebuilding Inferno, and
keeping the fleet's pilots together. If anyone could do it, she knew Maarek
could.
Could he have already left medbay? If that was the
case, perhaps he was in his quarters in the palace's pilot barracks. She
quickened her step, heading into the hangar section. She would have to pass
through there to reach the living quarters.
She emerged into the main hangar, a vast open area
done in the gold and royal blue colors of the Royal Varnusian Palace. The
hangar was virtually empty at the moment, except
for a few service technicians in orange jumpsuits looking over the fighters and
other craft resting there.
TIEs of various makes and models hung from the racks
overhead, as though hovering there above her. She noticed her own Avatar, one
of the few survivors of the battle. There were scars and burn marks all across
the fuselage, but she relished each and every one of those. Her fighter had
personality. They'd been through a lot together.
Salle started to head for the turbolift that would
take her up, but a noise coming from one of the service hangars made her pause.
The locker room was that way, as well. There shouldn't be anyone in there at
the moment; those pilots on duty were already out making their patrols, and it
would be hours yet before they changed shifts.
She entered the service hangar, which held various
equipment used for moving and repairing fighters, and also a parking area for
airspeeders used by the Defense Force. To the left was the entranceway for the
pilots' lockers and showers. She heard another sound from there, like a locker
door being slammed. Then, a second later, a figure emerged.
Maarek Stele limped out of the locker area, a crutch
under one arm and a large duffel bag in his other hand. When Salle saw him, she
gaped in shock. The commander was bald! It looked as though every step pained
him. Had this been why she hadn't been allowed to see him?
When Maarek saw her he stopped abruptly, stared at her
blankly for a moment, then turned and started walking again.
"Commander!" Salle
called out, rushing to catch up with him and saluting crisply. "Are you
all right? Did they discharge you? But you're still injured!"
"They can't fix what I've got, Salle," he
said. She blinked at the bitterness in his voice. He glanced at her, then looked away, as if he couldn't bare to look at her. His
eyes had looked distant, haunted.
Limping up to one of the airspeeders hovering over the
floor, Maarek tossed his duffel bag onto one of the fenders with a grunt. Then,
with his free hand, he reached in and pulled out his military jacket, which
he'd probably procured from the locker. Then he leaned his crutch against the
speeder as well, then held on to the vehicle for a
moment, eyes closed. He took a deep breath, then straightened and threw the
jacket over his shoulders.
""Sir... You're leaving?" Salle asked
incredulously. "But... But why?"
Maarek shrugged his arms into the jacked with some
effort. "Don't make this any harder than it already is," he said. He
took his crutch under his arm again, grabbed his bag and continued back towards
the open hangar.
"You weren't even going to tell us, were
you?" she said, coming up alongside him. "How could you just leave
and not even tell us?"
He paused, turning back towards her, and she gave a
start at his eyes. They were haunted.
Those eyes had seen far too much death and destruction. His grim expression
fell, and he just looked sad.
“I've turned in my resignation, Salle. I sent in a
transfer request that the squadron be placed under your control. You're to be
promoted to Major and Squadron Commander. You’re in charge now,” he told her.
“Inferno is yours.”
He turned again before she could reply, leaving her
open-mouthed. He had given her
command of Inferno?
"But sir!" she protested, following after
him. "We need you now more than ever!"
"I can't kriffing fly, Salle!" he said,
exasperated. "I can't even stand up straight."
"But you can't just leave! Surely there's a way
to help you..." She reached out to grab his arm.
He jerked suddenly away as soon as her hand made
contact. "Please! Don't touch me," he said. He looked as if about to
stumble, then caught himself. She moved instinctively to help him again, but
stopped just in time, seeing his wary look at her.
"Salle," he said, straightening once more.
"You are more than capable. I have full faith in you. Put the squadron
back together. Give it your best. I..." He looked away. "I can't help
you anymore."
"But surely one of the Jedi can help you! Have
you tried them?"
"This is beyond them."
"Then maybe the Altarin woman... The one with the
Grand Master..."
"Forget it!" he barked, making her jump.
"Xar doesn't care about me, and that woman of his
cares even less, for sure!"
He turned again, and she continued to follow him out
into the hangar, thinking of something to say. What could she say that would
change his mind, that would stop him? He turned into
the turbolift and hit the button, then stepped inside when the doors opened.
She started to follow him, but he dropped the bag and
held up his hand.
"I'm sorry," he said. Then he touched the
controls, and the doors closed.
The doors opened again, and Maarek stepped through, hefting
his bag. His shoulder ached, and that blasted crutch dug into his other armpit,
rubbing his skin raw. He was miserable. But, he might as well get used to it.
Things weren't likely to get much better.
He knew that Xar wouldn't lift a finger to help him.
The man hadn't even looked at him when Maarek told him he was leaving. And as for that woman... Well, Maarek had never even met
her. But he was bloody well sure that she couldn't be bothered enough out of
her precious day to help someone as insignificant as Maarek Stele.
No, it was time to get out of here. He patted his
pants pocket with his arm, feeling his bottle of meds there. Hopefully they
would be enough to see him passage somewhere. Maybe back home, to Kuan. His mom
and dad...
Vannik had told him he was lucky to be alive. Maarek
didn't agree. What was he going to live for, now? At this point, he couldn’t
even travel on a frigging freighter without his meds, much less pilot a
starship. So what was the point? He might as well have become a decoration on
the streets of Vectur, just like Rann and Tanya were.
He started down a service corridor that led to the
civilian hangar areas. From there he would buy passage on a ship heading out of
Epsilon Sector. And leave all this behind. He had emptied out his quarters,
stuffing everything worth taking into his bag. He’d only returned to the
lockers to get his jacket.
There was someone standing in the corridor. Maarek
stopped short. Something felt wrong.
The figure was smaller in stature than he was, so he
knew it had to be a woman. She was wearing a white robe, the hood pulled up to
obscure her features. The lighting was dim, here, but he could make out a pair
of small tattoos on her cheeks.
It looked like he wasn't going to make it out of here,
after all.
"You are Maarek Stele?" the Jedicon asked in
accented but passable Basic.
"Yes," he said, seeing no reason to lie. He
knew he couldn’t run – he didn’t have the desire to, anyway. He just felt…
tired of it all.
"Are you going to kill me?" he
asked.
She actually laughed, a sound
that shocked him to hear. Her voice was pleasant to his ears, like music chimes
sounding in concert. She reached up and pulled her hood back. Maarek was
shocked to see that she had blue hair, a deep azure shade. It extended down
from her head, curving outward around her ears, then back down to the base of
her neck, trimmed neatly. Her face was thin and supple, her eyes blue as ice.
The tattoos were actually very simplistic, a simple line moving down each
cheek, cutting back sharply, then forward again to meet at her chin in perfect
symmetry. Her skin was pale, and looked flawless.
She was surprisingly beautiful.
“Do you remember a man named Victor?” Her voice jolted
Maarek out of his gaping episode. It took him a moment to realize what she’d
said. Why was a Jedicon here for him, and who was she asking about? He
struggled in his mind to remember.
Victor… That’s right. The Victor from Arcadia, in the
Mizar System. A name he didn’t think he’d ever hear again, and so had
tried to forget. A name that had changed his life, in more
ways than one.
“What about him?” was what he asked her.
She smiled disarmingly, and he found himself
distracted once more. “I am Naguis’Dakor Alona,”
she said, “a Jedicon in the service of Victor. You once flew a prototype fighter
called the Archon for him. Victor would very much like for you to fly the
Archon for him again.”
Maarek’s breath caught in his throat. Those were words
he’d given up ever hearing, a time that he’d put behind him out of sheer
necessity. Could this be for real? Could it be that his fate had suddenly
changed, just like that?
He opened his mouth, a dozen different questions on
his tongue. He wanted to know why Victor was contacting him now. He wanted to
know what Victor wanted from him, and why he was being given the chance to fly
the Archon again.
He wanted to immediately tell this woman
yes. Then a feeling of hopelessness hit him. Vannik's words came rushing back,
inescapable. You will never fly a fighter
again. Maarek wasn’t even sure if he could ride in a space carrier.
Piloting again was just a pipe dream.
He took a breath, trying to free the sudden tightness
in his chest. “That’s… That’s impossible now,” he said.
But Alona was far more perceptive than he’d given her
credit for. She stepped closer, letting her voice drop so that no passerby
could accidentally hear – only the two of them.
“I know of your injury. Don’t worry, Maarek Stele. The
Archon system bypasses regular pilot functions and links directly with the
brain. Even with your present condition, you would still be able to fly it. Do
you not remember? The Archon is controlled by your mind, not your body.”
As he processed her words, hope began
rising up again. No, he hadn’t forgotten what it was like to fly the Archon.
Scarcely a day had gone by the last two years without his thinking about it. He’d
felt his whole life was over if he couldn’t fly again, but what if what Alona
said was true? He’d still have a chance. And the truth was,
he wanted to fly the Archon again more than anything else in the world. He
shook his head in disbelief. “Why me?”
“Victor was very impressed by your skills. He is very interested to meet
you again. Will you accept his offer?”
Maarek didn’t want to waste any more time giving her
the chance to reconsider. He had to take this opportunity. He would risk
anything to fly again, especially the Archon. It felt like his whole life, his
whole future, was like standing on the edge of a cliff, trying to decide
whether or not to jump off and take a leap of faith.
What would everyone think? That he’d
switched sides? But to fly the Archon again… Anything
was worth that. "What are you flying?" he asked.
"I have a small ship in the hangar ahead. It is
cloaked, so no one can see it."
A
small ship. Kriff.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his meds, giving the bottle a rattle.
"I don't think I can make that," he said, feeling his brief glimpse
of hope falling away.
"You won't need those.” She gave him another one
of her charming smiles, sending his skin tingling. “I will put you in a deep
sleep. You will awake at our destination. I promise, you will be fine,"
she said.
He looked back up at her, and meeting those beautiful
eyes, he believed her.
"Will you come with me?" she asked.
He nodded, this time without hesitation. “I’m ready. Take
me to Victor,” he said.
* * *
Velanon
Shores, Great Ocean
Varnus
1920
Hours
Xar
Kerensky sat on the shore, his bare feet in the sand, watching the breaking
waves coming in. The setting sun glinted off the waters, an orange ball of
flame reflected in the breakers that crashed just a stone's throw away. The sky
above was painted in vibrant blues and purples, turning abruptly to bright oranges
just above the horizon.
Xar wore a loose-fitting, comfortable white shirt and
black trousers. His shoes sat nearby, and it felt good to have his toes in the
cool sand beneath him. The wind blew in the scent of the sea, stirring a sense
of longing in him, a desire to be away from this place, away from the cares of
the world. That breeze ruffled his hair, and felt strange on his face, with two
weeks' growth of beard on it, now. Some things hadn't been important enough to
worry about taking care of.
No, what was important was what lay in front of his
eyes.
Zalaria walked along the shore, the waves barely
reaching up to lap at her feet and fill in her footprints in her wake. They
touched them gently, reverently, as if aware of the privilege that they, out of
all the ocean's waves, held. Without a moon of its own, Varnus’ oceans held no
tides, meaning the ancient beach’s sands dropped sharply once in the water, but
otherwise were well-established and stable.
His wife wore a long white dress of soft,
thin material, leaving her shoulders bare, dipping halfway to her bosom, where
an ornate turquoise necklace rested. Her gown swayed regally out behind her,
stirred by the evening breeze as she walked.
She was so beautiful. And she was carrying his child.
Her appearance suggested that she might be
twenty-five, though every time he looked he couldn't be sure if she wasn't even
younger. She was tall, but not too tall. Thin, but not too thin. It was still
too early for her to be showing that she was with child. In fact, she was still
perfectly proportioned for most species' ideal specimen of a woman. Immortality
had given her face and skin a perfection that no other woman could hope to
match. Xar knew that there was no one else in this galaxy - or any other for
that matter - who could match her. And she was his. The thought still sent a
chill through him. It wasn’t because he was entitled; no man could ever deserve
her, really. No. It was because she
had chosen him. He still could not
understand it. He could only appreciate it, and thank the Force itself. She was
the only thing that allowed him to keep his sanity, keeping him from falling
into a black hole of emotionless nothing, after all that had happened.
Zalaria was making her way towards him. Her dark hair
was tied back behind her head, and her dark eyes held his as she approached,
eyes that he never tired of staring into. How had he ever doubted her? It was
another failure of his for having done so.
She finally reached him and, wordlessly, sat down next
him on the sands. They sat there for a long moment, watching the sunset, and
Xar pretended that they were completely alone together, on a deserted world,
far from any concerns or responsibilities.
“Why the long look?” she asked suddenly. Her voice rang
like soft music in his ears.
Xar glanced at her and saw her looking over at him,
knowing that her all-penetrating gaze, coupled with their Bond, could see what
other eyes could not. For as captivated as he was, it couldn’t completely fill
the hole that had opened in Xar’s heart. But she would keep him alive; she had
to. She was all he had, now.
For Xar, everything had changed.
Everything he'd worked so hard to achieve had ultimately turned out to be
utterly pointless. He understood, now. History was simply a repetition of the
same events, played out by different characters with different names, with only
slight variations in the circumstances. But Zalaria - she stood outside of
history. Immortal, unreachable. He had been given a
short life to enjoy her presence, a span of time blessed beyond measure. He had
nearly thrown it all away. He shouldn’t even be sitting here, now, talking with
her.
She continued speaking, catching his attention once
more.
“I have accelerated the development of our son,"
she said.
He looked at her again, intrigued. "What do you
mean? With the Force?" he asked.
She nodded, staring back out towards the horizon.
"It's relatively simple. I can safely shorten the amount of gestation time
by approximately half without affecting the baby adversely." She paused,
letting him digest that information before she continued. "That means he
will be born in less than five months. That is all the time that I need. After
that, I will of course immediately heal and be fit for what needs to be done.”
Xar shook his head in amazement. She continued to
demonstrate feats that he'd never even known were possible. He had a brief
thought; he wondered if she'd ever had children before. Twenty-five thousand
years was a very, very long time. She'd lived countless lifetimes before Xar
had even met her. She could have millions of descendents already by now. But he
didn't care about the past. His wife - and his child - were
the only things that meant anything to him, anymore.
Nothing else mattered. Not the New Imperium, not the
Order… Nothing.
"What's wrong, Xar?" she asked.
He knew that she was prying for information. He'd been
subdued and removed for the last two weeks. The bouts of emotion came and went,
waxed and waned. Derek was dea. He
was dead – or at least, he should
have been. He now doubted everything he'd once stood for, everything he'd
believed in.
He sighed. “Let’s go. Let’s get out of here,” he said.
Maybe they could just run away. Who
was there to stop them? Who could
stop them? Others could prosecute this pointless, endless conflict. Xar had
experienced enough war and pain for any number of lifetimes.
Zalaria smiled at him, though he could see a sadness in those eyes. “We both know that is impossible,
Xar.”
He knew it was; but that didn’t make it
any easier to keep going on. Xar had lost all sympathy for the plights of those
around him. He understood it still, of course, at some level. He supposed that
deep down inside he was still feeling emotion. But for some reason he couldn’t
bring it to bear. It was as if he didn’t enough strength, or maybe the will.
“But… I heard our son say it,” he said softly. “We’re
going to win this war with the Altarin’Dakor. The New Imperium doesn’t need me
anymore.”
She seemed to consider a moment. “No, Xar. Now history
has been altered. Who is to say that things won’t play differently now, and that
your help might be needed to win? You would be abandoning your duty and condemning
the New Imperium to its fate.”
Her argument sounded weak, and he suspected even to her,
as well. “What if I die?” he countered. “How can I help our son then?” Their
son – from the future – had said he needed Xar’s help. And Xar wanted to help;
it was all the more reason for him not to stay here, where he could simply get
himself killed – again. For if he had no destiny now, then there was no
guarantee Xar wouldn’t die tomorrow, or the next day, or the one after that.
Any fluke could occur at any moment, and Xar would be gone, erased from
existence, and – soon enough – memory as well.
Was this how normal people lived their
lives, worried that death could come at any moment?
Zalaria reached out and stroked his cheek – his beard,
now – with the back of her hand. “Since when were you afraid
of death, my love?”
He looked at her seriously. “When I
met Nimrod.”
She shook her head. “It’s not that, Xar.”
He looked away; he knew she could feel his
emotions inside, that she could sense what he was
thinking. She knew that it was something deeper, inside. But how could he
explain it? He didn’t fully understand it, himself. Why didn’t anything matter
anymore?
“Come with me to the Grand Crusader,” she said suddenly. “I want you to see it. Many
things are happening. We are now more fully equipped than ever before. I could
use your help in leading the people.”
“What good would I do? I’ve lost all
credibility to the people.”
“That’s not true. You can be a bridge
between my people and yours.”
He shook his head. “I’m not the only one.
Maybe they don’t need reconciliation. Maybe they just need to fight.”
She let his comment stand for the moment.
Zalaria probably thought as he did; Xar had learned much from her. He knew he had
changed a lot since meeting her and traveling into AD space. His philosophy,
his outlook on the war, had changed. Well, things had changed again, recently,
this time thanks to her twisted dictator of a brother.
“You know that Gaius Adonai has been
chosen the new War Coordinator for the military,” she said, speaking again.
“So?” he asked.
“The other Fleet Commanders might resent
his being chosen over them. There are several that are higher-ranking, or
longer-serving.”
“What they think doesn’t matter,” Xar replied tersely.
“And you don’t care? Gaius is one of your
men.”
Xar shook his head. “That was a long time
ago. Gaius is his own man, now. He can take care of himself.” Suddenly he
realized just how much she was pressing him. Trying to get to the core of what
was bothering him? He eyed her warily. “What’s this reversal? Suddenly you’re
the one worried about others’ opinions?”
She smiled playfully, as though he
were catching on to a game they’d been playing. “I’m provoking you, yes. I have
to get an emotional response at some point,
my love.”
He forced a laugh. “I’m not a puzzle to be
solved,” he said.
“Maybe you are.”
“I’m not.” He glanced down. “Very well. I’ll consider it.”
For a moment they sat in silence. He could
feel her eyes on him. As always, it felt as though his every thought were open
to her, yet he could sense very little from her. He’d gotten better at it, and
thought he could pick up on her emotional state. But to her, he was like an
open book.
“You’ve stopped caring,” she said suddenly.
He gave a wry grin, looking back off towards the
horizon. The last glimmers of the sun were just slipping down beyond the
horizon. “Why should I? I’m supposed to be dead,” he said.
“I don’t want you talking like that.”
He said nothing more. The sun was
gone, now, yet the sky was still full of orange light. It made her skin all the
darker. More rich. More beautiful.
“So what’s in this thing for you?” he asked after a
while.
“In what? The war?”
He nodded. It was something he’d begun to
contemplate lately, during his times alone. He no longer doubted her intentions
to help him, or the NI. But he had yet to truly decipher her reasoning for it. “Why
do you even care?” he asked. “Why give up Immortality and virtual godhood to
help a ragtag band fight an impossible battle?
She laughed, and he looked at her,
surprised.
“Deep questions, my love. Rare, from
you. You realize that now I have Nimrod’s fleet and territories. If I wanted,
I could take command of the Return and conquer your galaxy.”
He looked at her. In the waning light, her
beauty took on an ephemeral look. Her eyes were dark pools that drew his gaze
and captured him there. He knew she was telling the truth. He could imagine it
quite easily, in fact. She could be the sole ruler of this galaxy, and all its
denizens would worship her.
“So why don’t you?” he asked, half
serious. “I’ll be at your side. We can run things our way. Stop all this
mindless killing.”
She gave a wry grin. “The thought is
tempting, Xar. But it would merely delay the inevitable.”
He gave a start. “What do you mean?”
he asked.
“The Shok’Thola,
Xar. Why do you think there were only thirteen of us left when we began
this so-called Return? There used to be many of us, you know. Things were more…
balanced… in the beginning.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, not sure
where this was going.
She
shook her head. “Some died due to warfare, of course. Endless
conquests against one another. But even that wasn’t enough. Eventually,
the others fell into madness. They were… eliminated.”
He stared at her for a moment, speechless.
What did she mean, eliminated? By
whom? And why would all the Warlords eventually go mad? Was there some
weakness, some illness he hadn’t known about? Or…
Something else, he realized. Could it be… time? He had never really
thought about the consequences of living for a thousand generations. The
inevitable creeping by of centuries, millennia…
“You can never get enough, can you? he said.
She gave a small, yet sad smile. “Monotony,
my love, is a force as powerful as time itself. Once you have experienced
everything that a living creature can experience, more times than you care to
remember, nothing can interest you, nothing can stimulate you anymore. The
inevitable result is insanity. No, Xar, that is why the Shok’Thola are so driven, so obsessed.” She hugged her arms around
her body, and he was shocked to see what might have been her first moment of
weakness in front of him. She closed her eyes for a moment.
“Those of us who have survived this long
have done so only by sake of our obsessions. Each of us has found a way to cope
with the hunger within, yet we all know that it will eventually win out. Unless
we conquer more, consume more. Just like the thing that gives us this curse of
Immortality in the first place.”
Curse? Xar stared
at his wife, wishing he could do something to help. It was hard to understand,
hard to think of Immortality as a curse. He couldn’t believe that she could
have that, and more power than anyone else in the
universe, and simply wish for death. Looking into her eyes in the dim light, he
could see the sheer weight of age behind them, and the raw desire for an end to
it all. A permanent end.
“I’m… sorry,” he managed. He reached over
and took her hand in his. “I never realized how horrible it must be.”
“That’s not the half of it, Xar.” She looked away,
taking her hands back into her lap.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
For a long time, she didn’t speak. He watched
her, as the nightfall came. The dark sky gave way to pinpricks of light that
shone overhead, and he looked up, noting the familiar constellations he’d
memorized in his youth. Without a moon, night on Varnus was pitch-black, but
the sky overhead was magnificent. Soon the Galbagos Nebula would be clearly
visible, a violet backdrop to a carpet of thousands of stars overhead.
“My one goal is to be free,” Zalaria whispered.
Xar looked back down at her curiously. She was barely
visible, now.
“Free,” she continued, “of this thing which binds my
very soul in its grasp, which dominates every pulse of my heart. Even now, it
wants me to destroy.”
“Destroy what?” he asked.
She looked at him with haunted eyes. “Everything,” she
said.
* * *
Personal
Quarters
Royal
Palace, Varnus
1740
Hours
“Enter,” came
the voice from the speaker. The door clicked
as it unlocked.
Icis Novitaar strode into Mathis Organa’s
quarters, which also served for what passed for an office for him. It was one
of the rooms that had been lucky enough not to be vandalized by Jedicon during
the battle. Icis’ own rooms had been a mess.
Mathis' room was on the east side of the
palace, where the exterior slanted downward, meaning that one wall in his room
slanted down, as well. Fragrant smoke filled the air above him, moving slowly
towards the open, slotted window near the ceiling, where it passed outside the
palace.
The setting sun shone orange rays through
those windows, bathing the room in a warm light.
Mathis brought a stick of tabac to his lips, took a draw and blew another puff
of blue-gray smoke up into the air over his head. “What can I do for you?” he
asked after a moment. His long hair was tied behind his head, and his perpetual
grin was present once more.
"Taking up smoking now, are we?" Icis asked him testily. "Adding
another vice to the list?"
"Absolutely. Would you care for one?"
"No, thank you." Icis had enjoyed certain luxuries, once. But that
was before he'd lost his ability to touch the Force. Without being able to
detoxify poisons, he wasn't about to put harmful substances into his body.
Funny, how with immortality gone, he was trying to preserve his years as much
as possible.
"I've smoked on and off for years," Mathis
said, flicking ashes off the end into a small basin in front of him. "This
helps take the place of... other things."
"That's what I came to talk to you about,"
Icis replied. "As you know, my shipping company is actually a front for
smuggling operations."
"You don't say."
Icis fixed the man with a stare. "I've come to be
aware that certain supplies of Ryll spice have been funneling their way to
dealers from which you have been obtaining the product."
"Your point being?"
"My company is feeding your spice addiction,
Mathis. I won't stand for that."
"You're not my mother. Besides, I've got it under
control now. Kiss off, Icis."
"Ah yes, I heard," Icis replied.
"I heard there was an... incident. On the Stormwatch."
"The Crinn were everywhere. I saved the
ship."
"So I heard. You have my thanks for that,"
Icis said, meaning every word of it.
Mathis gave him a flat look. "I hear
things, too. Like things haven't been going so well in your
company lately."
Icis cleared his throat to keep from
coughing from smoke irritation. If Mathis thought him perturbed by the
question, so be it. "I've had to do some house cleaning,” he admitted. “Things
will be more efficient, now. Some things are being cut out. This supply of
spice is one of them.”
“It doesn’t matter to me. Like I said, I’m
pretty much over it.”
“So you’ll be returning to active duty,
then?” Icis asked.
“Don’t know. Ask your buddy Xar. He’s not
exactly knocking my door down, asking me to come back.”
"Perhaps you should try talking to
Xar yourself about your issues between the two of you. Have you considered that
might help you recover?"
Mathis flicked more ashes into the basin. "What
are you, Icis, my bloody psychiatrist? Are you playing conscience for everyone
in the palace, now?"
Someone
needs to, Icis thought. Instead he said, "Something's wrong with Xar,
Mathis. He's getting darker. Can't you feel it? Someone needs to talk to him
that he can trust."
"Sorry, mate. That's not my concern.
I’m just the Chancellor. An honorary job. Do you know
what my job description is? ‘To take care of the Palace
grounds’. That’s a tall order considering what we’ve just been through,
don’t you think? I’ll be quite busy for a while."
"Are you saying you don't care about
him anymore?" Icis said, ignoring his attempts to change the subject.
Mathis glared at him. "Why should I?
Xar doesn't bloody care about anybody. Including you," he added, pointing
a finger at Icis. "We can all burn, for all he cares. You'd best leave him
alone to do as he wants."
"He's misguided."
"Judging from the woman who's guiding
him, I don't think that's an irrational statement."
That’s the truth. No one wanted Xar away
from Zalaria more than he did. Still, Icis knew Mathis didn't really mean what
he was saying. The man had idolized Xar, once. He'd given him command of his
own Jedi House, stepped aside to let Xar take the forefront.
"I've got my situation under
control," Mathis said. "No thanks to you - or him."
Icis nodded and slowly stood up. The truth
was, he’d come here to evaluate the man, and he’d seen enough. Mathis was
bitter, but he seemed to have his wits about him. At this point the Division
needed every able body they could get hold of. And right now, with tensions
high and tempers flaring between the Council and higher ranks, someone needed
to try and put things back together. This war wasn’t over; far from it.
"You should consider trying to fix
some of the problems you've caused," Icis said. "We could use your
help, where we're going." He turned to leave.
* * *
Maintenance Bay
ISD Vindicator
Hyperspace
The
swirling sky of hyperspace spun outside, sending bluish light through the small
viewports onto Salle Darl and her companions. Their Avatars hung from their
racks, both their internal and external routine inspections completed. Salle
was perched on top of her craft's fuselage, inspecting where the body met the
port solar panel. Everything looked good. The other three members of Inferno
Squadron sat clustered around a small table nearby, the lights overhead dimmed,
their conversation quiet.
Over the last week, things had happened fast. Her promotion
and transfer of the squadron to her command had been completed, and new orders
had come in quickly. They had been assigned to the ISD Vindicator to escort
Sector Admiral Gaius back to Tralaria, where he would be instated as the new
War Coordinator. After that was to take Inferno to Tralarian surface to rebuild
the squadron.
She remembered blasting off from Varnus with Gren,
Narm and Kikitik, watching the palace and the city receding below her, the
devastation still clearly visible. She'd wondered if it was the last time she
would say goodbye.
It had been strange, flying with the squadron without
Commander Stele. She wondered if he'd already left Varnus, too, whether he was
feeling any better. Salle jumped off her fuselage and landed smartly on the
deck and started towards her comrades.
"Major Darl?" came
a voice from the bay entrance. She turned to look, and saw an officer
approaching. He had the insignia of a Colonel on his crisp uniform, a thick but
neatly trimmed beard on his face, and an accent from somewhere in the Outer Rim
that she couldn't quite identify.
“I’m Colonel Dunn, Wing Commander onboard
the Vindicator. Welcome aboard.”
“Thank you, sir,” Salle replied. “It’s a
pleasure to serve with you.”
"Likewise.” He glanced
over at their fighters. “I wouldn't bother polishing those rust-buckets anymore,"
he drawled. "You won't be needing those much
longer."
"Sir?" she asked. Her squad mates came up
behind her, curious as to what the commotion was.
“I hear your squadron has been assigned the new,
modified TIE Avatars,” the commander told her. “My
congratulations.”
Salle felt a rush of excitement, and looked over at
her squadron mates. Gren stood gaping, Narm looked flustered, and Kikitik -
well, she couldn't read his expression, but his antennae were twitching, at
least.
“You mean, the
ones with AD tech in them? The ones with the beam weapons?”
Gren asked.
“Those are the ones.”
“Sir, how did you hear about this?” Salle
asked.
“I just received my orders from Tralaria,”
the Colonel replied. “They want Inferno working with us here on the Vindicator for a while. The ship is to
be refitted with a new fighter compliment. Almost exclusively
the new model.”
“Seriously? How
could they have built so many so quickly?” Gren exclaimed.
Colonel Dunn looked at him reprovingly,
doubtless noticing the breach of verbal protocol. Inferno had been run a bit
more lax than most squadrons were used to. “Apparently they’ve been in
development in a top secret location. Someplace separate from
the starfighter manufacturing facilities on Rhiannon. Nobody knew they
were building them.”
“That’ll help even the score,” Kikitik
said through his vocal translator.
She turned back to the commander. "Thank you,
sir," she said, feeling slightly overwhelmed. First command had been given
to her, and now this…
“Well, that’s all I wanted to speak with
you about. You might as well make yourselves comfortable here – you might be
here a while.”
With that he turned and left. Salle walked
back over to the table, where the others were sitting down.
"I don't know, Salle," Gren called said. “How are we going to find
enough good – much less living – pilots to full out the squadron again? There
are only four of us left.”
Salle picked up a datapad from the
tabletop and pointedly handed it to him. "I mean to make Inferno strong
again, Gren. Here's a list of potential candidates. I've been scouring the
lists of top pilots in the various wings. Most of them are from the Second
Fleet, since the First suffered so many losses at Varnus. We'll be doing
interviews as soon as we arrive."
Salle was serious about her new duties.
She would do the best she could to fill the gap left by Commander Stele, even
if she could never completely fill his shoes.
“We all have faith in you, Salle,” Narm
spoke up from his spot at the table, his voice soft but full of meaning. It was
as if he’d heard her thoughts, her quiet self-doubts. “If anyone can put us
back together, you can. I saw it in how you kept our flight together, and I
knew there was a leader inside of you. You’re going to be a great commander.”
“We’ll see. I’m going to have to prove it,”
she told him candidly. “Let me know how I did after the war.”
Narm
smiled. “I will. Provided we all make it that far,” he said.
* * *
Makpelah
Planet Che'kvalum (Hidden Sanctuary)
The Altarin'Dakor Galaxy
Strife
stood in the shadows of Sado's laboratory. The dim lighting only partially
revealed the rows of machinery, the vats containing forms obscured by the
opaque liquids inside. Strife didn't know what kind of abominations, what
manner of amalgams Sado was currently working on. He didn't care. His alliance
with Sado was limited to one subject alone.
"What have you found?" he asked.
"The same thing the last time you asked,"
Sado replied, not turning away from the device he was currently peering into.
"You expect something new so quickly?”
“I cannot wait forever.”
Sado looked up at him. “A thousand
generations I have dwelt on this. For twenty-five millennia I have sought the
deepest secrets of the Power. Patience is necessary.”
“Time is running short,” Strife said. “You
said so yourself.”
“Yes,” Sado said, grinning suddenly. “The end
of all things is near. The End of Dreams. So tell me
my friend. What do you think we can
do? How do we free ourselves from our little dilemma? From onset of madness
derived from overwhelming boredom?”
“Don’t mock me,” Strife warned him. “Be
thankful you have one of my power as an ally.” It had
taken him a long time to be convinced of Sado’s reasoning. A
long time. In fact, Strife had needed to have an epiphany of his own –
realizing half the truth himself before Sado had accepted him, revealed everything
he’d discovered about the true nature of the Altarin’Dakor.
He remembered their conversation quite
well.
“When one becomes a Shok’Thola, his or her fate is ultimately set along
a path with only two eventual options,” Sado had instructed. “One is, of
course, death.” He held up one finger and stared at it for a moment. “Either by
choice, by insanity, or from one of our rivals, it doesn’t matter. We will be
consumed, forever.”
He paused, and let silence hang in the air for a long moment. Eventually
he held up a second finger. “The second is to become Altima. The new Altima,
actually, which is what happened to our current
incarnation when he was chosen instead of me.”
“But becoming Altima would mean becoming insane as well,” Strife countered.
“Losing everything that we are.”
“Which is, ultimately, a form of escape as well,” Sado added, grinning
slightly. “But for the sake of argument, let us avoid that particular option
for the moment. Our true goal is real death, and to avoid the destruction of
our very souls. But that cannot be attained without separating ourselves from
our source of Immortality.”
“We can sever the connection with the Entity.”
“Yes, but this simply negates the Immortality itself; there is still,
however, a connection that has been made and has not been severed. What we
Shok’Thola long for is what the so-called Jedi themselves instinctively
possess.”
“Transcendence.”
Sado nodded vigorously. “Ah yes, to become one with the Power itself.
This is our dream. In our youth we were fools, choosing Immortality at the cost
of our very souls, not thinking of the price we all must eventually pay. Yet no
one in their right mind would want to live forever, not like this.” He held up
his arms to illustrate the point.
“Ironically, in a moment of lunacy we all gave up that which we now
desire most. But no, what I refer to is a complete separation from the Entity.
That can only be accomplished in two ways: hiding ourselves in some way that
the Entity can no longer find us, and then die… Or secondly, destroying the
Entity, whereby we all become mortal and live a normal life… and die.”
“Destroying it is impossible,” Strife countered. “Energy and matter
cannot be created or destroyed. The same is true for life energy.”
“Ah, and therein lies the conundrum,” Sado
explained, excitedly, “Which brings us back to my first point: how to
disestablish the connection by which we received our very power?”
“I don’t know,” Strife answered.
Sado smiled. “That, my friend, is the problem I’ve been working on for
the last thousand generations.”
That had been the end of their
conversation. Strife had analyzed every word, every nuance that had come from
Sado, but he was no closer to discovering the solution now than when the
conversation had taken place.
“Give me something substantial,” he said
now. “I didn’t come all this way, take all this risk,
just for a review.” Visiting Sado in his sanctuary had required traveling
through the Gate. A large time and resource commitment, and he would not let
this man waste his time. He was tired of dealing with Sado’s insanity. Was he
falling even further into madness?
Finally Sado seemed to come around. He
smiled slightly. “Very well then. I will share what the
Power has revealed to me. As you well know, the Return has suffered a number of
surprising, early setbacks. This has annoyed Altima greatly.”
“What does Altima care about the Return?”
Strife asked. They had both surmised that Altima was not particularly
interested in whether the Altarin’Dakor re-conquered their home galaxy or not.
“An astute observation,” Sado replied. “Perhaps
he is looking for something.”
“Looking for what?”
“That is what we must discover. We must
continue to sow confusion and chaos among the Shok’Thola. Go to this group opposing the Return. Continue to…
assist… them. We must force a confrontation with Altima. Only then will his
true purpose be revealed.”
“And how will that help our goals?”
Sado smiled again. “That has yet to be
revealed, but it is all I know. That is what I have foreseen. Now you should
go. There is little time.”
Strife turned to leave. He knew that there
was nothing else to be gained from staying here. Sado’s predictions were always
true; he was the only Shok’Thola who
had eschewed the lust for strength and focused on the Unifying Power. If he was
right, then the end of all things was approaching. He had much to do, and for
all the time they’d waited, it appeared that time was now running out.
* * *
NI Senate Complex
Tralaria,
Tralar System
1600
Hours
“Ah,
do come in,” the Diktat told his visitor.
Gaius Adonai moved over in front of the room's massive
desk and folded his hands behind his back. He wore his ceremonial uniform, now
white like that of an Imperial Grand Admiral, completely with shoulder tassels
and a spattering of medals and commendations he'd received during campaigns
with the NI. He dark reddish hair was close-cropped
and just starting to show the first hints of gray.
He watched as, on the other side, Gene Rytor - dressed
in robes reminiscent of an Old Republic Chancellor - took out a flask of fine
Correllian brandy and poured a generous amount over the ice resting inside a
crystal goblet on his desk. He poured another in a second goblet and then,
setting the flask aside, took both glasses in his hands and made his way around
the desk.
To your new position, War
Coodinator." He handed Gaius a glass. "My
congratulations to you." He brought the goblet to his lips and took
a long sip.
"Thank you, sir." Gaius took a cautious sip
of his own, glancing around the room. He and Rytor were the only two present
except for Quat, the thin, middle-aged man who was Rytor's aide, standing
aloofly in the corner.
Today, however, the back wall panels behind the
Diktat's desk had been pulled away, revealing transparisteel windows that
looked outside. The Diktat's office was high enough in the Senate Complex to
see over the surrounding buildings, and a panoramic view of the ocean filled
the scene, whitecaps cresting off endlessly into the distance. Cruise ships
rested out there, private yachts or touring vessels for wealthy patrons. Closer in, a white sandy shore held swaying palm trees and sporty
bars for off-duty personnel.
It was a relaxing view, symbolic of the idyllic world
that was the NI's capital, yet far too soft for the likes of Gaius. He'd spent
too much time in the cold darkness of space, lately.
"Apologies that Sector Admiral Dogar could not be
here to pass the baton personally," Rytor said. "As you know, he had
gotten quite introspective lately, and thought it best to retire quietly."
"And what of the other fleet
commanders?" Gaius asked, turning towards him. He preferred to get straight
to business. There was much to discuss. He'd only just learned that both Fleet
Admirals Caramon Majere and C'sill Shok'fur, both task force leaders in the
Second Fleet, had taken a large part of their fleets and personnel, along with
hundreds of thousands of civilians, and left New Imperium space. "How was
this decision reached?" he demanded.
Rytor sighed. "It was a decision based on
pragmatism and timing. I'm sorry you weren't when it was made, but it wouldn't
have changed anything."
"They committed treason," Gaius said flatly.
"No, we reached an agreement," Rytor said.
"We had countless demands from civilians for transport out of the New
Imperium. As you know, we're not exactly the most desirable place to live, at
the moment." Rytor glanced at him, and at Gaius' nod, he continued.
"We couldn't stand up under that kind of pressure for much longer. Majere
and Shok'fur both volunteered to escort those who wished to leave out of the
New Imperium. They also took the remnants of their fleets. though
they left behind some of their forces to help us."
"They led a mass exodus out of the NI,"
Gaius countered. "They've weakened our military presence."
"By an insignificant amount.
Compared with the Titans we now command, they were as good as useless. We've
restructured the Navy into three simple task forces, each led by one of our new
Titans."
"That's the whole problem," Gaius said.
"We truly are at her mercy now,
aren't we?"
"Unavoidably, you are correct. I won't mince
words with you, Gaius. We are in a desperate situation."
Gaius shook his head. He still couldn't believe that
the two fleet commanders had left. They had been latecomers to the NI, and had
never wanted to lose their autonomy of their own fleets. "Those two wanted
out long ago," he said. They never could fully accept integration of their
fleets within the NI. They still wanted to maintain control."
"I don't disagree with your assessment. I had to
deal the hand I received when I took this position." Rytor lifted his
glass and drained the rest of its contents in one gulp.
Gaius just stared into his own goblet, swirling the ice and
liquid around for a moment. He repressed the urge to throw it across the room.
He realized it wasn't Rytor he should be angry at. There had, in fact, been
little choice, as he'd said.
"Why did you choose me?" he asked finally.
"You know I am not afraid to challenge authority and voice my
opinions."
"That's precisely why I like you," Rytor
replied. "But it wasn't just my decision. The whole Cabinet voted on it.
You had the most votes."
"And why not Stan? He
has more command experience.”
"Experience aside, you were the right choice. You
are a Jedi, for one thing. And you do have more experience working with
Altarin'Dakor crew and vessels than anyone else."
Gaius considered that. It was probably true. He hadn't
wanted to step on any toes with his promotion. But at any rate, what was done
was done. He hadn't asked for the position, after all.
"I will need an update on our strategic plans for
the NI," he said.
"Of course. That's why I
wanted to brief you personally before we discuss our next strategy." Rytor
turned to his desk, where he produced a small remote. He tapped a button, and a
set of doors descended over the panoramic windows, shutting out the light from
outside. Then another key activated a holoprojector built into the room's
ceiling. A map of the New Imperium appeared in the air, obscuring Rytor's aide,
Quat, who was still over by the wall.
"Let's look at the overall theater," the
Diktat said.
It was pretty dismal. Almost all of NI space except
for a swath down the center had been captured by the Altarin'Dakor. Now that
Nimrod's forces had been defeated - inexplicably, he might add - those
territories taken by the enemy were technically back under NI control. But
truth be told, the NI still hadn't ventured back into
some of those systems. They were still currently AD-occupied space.
"We've managed to reassume command of most of Varnus
Quadrant," Gaius explained, "So far we've opened back up the Eridani,
Sigma, Talas, and Goven systems. But our forces are stretched thinly. We must
rely on newfound AD forces to help hold our territory, or we'll fall
apart."
"There are a lot of systems that were
taken," Rytor said, nodding. "We need to get those systems
reintegrated and producing quickly," Rytor said. "I don't need to
tell you that our economy is on the verge of collapse. If we are to survive, we
need those systems back in the fold."
"Understood. I've sent
scouts to most of the other systems and am waiting for their reports."
Gaius pointed to several other stars on the map. "Some systems are not
worth reestablishing a presence, I'm afraid. The Krri'Graq population
on Moro have been utterly wiped out, as well as the denizens of the
Danube system. The bases at Basra and Jengar have been obliterated. The Eridani
system was completely destroyed. Sigma, Rilke, and Genotia have suffered heavy
casualties as well as oppression of the local populations. I don't know if
they'll be able to contribute anything, anytime soon."
Gaius felt a chill run down his spine.
They were talking statistics, acting as though massive losses, millions of
deaths, were just numbers on a ledger. The people of the New Imperium – real,
living, breathing people with lives and hopes and dreams – those people had
suffered horrible losses. Countless lives had been lost or irrevocably altered.
Many of those had counted on the fleet and the Jedi to protect them.
He shook his head as he glanced at Varnus
Quadrant, which had been all but swallowed up by the Altarin’Dakor advancing
wave. The Sigman Emperor Virzixl had survived the destruction of his flagship
at Varnus, and had now returned to his homeward to try and rebuild. Gaius could
still remember the sounds of horror as the survivors returned to their battered
planet. The Altarin'Dakor had gone in on the ground, wiping out their
infrastructure and subjugating the population to begin the process of converting
them into a slave race. The Sigmans had been set back decades.
They'd fared better than the Krri'Graq,
though. The Sigmans' Moro-based cousins were simply gone. Including their
Queen, the Krri'Graq had been completely wiped out.
The consolidation of AD forces in the NI
and recapture - if you could call it that - of their worlds had taken most of
the last several months. Though fortunately, no more battles had needed to be
fought, the devastation had been massive. Gaius could still hear the sounds of
weeping as officers returned to their homes on Erebria and Varnus. The number
of dead had reached the millions, the economy had fallen flat and
infrastructure had been pushed back to before the NI had ever come into the
sector.
Meanwhile, the shifting of power from
Nimrod’s Altarin’Dakor to Zalaria’s had been brutal and bloody. Untold thousands
of Altairn'Dakor had been killed in order to facilitate a smooth transition of
power. It had been a culling. Now they had to work together with who only months before had been the most bitter enemy they’d
ever faced.
Rytor’s words brought Gaius out of his thoughts. The
Diktat was continuing his analysis as though oblivious to Gaius’ concerns.
“What did you say again?” he asked the Diktat.
"The systems we’ve retaken, Gaius.
They’ll most likely be more of a drain on resources than a help," Rytor said
in a disappointed tone.
Gaius nodded. "Agreed, but it's Pax I'm most
concerned about, there. Their government has refused to allow my men to land on
their planet, even though their Altarin'Dakor captors relocated to orbit."
"It's worse than that," Rytor explained.
"They've declared independence. They refuse to be readmitted into the New
Imperium."
"That is treason. They cannot be allowed to defy
their pact of membership."
Rytor sighed, and Gaius looked at him askance.
“You’re right, of course. But I’m afraid
they will have to wait.”
“What do you mean?”
"They are not our top priority at the moment,” said
the Diktat.
"Sir, I strongly recommend..."
"If they want to go it alone, we’ll let them
learn their lesson the hard way," Rytor cut him off. “The Altarin’Dakor
will be far less lenient than we would be.”
Gaius shook his head sharply. "If they are
allowed to secede, then others may follow suit. And you just said that we need
them, economically."
"Granted. But as you
say, Gaius, we are stretched too thinly. If we force them in line, then it may
cause others to secede anyway. We would be labeled as the old Empire all over
again. There would be no longer any distinction between us. Do you want that to
be the legacy that we leave behind?”
Gaius shook his head; he couldn't believe the Diktat
would consider letting Pax carry out their treasonous acts. He had just
mentioned restoring the NI economy, but he had to know that Pax was the
wealthiest system in the entire NI! They had suffered virtually no damage at
all from the AD - after all, they'd surrendered like the cowards they were.
“We have a more important target ahead of
us at the moment,” Rytor continued, “and only a limited window of time
opportunity in which to strike. We cannot get embroiled into a civil war. It
would destroy what little remains of morale."
A sickly feeling came into his gut as he realized what
Rytor was telling him. "You're talking about Mizar," he said.
"Correct. That's our task, now," Rytor said,
looking back at him. "Prepare an attack on the Mizar System, War
Coordinator. Perhaps you will have success where Dogar failed."
Gaius gave him a hard look. He knew it bordered on
insubordination, but he didn't care. The man would have to get used to such
from him. "With respect, sir, it wasn't Dogar's failure. We were all
there. None of us knew what we were getting into at the time."
Rytor simply inclined his head. "Nevertheless, he
quit. You are in charge, now."
"Sir, perhaps we need more time to integrate our
forces with the new Altarin'Dakor additions," Gaius suggested.
"I wish we could, Gaius, but we have no time. Pax
will have to wait until after Mizar. Go and prepare the fleet. If anyone can
integrate our forces now, it will be you. I have faith in you, Gaius."
There was little more he could say. The Diktat was
asking a virtually impossible task of him. He seriously doubted that
integration would ever really occur, so Rytor was simply suggesting the obvious
question: why bother?
Scouts had already reported that the Mizar system was
all but empty of AD forces at the moment. A strike now might be their only
chance. Gaius had known all along what going on the offensive would come down
to. One way or another, it was Zalaria that he would have to deal with.
"Yes, sir." With that he turned and walked out,
and didn't look back.
* * *
Personal Quarters
Royal Palace, Varnus
2330 Hours
Xar sat alone in his quarters at his new desk. Virtually
all the furniture in his rooms had needed to be replaced. The Jedicon had
destroyed his old desk, his computer terminal, the shelves and chairs - even
his bed had been sliced up. All the new items made the room feel unfamiliar.
The walls still had slashes in them, and the carpet
still had gashes cut through it. Some of his prized artifacts had been smashed
and broken, their pieces laying scattered across the
floor.
He didn't really care, anymore.
Zalaria was still up on the Grand Crusader, and he was waiting for her to return before he
turned in for the night. It was getting late, though, and he was tired - not
physically so much as mentally. He was always tired that way, lately.
He still couldn't figure out what she'd meant. She
hadn't really answered his questions, only given him a cryptic response that
redirected the conversation. When he'd asked her why she was helping the New
Imperium, she'd started talking about the monotony of immortal life. Did she
mean that she was helping them merely out of boredom? That she'd switched sides
to make things interesting, to simply give her something to do?
He did know that his wife's love towards him was
genuine. He'd felt it on more than one occasion, and knew that those emotions
couldn't simply be faked. He trusted her again, and that made things feel just
a little more right. So, perhaps she was simply exploiting the NI for the sake
of having some fun, but Xar had no doubt that their relationship was real. For
whatever reason, she had decided to marry him, and that was something he had to
cherish and appreciate.
On the other hand, perhaps her alliance with the NI
had been part of some brilliant scheme of hers to assume control over the
entire Altarin'Dakor. The problem with that theory was that she couldn't have
known what the outcome of Nimrod's attack would be. And according to their son,
it had originally ended very badly for Xar. If Zalaria had retaliated by
killing Nimrod, then she might still have taken control and fought the AD off
later. But that reinforced Xar's opinion that he didn't really matter in this
conflict, anymore. It had grown beyond him, by this point.
Either way, Zalaria had taken on a very risky
strategy, yet one that appeared to be paying off. If she truly did have command
of all of Nimrod's forces, then she might be the most powerful Shok'Thola of all right now. But he
wasn't so sure she was as in full command as she claimed. If she wasn't in the
AD galaxy, how did she know what was going on there? And how much harder would
it be for her to command them?
She had sent forces to try and cross the Galactic Gate
into the AD galaxy and retrieve more of her forces, as well as Nimrod's. But he
had his doubts as to whether they would be successful. What if word had spread
about Zalaria's defection? What if her forces couldn't cross the gate? If so,
then the NI was still in trouble if they had to face the full might of another
Warlord's fleet.
There were still five of Nimrod's Titans that were
unaccounted for, as well. Those ships had attacked Tralaria, and as soon as
their Shok'Thola's death was reported
they had fled, refusing to answer to Zalaria's call or assumption of command.
They had been branded traitors, and hopefully the commanders would be
overthrown by their subordinates and they would return to the fold. Otherwise,
an AD fleet without a leader was ripe pickings for whatever Shok'Thola decided to scoop them up.
One way or another, those fleets would fall in line.
Either they would surrender, and face punishment, or they would be hunted down
and wiped out to the last man, like the cowardly traitors that they were.
Still, another thing Zalaria had said bothered him,
that even the relentless monotony of her life was the lesser of two evils. She
had implied that it was the Entity itself that was the problem, that her link
with it was a double-edged sword - the source of eternal life for her, but at
the same time, the source of eternal torment. Was it really driving the Shok'Thola to destroy everything? How
much influence did it have on Zalaria, on her decisions and actions? He didn't
understand the nature of that relationship at all.
Suddenly his door chimed.
He immediately knew it wasn't his wife, because she
would have just entered. He activated the screen on his desk, the image showing
a view of the hallway outside his quarters.
Nadia Ispen was out there, standing guard to his
quarters, even though he hadn’t asked her to. He didn’t understand why the
woman was so fixated on protecting him. He never even spoke to her, yet she
always followed him around at a safe distance like some kind of bodyguard. Like he needed one, anymore.
"What is it?" he called, pressing the talk
button.
“You have a
visitor, sir,” Nadia said, looking up at the camera, though she wouldn't be
able to see him in return.
“Not tonight, Nadia. It’s late.” He was in no mood for
entertaining right now.
Another figure moved onto the screen, and Xar groaned
inwardly. A giant feline face glanced up at the camera. The Togorian was
hunched over, his posture unnatural.
“Sir, it’s
Akala,” Nadia said.
“Very well,” Xar said, letting him in. So far,
virtually everyone else had come and tried to cheer him up, to talk him into
returning to his duties. Xar's wife had tried, and so had Icis. Walt Amason had
sent him a concerned message, and the Diktat himself had given him a call. He
was surprised that Rynn Mariel or Bren hadn't come, but they were probably as
devastated as he was. Maybe they had finally given up on him. He hoped so.
The only person who truly seemed not to
care was Alyx. They hadn't communicated at all since the attack. Xar would have
to deal with him, eventually.
For now, it was Akala’s turn. The door opened, and the
Togorian Adept ducked sideways to enter.
Akala still hadn’t fully recovered from his injuries
during the battle. In truth, he might never heal completely. He’d needed
implants to supplement organs that had been damaged in his fight. He'd had
shattered limbs that hadn't healed completely, even with bacta and Force
healing trances. Scars made streaks across his fierce-looking face, and he'd
gone blind in one eye, that one turned a milky white.
He was damaged, useless to Xar, now.
"Xar," Ralagos growled, moving into the
living quarters. He made no motion to sit, and Xar didn't offer him to.
"I'm sorry to see you injured like this,"
Xar offered. He knew that he should say something like that, but he was unable
to actually feel the emotion he claimed. How could Ralagos' problems compare
with Xar's? At least the Togorian could go home and live whatever kind of life
he wanted. He wasn't dead; he still had a destiny ahead.
"I will be whole enough, in time," Akala
replied. "It is you I am worried about, Xar."
"Why is that?" Xar asked,
his voice still flat, emotionless.
"You are not yourself. I know you suffered great
trauma during the battle. More than any of us. I am
concerned. I want to see the great comrade I fought with return."
Xar looked away. Seeing Ralagos reminded him too much
of Derek. The three of them had trained together often. The boy had loved this
oversized, alien feline.
"I'm fine," he said, looking back.
"I've decided to take a leave of absence. Things will get along just fine
without me. I’m not sure if the New Imperium needs me anymore. Who knows, I
might even retire."
"At this point?” Ralagos
said. “The New Imperium needs you more than ever now, Xar! The Order…”
“They don’t need me, Ralagos.”
“You're denying that there is problem,
then."
"I'm not denying anything," Xar countered sharply.
"But you have walked away from your duty, to the
people of Varnus and the New Imperium," Ralagos said. “You cannot abandon
them!”
"I don't want to hear it!" Xar shot back.
Why did everyone think they needed to fix him? What was it they wanted him to
do? Everyone just wanted to use him!
"I've given everything for my people and for the
NI!” he snarled. “And what have they given me in return? Nothing! They hate me!
I've had enough, Akala!"
He could see the pain in his friend’s eyes. "Xar!” Akala exclaimed. “Something is wrong with you! You've
changed – can't you see it? You cannot bring Derek back. You have to accept
that and move on!"
Something snapped within Xar. How dare he mention that name? He'd ordered
everyone never to say the boy's name to him again!
"That's enough! Get out!" Xar shouted.
The Togorian looked as though Xar had just punched him
in the face. His expression became darker, even more fierce.
"Very well," he growled. He turned and started for the door. Just as
it opened in front of him, Xar called out, stopping him. He turned back.
Xar simply stared sadly at him. “Go home, Ralagos. I
don’t need you anymore, and neither does the NI.”
Akala's good eye narrowed,
and Xar thought he heard a rumbling deep in his throat. "I am sorry for
what has happened to you. You were a good friend. I hope you find your
peace."
"Goodbye, Akala," Xar said.
After the Togorian left, Xar checked the time. It was
well after midnight. He wasn't going to wait up any longer for his wife. The
sense of tiredness had sunk deep into his bones, now. Better to let sleep wash
away the pain of living, and the memories.
He went to the refresher and took a quick shower, then
changed into his sleeping attire. Then he shut the lights down and finally lay
down in bed, simply hoping for peace, and the bliss of sleep.
He lay back against the pillow, the thin sheet
covering him to the waist. His mind was still going too quickly, however. He
knew that somewhere, deep inside, he felt guilty for the way he'd treated
Akala. It wasn't right, he knew. But he couldn't bring himself to care enough
to do anything about it. Akala was simply one more friend he'd alienated. It
was better this way, better than letting them get close, where their inevitable
deaths would take an even further toll on Xar's battered soul.
Besides, they all wanted something out of him. That
was the bane of being a ruler - of a government, a planet, or anything. People
wanted to use you. Their stayed around you, acting as though
they were your friend, but ultimately they expected you to do something for
them in return.
The people of the NI were all like that. They wanted
him to lead them, to save them. But they simply took and took, and now Xar had
nothing left to give. All those around him had ultimately failed him, proving
useless in the end. Why should he take their advice? Why should he subject
himself to them and their expectations anymore?
No, Xar realized; there was no one he trusted anymore.
No one he cared for.
He hated them all.
The room was dark and still around him. Quiet. He
closed his eyes, and though sleep finally came, it was not the peace that he
had sought.
Dreams came, dreams in which he struggled against an
unknown foe, and all his friends turned out to be dopplegangers that tried to
kill him. He fled from them all, a conspiracy of agents that simply wanted to
use him, to experiment on him, to turn him to their cause.
He awoke from that dream, then after that, the real
nightmares came. He relived the torture he'd received under Kronos,
and the terror of running from Nimrod in his dark fortress. He experienced
again his training under Dark Jedi Master Runis, from the time he'd first
awoken on his black ship, the Nightmare.
In his dreams, he stood before Runis again, in that
room on his ship, at that final moment when they'd struggled, when Xar had
finally managed to kill his master. He relived the agonizing pain of Runis'
assault, his body held in place, immobile, fire running through his veins and
the breath being squeezed out of him.
He raised Runis' lightsaber overhead, just as before,
twisting it in his hands, willing that spike at the end to come out and embed
itself in his master's chest.
Only this time, nothing happened. The lightsaber refused
to move, its sharp spines simply cutting into his hands. Runis' attacks
continued, escalating, the torment driving Xar into the darkness, all the while
his master's evil laugh echoing in his ears.
I will always be
a part of you, Runis' voice echoed in his mind.
A
sudden noise awoke Xar with a start. He tossed the sheets off his body. He
glanced beside him, where his wife lay, his commotion
beginning to stir her. Her warm presence reassured him. It was only a dream.
Suddenly in the dim light he caught motion out of the
corner of his eye. Something felt very wrong. He looked down towards the foot
of the bed.
There was someone in the room. A black-robed figure
stood there, still and unmoving. Suddenly the figure’s hood flew back on its
own accord, revealing an aged face, white hair and beard. The figure grinned,
revealing a row of stark white teeth. It was his old master.
“Welcome,” Runis grinned, eyes flaring wide. “Welcome
to the madness!”
Then he turned and walked into the next room.
Xar screamed.
Zalaria sat up next to him in her shift, the sheets
falling down to her waist. "What is it, Xar?" she exclaimed.
Xar’s eyes were still rooted to the place
where the dark figure had stood. He couldn’t look away, even though there was
no sign of him anymore. All was quiet.
“Xar?” he heard his wife say.
"Didn’t you see him? Couldn’t you feel him here?”
Xar asked, finally turning to look at her.
“Who?” she asked, her face concerned.
“Runis!” Xar
said, hopping out of bed. “He was here! I saw him!” The fact that she hadn't
woken before clearly meant she hadn't sensed Xar's old master. He grabbed his
lightsaber off the table nearby and ignited it, moving into the room Runis had
vanished into.
"Xar!" Zalaria
called.
Orange-yellow light bathed the furniture in Xar's
sitting room. On the other side of the room was a door that led into his
office, but the door was firmly closed, the keypad clearly glowing red in
lockdown mode. There was no sign of Runis. He was gone.
There was simply no one there.
* * *
Planet
Tritonia
1450
Hours
The figure strode along the dark, empty streets, the hood
of his cloak pulled up, the rain softly pelting the fabric and running down in
thin streams. Empty buildings towered all around him, their shattered windows
gaping out at him like soulless eyes.
Lightning flashed high overhead, merely
illuminating the thick layer of clouds that hung only a few hundred meters
above the ground. There was no thunder to be heard – the flashes were higher
up, far from the surface. A thin misting of rain slowly fell onto the dark
streets. It was still daylight somewhere up there, the
day still far from over, but the sun hadn’t been seen here in months, perhaps
even years. The perpetual layer of clouds surrounding the planet effectively
plunged it into an endless night.
This was the figure’s second visit to the
planet Tritonia. It was the second time he’d come here in search for someone.
And again, he’d been inexplicably drawn here, knowing this was where his quarry
would be found. It was as if they had some connection, the two of them, one
that spanned both space and time. He wouldn’t be surprised.
The planet was empty. A
dead world. Its population had vanished millennia before, leaving
everything standing as though they would return at any moment to continue their
lives. But the world was run-down, now. Nothing of value seemed left intact.
Trash lay in heaps on the sidewalks. The entrances to the buildings around him
stood open, beckoning, yet promising only more emptiness amongst the darkness
inside.
Yet there was something alive. He could
feel their eyes on him, watching from the blackened interiors of the buildings,
the alleyways. He didn’t know if they were intelligent remnants of the
population, turned into scavengers and cannibals, or whether it was simply some
kind of feral animal out there, tracking him and waiting to make its next kill.
Lasitus didn’t care. Whatever it was
inside, they were no match for him. And so they kept their distance.
He turned into one alleyway, uncannily
knowing where he was going even though he’d never visited this area before. At the far end of the narrow passageway stood a figure, similarly
cloaked in black, face obscured by the rain.
“Who are you?” The words, spoken in
Altarin’Dakor, echoed their way along the walls of the alley before reaching
Lasitus.
As the distance closed between them, the
figure threw back his hood, revealing a long-haired man, his face heavily
tattooed with black markings. Lasitus could sense that he was quite strong in
the Power, probably marking him as one of his master’s top Jedicon, this close to his domain.
“I am here to speak with Akargan,” he
said.
The Jedicon’s eyes widened at the mention
of that name. Nevertheless, he placed a hand on the hilt of his lightsaber,
clearly determined not to let him pass. “Outsiders are not welcome. Turn back
or you will be destroyed.”
Lasitus was in no mood for games. “You
can feel my power,” he told the Jedicon, standing his ground. “You know that I
could kill you if I wanted to. But I am not here to fight. What is your name?”
“I am Naguis’Dakor
Moyabi,” came the reply.
“Well then, Moyabi. Take me to your
master.”
The
Jedicon seemed to consider for a moment. The rain kept pouring all around them,
down onto the streets, its drone filling the silence.
“And who are you?” Moyabi finally asked.
Lasitus smiled, then. “An old acquaintance
of your master,” he replied. “My name is Lasitus.”
The Naguis’Dakor known
as Moyabi led Lasitus through the streets, eventually coming up to a massive duracrete
structure, spanning what must have been at least a dozen city blocks. Its walls
were a hundred meters high and filled the whole view at the end of the street
as they neared. Every visible entrance and window in the structure was sealed
from the outside with metal plates. But as one of the entranceways opened up
and Moyabi took him inside, all thought that the place was abandoned left his
mind.
Ducking inside, Lasitus realized that this was where Akargan had set his base.
The walls and floors were made of dark polished stone, though the whole
interior was dimly lit, giving it a dark, almost eerie feel. Uniformed personnel
moved through the corridors, with every entrance and crossway guarded by groups
of shock troops and Jedicon.
However, at second glance Lasitus realized this wasn’t
a fortress, but a palace. Though the windows were sealed, he could see that on the
inside, ornate stained glass windows marked strange-looking, historical events.
Tapestries hung from the walls, depicting battle scenes of what looked like
stone and iron-age type engagements. Massive golden chandeliers hung down from
the vaunted ceilings, their surfaces tarnished, as if hastily cleaned after
millennia of disuse. Their glowlamps, however, worked perfectly, casting a
greenish hue throughout the chambers they passed through.
Before long, Moyabi had taken him deep into the
palace, and they eventually emerged into a gigantic domed chamber. Overhead,
predominantly green stained glass filled the overhead dome. More chandeliers
hung down, and the walls were covered in banners, ancient weaponry, and the
heads of exotic game animals.
Jedicon stood at the walls, ringing the entire
circumference of the chamber, each of them striking and unique in appearance.
Chiming music wafted through the eroom, evoking the air of a temple or place of
meditation.
In the center of the chamber lay a man, lounging on a
plush, red-padded couch, which sat on a raised dais covered with thick red
floor tapestries. Women surrounded him, lounging in smaller couches on all
sides, most of them unclad, wearing nothing but ornate jewelry that sparkled in
the light. They were flawless and buxom, perfect physical specimens. Lasitus
avoided looking at them; he could not let himself become distracted if he
wanted to live through this meeting.
So, this was the Warlord’s court.
Akargan wore a cloak made of a myriad of animals' fur.
Tails, limbs and heads hung from it around the edges, though Lasitus couldn’t
guess how many creatures it was comprised of. Two feral wolf-like heads hung
over his shoulders, one on each side.
The Warlord himself looked exactly like Lasitus
remembered from their last meeting. Akargan had long, black hair that fell in
curls to his shoulders. A neatly-trimmed mustache and beard worked its way
around his mouth in perfect symmetry, ending in a point on the tip of his chin.
Muscles rippled down his arms and across his bare chest, too large even for a
man of his size. Such physical perfection was not naturally obtained, Lasitus
knew.
Moyabi stopped them a good fifteen paces from the
Shok’Thola. What had been the rustle of whispered conversations had all died
out. All attention in the room was on Lasitus, now.
Akargan, still seated, studied him for a moment, and
Lasitus nearly withered under that ancient gaze. Those were not the eyes of a
human, anymore. It felt as though Akargan could decipher every hidden motive in
Lasitus' heart by simply looking at him. The Warlord held a golden goblet
filled with a dark liquid, and he took a slow, measured sip before deigning to
speak.
“Why have you come here, brother?” Akargan asked
finally, the last word coming out as a snarl. He somehow made the word sound
like a curse. His deep voice echoed off the walls of the massive chamber. “The
time to ally yourself to my cause, to rise into my
favor as a Jedicon warrior, has long passed.”
“Why here, Akargan?” Lasitus, trying to buy time. “Why make your base on this
remote, dead world?”
Akargan’s eyes narrowed. “Ah, but of course. You were
captured long before. You were unable to rise high
enough to be rewarded with the chance to come to this world, to enjoy its many…
pleasures. This world was the regional capital for the Shok’Thola that we both
served. Our master, Mateus.”
Lasitus took another look around. This time he saw
what lay behind the hanging banners and animal heads, noticing the carved stone
statues and gargoyles protruding from the walls. In fact, the huge columns that
rose up at different intervals, holding up the dome itself, were statues of a
cloaked otherworldly figure. Lasitus recognized the carvings on the friezes and
walls, and it suddenly came back to him. Yes, this place had belonged to
Mateus. The image of his old master came back, as sharp as if it had never left,
and memories of the terror that face had inspired.
Akargan smiled at his recognition. “This was his
palace, central place of worship for this entire world. Naturally, when he died,
he took them with him, and turned this world into what it is today. A
biological virus, designed to be released upon the moment of his untimely
demise, mutated all its inhabitants into mindless animals, desiring only the
taste for flesh – and of each other, of course. There are still some remnants
left, descendents of the originals. Go into some of the abandoned buildings and
you might find them.” He grinned, as though he’d just delivered the punch-line
of a grand joke.
“But you did not answer my original question, Lasitus.
Why have you come here?”
Lasitus looked down. He didn’t know what else to say,
other than the truth. “I needed to come here. I have done… terrible things.”
Images flashed through his mind. The people that he had
killed, recently. The boy whose death was his fault,
and the man who’d loved him, and the look in his eyes that said that his world
had been shattered forever.
“Yes. I can see that you have, brother.” Akargan’s
voice was low, considering. “I can feel the guilt emanating from your
soul." He smiled. "So, your true self has returned. Acknowledge now,
Lasitus, the truth. Admit to me that you are a killer at heart.”
There was no way Lasitus could deny it. The man who
had called himself Bren was no more. He had died at the same instant that Derek
had. He could only nod his acceptance of what he already knew to be true. There
was no going back, now.
“I am impressed.” Akargan’s voice held what Lasitus
would have called respect if he had dared. “I did not think you would accept
your fate.”
“A lot has changed,” Lasitus said, forcing himself to look back up. “But that is why I have come to
you. You were my closest companion. I’ve lost everyone else, Akargan. Let me
stay with you. The New Imperium holds nothing for me anymore. If there’s any
good that I can do, then I know this is where I need to be.”
“Why would I need you?” Akargan’s eyes bored through
him, calculating him like an equation, one that he was quickly about to solve.
"Perhaps I should kill you instead."
The threat did not carry the weight it once might
have. Lasitus had little to live for, now. Shaking his head, he clenched his
fists and continued. “A lot of bloodshed has occurred, on both sides. Several Shok’Thola are dead.” He gazed into the
eyes of his onetime friend. “There was a time that you valued my advice. If you
would do so again, then listen to what I have to say. Because
I don’t want you to suffer the same fate.”
“You? Fear for me?” Akargan said mirthfully.
“Soon enough I will become the greatest of all Shok'Thola!”
“Reconsider this path,” Lasitus argued. “I urge you.
You could still lose.”
“I am the master now, Lasitus,” the Warlord intoned,
raising a finger. “While you slept I conquered empires for a thousand
generations. Not only is this the only way, it is the way that gives me life.
To live – to truly live, Lasitus – you must destroy others. Only the strong are
worthy to survive. To try and protect the weak will only end in destruction for
all. You know this. It is too late to try and change me, my friend.”
“Akargan, I…”
“Enough.” Akargan waved him off. “Save your
breath, Lasitus. I know why you are really here. If you wish to plead for your
petty New Imperium, don’t bother. I have no intentions of attacking it.”
Lasitus blinked in surprise.
“It is an insignificant speck, Lasitus. It comprises
less than one thousandth of the galaxy’s breadth. And yet, a number of Shok’Thola have
managed to mark their graves there. I will not follow in their footsteps.” He
leaned back in his seat. “I will bypass it entirely and directly assault the
Core. Once the rest of the galaxy is mine, I will return and offer them a
truce. Perhaps I will even make their leader a regent, and give them complete
autonomy over their systems.”
Lasitus struggled to process all this. It was a far
cry from what he’d expected. “That’s… very generous,” he admitted. “But if
you’re going to do that, then why must you conquer the rest of the galaxy? Many
innocents will die. Instead, why not carve out an empire for yourself in the
Unknown Regions? Their hyperspace routes are of no hindrance to our technology.
You can have an empire large enough for any emperor.”
“You do not understand what it means to be Shok’Thola,” Akargan snorted. “There can
never be enough. This galaxy will be mine, and mine alone. And then I shall
conquer new galaxies. That is my sole desire. And it also happens to be the
order that was given by Altima, and it is he who is our true master, now. Yours and mine.”
He inclined his head as Lasitus’ eyes went wide. “So,
you have heard of him, I see. Then I will reveal to you a secret, something
that Altima told me, personally.” He leaned forward, his voice barely above a
whisper. “In the end, there will only be one Shok’Thola. Altima has said it. There will be one Shok’Thola, one supreme ruler, subject
only to Altima himself. We have been culled, to separate the weak. One day, very
soon, I will be the sole Shok’Thola,
and I will eliminate all the others to obtain that position.”
He leaned back again, a smirk coming to
his features. “I always thought that the Spearhead competition was simply a
ruse. Kronos was not powerful enough. Then, after his demise and when Nimrod
took command in front of Altima, I feared all was lost. However, fortune has
smiled on me. Now, thanks to your friends, only one other Shok’Thola really stands in my way. He has been giving me much
trouble, pestering me like a thorn in my skin, always on the brink of an all-out
feud. His name is Strife.”
Lasitus mentally recounted everything he
knew about that particular Warlord. There wasn’t much. He knew that Strife was
considered one of the most powerful Shok’Thola.
“There will be a confrontation between
us,” Akargan declared. “It cannot wait until we have taken most of this galaxy.
I will see it ended here. If you wish to help me, then my question is this,
brother: will you fight against Strife for me?”
Lasitus thought for a moment, but there
was really nothing to consider. He had told Akargan the truth; he had nowhere
else to go but here. Now, somehow, it felt right that he should be by the side
of his old friend and companion. Even though that companion
had risen far beyond his own position. Lasitus knew that he was a living
weapon, bred for war. He had denied it, had run from his purpose for a long
time. But it was time for that weapon to be unleashed once again. And if it was
against another Warlord, then he had little compunction about doing what was
necessary to stop what constituted a major threat to the galaxy.
He nodded. “I will help you fight him,
Akargan. If that is what it takes in order for me to stay, to earn your trust
again, then I will do it.”
“That is what I demand,” Akargan agreed.
“But as for trust, we shall see. I have already shown you a gesture of
goodwill. My forces could have destroyed you as soon as you arrived in the
system, but I bade them spare your life because I wanted to speak with you
again.”
“What forces?” Lasitus asked.
Akargan smiled. “I have four Titans in
orbit, cloaked. They are more than enough to eliminate your New Imperium should
I have desired it. Instead, I will pit my forces against those of Strife, and
we shall determine once and for all who is the true master of
war.”
* * *
Titan-class
Battleship Eternity
1000
Hours
Maarek Stele awoke, dressed and freshened up, then walked
out of his bungalow into the bright morning sunshine. The air was crisp and
cool, and he took a few deep breaths, savoring it.
Most of the other residents were already
out and about by this time. Identical flats made a line of buildings on either
side of his, and in front of them was a large common area, with places to
relax, eat, and generally avoid the rigors of everyday life. Several grassy
parks were spaced around the area, divided by a small stream that ran through
the middle of it all.
Above his head floated a deep azure sky,
devoid of any clouds this morning. The sun’s rays shone strongly over the peaks
of the tall mountains, rising like a wall in the east. At this hour, beings of
various species milled about, almost all of them unknown to Maarek. Even the
humans looked different. They had strangely colored hair, were often very lithe
and fair-skinned, and just generally beautiful.
In fact, the whole place was beautiful.
Slowly he made his way over to the railing
overlooking the stream in front of his bungalow, then took hold of it and
closed his eyes. He could only make it a few steps before having to pause and
wait for the dizziness to fade. Looking at the sky and the mountains had
brought on a particularly nasty bout of nausea, and he was glad that he hadn’t
had any breakfast yet.
He’d slept through the trip here,
blissfully unaware that he was traveling on a small ship, thanks to that
Jedicon woman and her powers. It was welcome, though; Maarek knew that he could
never have survived the trip if he’d been conscious. Now here, wherever here
was, he was at least able to get around like on Varnus. But with each passing
day the reality of his situation sunk in even more. This vertigo wasn’t going
away.
As the dizziness faded, he opened his eyes
and looked around again. Smells wafting from one of the nearby restaurants made
his stomach want to growl. So far, the blue-haired Jedicon named Alona had come
to check on him each day. She brought him breakfast, and watched him eat it at
one of the tables on a nearby patio. They would chat, however he was never able
to get her past random chitchat. She kept saying that he would have to wait for
Victor to arrive before she would have permission to speak at length. Maarek
didn’t mind so much, though. She was nice enough to look at that he couldn’t
think of much to speak about, anyway.
He’d been here only a few days, but he
hadn’t ventured outside of this small community. He figured it was at least a
kilometer square, and being that even walking small distances took forever and
brought on fits of nausea, he hadn’t been feeling too adventurous. So he waited
for Victor, spending time in his bungalow, watching holovids in a language he
couldn’t understand. He’d asked Alona what planet they were on, knowing that
he’d never been here before. She’d simply smiled and told them that this was
actually something called a Envirodeck.
That was when Maarek had realized the
truth. They were not on a planet. They were, actually, on a ship, a Titan-class
Battleship to be exact. A ship called the Eternity.
It was only the second Titan he’d ever
been on, and his time on the Nexus had
been short-lived, anyway. After pressing Alona, he’d finally convinced her to
show him a picture of what this Titan looked like from the outside.
This was a ship unlike anything he’d ever
known.
The Eternity
was fifty-five kilometers in length, made of sparking white metal. The front
was wider, shaped like a fan, tapering down at the center before spreading out
again at the massive engines. The Envirodeck, this entire kilometer-square
area, made to simulate the pleasure world Tiroeno, was just a small speck in
respect to the whole bulk of the ship, and was itself one of several different
Envirodecks. This was unequivocally the largest ship he’d ever been on, or
would probably ever be.
He wondered what was keeping Alona today.
He had come to look forward to their quiet breakfasts with quite a bit of
anticipation. But this morning she was nowhere to be found.
After a moment, he glimpsed a hint of white
out of the corner of his eye, and turned – very slowly – to see who was
approaching. However, when the cloaked figure came onto the patio where Maarek
stood and threw back the hood of her white robes, Maarek saw that it wasn’t
Alona who had come to see him today. But it was someone just as beautiful.
This Jedicon looked like the polar
opposite of Alona, in fact. Her hair was a fiery red, almost orange in its
brightness. Her face was more round, a bit more
tanned. Big brown eyes peered out at him, full of intrigue. And unlike Alona’s
elegant cheek designs, this one’s tattoos were simply a pair of dark lines
stretching up diagonally from her left eyebrow, moving up to her hairline. If
anything, it actually enhanced her beauty even further.
“Victor has returned. I will take you to
him now,” she said, coming to a stop in front of him.
“And who are you?” Maarek asked.
“My name is Chele. I am Naguis’Dakor.”
“I… see.” The name meant she was a
Jedicon, of the same rank as Alona. “Where’s Alona?” he asked.
“She is performing other duties. Please,
come with me.”
“I can’t move too quickly,” he said
reluctantly. He was getting a bit more used to admitting his problem, however.
“You’ll have to bear with me.”
“I am fully aware of your situation,” she
said, her mouth quirking into a smile. “Take your time. There will be a vehicle
waiting outside to take us there.”
With little option or even reason to
delay, Maarek simply nodded and began to follow her out. He had no idea where
they were going, or how to exit the Envirodeck. However, when they approached
the interior of a building that Maarek had never been in before, the doors
opened not to reveal a foyer or a dining hall, but instead, the cold steel
corridor of a ship, uniformed officers passing by in either direction.
They were inside the Titan, now.
Slowly, Maarek made his way into the chamber, flanked by
the Jedicon known as Chele.
The atmosphere in the room immediately
felt different. On the way here, they’d ridden a hovering vehicle through
kilometers of corridors, passing innumerable personnel and other vehicles, but
it had all felt like the normal everyday bustle of activity onboard a massive
starship. But this felt different, unlike a ship at all. Despite the glow of
display panels and control stations spread throughout the chamber, it felt more
like a throne room than a ship.
A raised dais ten meters in diameter was
the room’s centerpiece. Blue and purple tapestries hung down walls that
extended far above, a pure white light seeming to fill the entire ceiling
space. The floor and walls were polished white, and the tapestries themselves
looked like royal crests that he’d seen on other worlds.
There were no visible guards. Instead, elegantly-dressed
delegates of what must have been the epitome of beauty for their races stood at
attention along the walls. In between them were white-robed Jedicon, both males
and females, absent any kind of armor but with prominent lightsabers resting at
their belts. He recognized Alona immediately, his eye drawn to the azure hair
streaking down to her shoulders. She met his gaze, but made no other gesture to
indicate she recognized him.
He couldn’t focus on her for long. Facing
away from Maarek at the center of the room, standing on the dais in front of a
massive hologram of the galaxy, was a tall man dressed in royal blue robes, a
wave of shimmering white hair falling almost to shoulder level. The last time
Maarek had met him, it had been much longer, falling down his back. But as the
outline of the man’s face came into view, with his flawless skin and staggering
blue eyes, he knew this was the same man who had met him on Arcadia. He didn’t
look to have aged a day – in fact, he might have looked even younger than before,
far below Maarek in years. He was slim, yet judging from the arms extending
down from his sleeves, well-muscled and stronger than he first appeared.
Victor turned to look at Maarek and
smiled. “Welcome onboard the Eternity,
Maarek Stele.”
On the other side of Victor, two bald men dressed
in broad golden costumes bowed respectfully and turned to leave. From behind
Maarek, the Jedicon Chele moved past Maarek and took up a position slightly to
one side. Surprisingly, Alona moved to stand beside her.
“Apologies for my delay,” Victor said,
taking Maarek’s attention once again. “I trust you made yourself at home here
onboard my ship.”
Your ship? Maarek thought, halfway in disbelief. The last
time he’d met Victor, it had been in a remote palace on the planet Arcadia.
He’d had servants and even Jedicon, but in order to own a Titan, that would
mean that Victor was one of the Warlords, himself. That was preposterous,
wasn’t it? Maarek had come here on the promise to fly the Archon again, nothing
more.
“I’m honored at your invitation to come
here,” he said uncertainly. “Frankly, I never expected to hear from you again.”
“I have need of your services once more,”
Victor replied. “In your absence I continued to run tests on the Archon System,
with many pilots. Unfortunately, no one has been able to bond with the system
nearly as well as you did. It was inevitable that we would meet once more,
Maarek Stele.”
Maarek didn’t know whether he felt flattered
at the compliment, or jealous that Victor had tried to duplicate his feat with
the Archon without him. “I guess you realized you needed the best for your
tests,” he said a little testily.
Victor gave a chuckle. “Indeed. For
millennia pilots' abilities have outmatched their fighters, my friend. But now we
have made a ship that no pilot can master… Except for you,
perhaps.”
“I’m glad I made a strong impression,”
Maarek said. “I’ll be honest with you, Victor. I’m dying to fly it again. With
my condition – well, it’s the only chance I have to be flying at all.”
“Yes, I know of your injuries,” Victor
nodded, “but you sustained them obtaining a great victory. You defeated
Nimrod’s finest pilot.”
“We took each other out,” Maarek
corrected. The last thing he wanted was an unearned sense of glory for himself. He knew he was good, but there were others out
there, too. He’d be dead if not for Rann and the others. If he was really good,
he should have saved them, too. “I was just lucky enough to survive bailing
out.”
Victor pursed his lips. “I see.” His gaze
bored through Maarek, making him uncomfortable. It felt like those eyes could
see right through him.
Maarek opened his mouth again before the
situation became even more awkward. “Look, Victor, I just want to fly the Archon.
If you have a mission for me, then tell me what it is. I don’t want to waste
your time.”
Victor held up one finger. “First of all,”
he said, “you should be aware that my true name is not Victor. That was simply
an alias; the truth is that I am an Altarin’Dakor Shok’Thola. And for the last thousand generations, I have gone by
the name of Strife.”
Maarek felt his breath catch in his throat.
His limbs suddenly felt heavy, as through he couldn’t move them. He’d never
heard of a Warlord named Strife from his briefings on the AD. Could it really
be true? Here, standing in front of him, was what appeared to be a normal man,
not a legend. Such claims didn’t seem possible. He looked maybe ten years
younger than Stele himself.
But he controlled a Titan-class
Battleship. Jedicon surrounded the entire room. Maarek felt a chill; he hadn’t
put much thought into that fact until just now. Surely only a fool would make
such a claim if it wasn’t true. But everyone else in the room didn’t look
surprised at all.
Maarek took several breaths before he
could find his voice once more. “Forgive me if I say that I haven’t really
heard of you before.”
Strife smiled. “I always find it
interesting to find someone without a preconceived opinion of me. After all, I
am worshipped as a god in over a million different star systems. Yet now I have
met someone who has never heard of me at all. A truly
fascinating feeling.”
“Glad I can oblige,” Maarek quipped before
he could catch himself. He chided himself; antagonizing a Warlord definitely
wasn’t the smartest idea. Still, he hadn’t come here for hyperbole.
“Now that you know who I am, do you have
any compunctions now about working for me?” Strife
asked him.
Maarek considered that. What would
everyone in the New Imperium think? What would Salle say? Would she call him a
traitor? As long as he didn’t have to fight the NI, he could do it, right? What
would Xar…
He shook his head suddenly. What did Xar
care what he did anymore? What did the NI’s opinion matter, either? Maarek was on his own from here on. “You called me,” he said.
“I’m prepared to take that offer in good faith. For now.”
Strife smiled slightly. “Then we have a
deal. I will have your full cooperation for as long as I require it.”
Maarek nodded, with a strange feeling
almost like a door had swung closed in his head. Like he’d been walking down a
path that had split in two directions, and he’d just chosen one over the other,
and was unable to go back. He pushed the thought aside; he’d worked through all
of this before. Whatever it was he had to do, it was better than rotting
dirtside on some backwater world. Maarek knew that he had changed. He figured
that crashing through the side of a building might do that to someone. “This is
why I came all the way out here,” he said, adding, “wherever it is we are.”
“We are in the Ven’lar System,” Strife
told him. “It is here that I have been testing the latest Archon System
designs. It is a perfect staging point for all that you will be doing for me.”
Maarek digested this, and nodded slowly.
“So what do you want me to do,
besides simply fly the thing?”
“Two things, and
the first is this. On the mission you flew for me before, you struck at a
supply depot controlled by the Shok’Thola
known as Akargan,” Strife said. At Maarek’s nod, he continued. “The feud
between that Shok’Thola and myself has escalated, and I am preparing a final strike to
eliminate him once and for all. I desire your assistance in putting an end to
Akargan. Will you agree to this?”
“Who he is doesn’t make any difference for
me,” Maarek said. “Yes, I’ll fly the Archon against this guy for you. Kriff it
all, I’ll fly it anywhere you want me to. I just have one favor to ask in
return.”
Strife arched an eyebrow at him. “And what
would that be?”
“I was shot down by Jedicon pilots. They
killed my wingmen, my friends. They…” he struggled for a moment with the words.
“They messed with our heads.”
He looked up and met Strife’s eyes. “I can
use the Force; I accept that fact, now. I want to learn how to block those
blasted Jedicon so they can’t get into my mind anymore.”
A slight smile once again made its way
onto Strife’s lips. “I believe we can accommodate
that. My servants, Alona and Chele, will be more than happy to teach you anything
you want to know.”
“Just that will be fine,” Maarek said,
glancing at the women. “Nothing more. I don’t want to
use the Force any more than I have to.”
“But why?” Strife
asked him. “You are not weak in terms of potential. Why eschew the gift you’ve
been given?”
“Not everyone sees it as a gift,” Maarek
said dryly. “I’m one of those.”
“Apparently.”
Strife continued.
“What was the second thing you wanted?”
Strife smiled
again and shook his head, his white locks swaying. “I’ll save it for another
time. Let us focus on the first task for now, shall we?”
“Fine by me. When
do I begin?”
“Immediately,” came the response.
* * *
Titan-class
Battleship Grand Crusader
In
Orbit, Varnus
1300
Hours
Xar sat on the bridge of the Grand Crusader, listening to the
briefing by the New Imperium’s new War Coordinator.
He’d finally agreed to come up and see the
ship for himself. He had to admit, it was beyond anything he’d ever seen
before. At over fifty kilometers in length – far greater than any Titan he’d
ever been on – it possessed more firepower in itself than most whole fleets
combined. If a Star Destroyer was like a floating city in space, then this must
surely be the equivalent of an entire nation-state.
Surrounding him was a massive bridge
crewed by at least a couple of hundred officers. It took up three levels and
was itself as large as any of the Royal Palace’s courtyards. But this was only
one part of the whole picture.
This wasn’t, in fact, the ship’s true
command center. In truth, the ship was primarily designed to be controlled from
the meditation chamber located deep inside, from where Nimrod had commanded all
of his forces at once. The ship was essentially built around a massive Force
artifact, which augmented and expanded its user’s powers – enabling the Warlord
to accomplish feats such as reaching across the whole galaxy to communicate,
creating mass-scale realistic illusions, bolstering his entire navy’s fighting
prowess – even destroying a star.
However, despite all that power available
to them, Zalaria had admitted that she hadn’t yet figured out the nuances of
using it. So, for now, the ship would be run from this auxiliary bridge, itself
larger than any command deck Xar had ever seen. It was fully staffed by a
Zalaria-loyal Altarin’Dakor crew, in case their Nimrod counterparts decided the
NI was still the enemy, after all.
Gaius stood in front of a large holoscreen
in the room, briefing all the commanding officers on the NI’s current military
situation. While most stood off to the side, listening, Xar had chosen to sit,
taking a chair in front of a control panel by one of the bridge’s large
viewports. He watched as Gaius showed them a map of NI space that zoomed in and
out at his discretion, with icons representing individual ships or fleets
within the NI Navy, the largest ones representing the three Titans now
inhabiting the Varnus system.
He
was currently explaining mass exodus of a good portion of the former Second
Fleet, taking untold hundreds of thousands of civilians and military personnel
out of the New Imperium entirely.
Fleet Admirals Majere and Shok'fur had
taken a handful of ships - the ISDs Bismarck,
Nemesis, Serpent, Malevolence, and
Scarabaeid, the Interdictor Agemnor and the VSD Thresher, leaving the rest of their task forces intact to continue
to aid the NI. However, some reassigning of personnel had occurred, allowing
those troops who wanted to leave to do so. As a result, Majere and Shok'fur's
ships had been packed, not to mention the transports they had escorted out.
That had left the NI's ships somewhat understaffed. After all the casualties
they'd taken in the recent days of the war, the NI ships were far below full
fighting capacity.
They would have to rely more and more on the
Altarin'Dakor and their Titans as the days wore on.
“Meanwhile,” Gaius was saying, “the Diktat
has approved the restructuring of the fleet around the new Titan-class
battleships we’ve obtained. That means there will be one navy, with task forces
denoted Grand Crusader, Cataclysm,
and Ascendancy. This will keep the
task forces strong – of roughly equal strength this time – and facilitate ease
of command.”
“How are we going to get
our forces to work with these new AD?” Walt Amason spoke up.
Gaius nodded to him. “We’re currently
working on that. It’ll take some time, I know. I’m certainly open to
suggestions.”
Xar looked at the other gathered members
present, a listing of all the remaining NI commanders in the fleet. There was
Zalaria, of course, followed by Sector Admiral Stan Sanders, Field Marshall
Rodin Kaler, CEOs Amason and K’bail, Fleet Admirals Jann Percy and Tam Eulicid,
and last but not least, Grand Master Alyx Misnera, Xar’s own appointed
replacement. It was the whole War Cabinet, assembled here.
Also, quite interestingly, Icis Novitaar
was there, standing aloof from the others near the corner. Xar didn’t know how
he had come to be here – certainly neither he nor Zalaria had invited him – but
he didn’t protest his presence, either. Xar and Icis had mostly worked out
their differences, although the man still had more than his share of secrets.
That was why Xar couldn’t trust him.
Gaius cleared his throat, getting everyone’s
attention before continuing. “The Diktat wants an attack on the Mizar system,”
he said. “I’m here to discuss with you how best to tackle that plan. Our scouts
report that the system is only lightly defended at the moment and recommend we
strike soon. Any comments?”
“We should strike immediately,” Zalaria
spoke up first, her voice definitive. “The longer we wait, the most chance they
will bolster their defense.”
“What if they’re laying another trap for
us like before?” Rodin Kaler asked. “They could be waiting for us to make just
this move.”
“Whether they are or not, we cannot pass
up this opportunity,” Gaius replied before Zalaria could open her mouth. He
turned to look at her. “I fully agree that we should strike as soon as
possible. I also recommend that we hit them as hard as possible, with
everything we’ve got. Our best chance lies in an overwhelming, surprise
strike.”
Zalaria looked at him and said nothing,
but her eyes widened slightly. Xar could see that she was surprised, and the
faces of several others gathered mirrored that feeling. Gaius had been opposing
Zalaria’s taking command just a couple of weeks before, and had argued against
a fast counterattack.
“Are you sure we’re ready for that?”
Amason asked him.
“We have to be, Walt,” Gaius replied. “But
I’m concerned about our forces intermingling just as much as you are. Therefore
I am appointing a fourth, temporary task force, denoted Darkstar, which will be led by the former Intruder Wing flagship of
the same name. They will contain all our NI ships and will operate independently
under Fleet Admiral Tam Eulicid as a separate force for this particular
engagement.”
“Why shouldn’t the New Imperial vessels
formerly in the other task forces be reassigned as escorts to our Titans?”
Zalaria finally spoke up.
“Because the NI troops haven’t integrated
with the Altarin’Dakor forces yet,” Gaius explained. “Better they stay separate,
at least for this one battle. We can get an assessment of their readiness to
fight together after this.”
Zalaria looked at him for a moment, and it
looked as though she was going to protest. After all, why should they appoint a
fourth task force weaker than the others? Their effectiveness would be cut down
and would be an easy target for the enemy. The air in the room began to feel
stiff, but suddenly Zalaria shook her head and actually laughed. “Fine. Have it your way,” she said.
Xar smiled inwardly. It seemed that Gaius
was trying a new strategy. Instead of fighting with Zalaria outright, he was
agreeing with her in as much as possible, while trying to subtly steer things
in his direction. It was a good tactic, but he doubted that a 25,000 year-old Shok’Thola would fall for it. She would
run rings around his reasoning and in the end have things exactly her way.
“Aren’t you all forgetting something?”
Xar turned to look at Alyx, who had
finally chosen to enter the conversation. About time.
He was obviously not happy about this whole situation at all.
“Our forces hate the AD – including those
on this ship – and the AD hate us. And now we expect
them to fight for us? This is ridiculous! We just stopped trying to kill each
other less than a month ago!”
So. Gaius might
be trying to manipulate Zalaria, but Alyx, on the other hand, was still relying
on outright defiance. He seemed opposed to everything Zalaria had to say. The
man was so stubborn, unwilling to bend even a millimeter. Didn’t he realize
that the Jedi Order belonged to Xar? Alyx had no authority that Xar hadn’t
given him in the first place! Where was his sense of gratitude? Didn’t he
realize Xar could strip him of that authority just as easily as he’d given it?
“That is why I am placing them in a
separate task force, temporarily,” Gaius explained.
That
answer was obviously not good enough for Alyx. But there was little he could
do; this wasn’t his call. The Diktat and the War Coordinator had made up their
minds.
Gaius turned back to Zalaria. “Perhaps it
would be prudent to get an update on the status of these forces of yours. Are
they ready to fight? And will we, in fact, have reinforcements on the way if
this war continues to escalate further?”
“As for the issue of reinforcements, I can
only say that we must wait a bit longer. I have sent an honor guard back to out
home galaxy with the news of what has happened, as well as explicit
instructions. They are to send whatever forces of mine remain in our galaxy to
come here, and they are also to relay that same message to Nimrod’s fleets. How
many of them will respond is yet to be determined. Quite possibly, Nimrod’s
territories are in a state of civil war. I have yet been unable to decipher how
he used his command chamber to communicate directly with our galaxy.
“There still remain five Titans belonging
to Nimrod that fled Tralaria. I have sent a task force to hunt them down, and
as soon as they are found, I plan to act to seize or destroy those ships.
However,” she continued glancing around the room, “as to the condition of the
forces we have here – they will fight, because that is what they are ordered to
do,” Zalaria explained. “Altarin’Dakor fight each
other all the time; it has been this way for millennia. All the Shok’Thola have
fought against one another at some point. Our society is based upon the
survival of the fittest. Though it may seem an inopportune time, they will not
hesitate to fight their own kind if the command is given.”
“Yes, but what about our forces? How do we
know they won’t turn and attack us?” Kaler asked her.
“They will not attack subjugated or
integrated forces,” she explained. “As far as they are concerned, the New
Imperium is an extension of territory under my Altarin’Dakor faction.”
“What are you saying?” Amason asked. “That
they think they won the battle here?”
“Of course,” she said matter-of-factly. “In
the process of claiming all of Nimrod’s territory, I had to include the New
Imperium in that same claim. The warriors would not have understood why I
ordered a cease to hostilities otherwise. They believe that the New Imperium
surrendered to them.”
“You told them what?!” Alyx sputtered.
The room erupted into an uproar of shouts
and rebuttals. Zalaria stood above it all, her logic infallible,
explaining that the Altarin’Dakor would not have pulled back if they thought
the New Imperium was still defiant. The other commanders argued that this put
the NI in an unacceptable position – they would not put on a charade that the
NI had surrendered just to get the AD to help. Most of them were willing to start
fighting again right then and there, to preserve their sense of freedom and
independence. Couldn’t they see that there was no other way? Altarin’Dakor did not surrender. Unless all
the forces were under Zalaria’s command, they would never be able to fight
together.
Gaius finally managed to calm everyone
down, shelving the issue for a later discussion. He began to discuss the
logistics of the attack on Mizar, reviewing ship assignments and fleet strength
assessments.
Xar listened with only half an ear,
glancing out the viewport window to get his mind off the conversation. Out
there lay the other two Titans, the Cataclysm
and the Ascendancy, along with a
ragtag band of ships used to be part of the First Fleet. Among them was the ISD
Stormwatch, the flagship of the NI
Jedi Division, a customized Imperator-class Star Destroyer that Xar had
purchased from Kuat Drive Yards himself using funds from the royal treasury.
He'd been proud of that ship, of her upgrades and achievements. He'd been
impressed by her size and firepower. Now, next to the Grand Crusader and the others, she was no more than a speck of dust.
Small. Insignificant.
It was a microcosm of the relationship
between the New Imperium and their Altarin’Dakor allies, now. Like it or not,
the New Imperium they had known was gone for good.
He started to turn from the viewport
when suddenly he froze in shock. In its reflection – right behind where he was
sitting – was a man’s face, heavily scarred, framed by unkempt, long hair
falling down the sides of his head.
There was no mistaking the identity of
that visage. It was the face of Dasok Krun. Xar
started, turning away to stare at the space beside him, where he’s seen Krun.
There was no one there.
The conversation had died down. Xar
realized everyone was looking at him.
“Xar? Are you
feeling okay?” Zalaria asked.
“I’m fine,” he lied.
She didn’t look so sure. Everyone else
turned back to their conversation except her and Icis, the latter of whom was
watching him with a curious expression on his face. It made Xar feel
uncomfortable.
So now he was seeing Dasok Krun’s face. He
already seen Runis twice more, in fleeting glances
inside the palace, only to discover that he wasn’t really there, of course. Now
Dasok Krun was visiting him too? What was next, Kronos appearing out of thin
air and trying to kill him?
Was Xar going insane? If
so, why now, after all this time?
“We should send all four task forces to
the third planet, the one called Arcadia,” Stan was saying in the meantime.
“That is the only target of strategic value, and the only one the Altarin’Dakor
are likely to contend.”
“Agreed,” Gaius said, nodding. “If we
strike fast and hard – and there are no hidden reinforcements as Walt pointed
out – we can take the system. Kaler, what about a ground assault? Can we hold
the planet?”
“It depends again on the integration of
our forces,” the Field Marshall answered. “There are millions of AD troops at
our disposal. Meanwhile, we lost most of our men in the First and Second
Fleets, but I have supplemented with fresh troops from the Kolath and Tralaria
garrisons. Those haven’t seen combat against the AD yet, so that might work out.”
Gaius turned to Misnera. “And what about our Jedi forces? I would like to use them as
elite strike teams on key targets on the surface.”
“The Jedi will not be participating in
this battle,” Alyx said.
The room suddenly went quiet.
“Nimrod’s Jedicon had to be eliminated,”
Zalaria said, keeping her voice soft. “My forces were virtually wiped out. We
have no Force users without the Division, and the enemy will certainly have a
large number of Jedicon at their disposal.”
“I
said we’re not going anywhere. There’s hardly a Division left at all, people. We
have plenty of things that need taking care of first. One of those is the
assistance of the people of Varnus and rebuilding the devastation that has
happened. This battle is not the Division’s first priority.”
Xar could take it no longer. He thrust
himself out of his seat and took several steps towards Misnera.
“What makes you think you can just opt the Jedi out of this war?” he demanded.
Alyx rounded on him angrily. “Since when
do the Jedi pander to dictators?” he countered.
Xar waved him off. “Quit acting like a
child, Alyx! Zalaria has thousands of years more experience than you. What
makes you think you know better? Maybe she’s right and you’re wrong for once!”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Maybe I’m just
the only one not deluded by her and her crazy claims.”
Anger threatened to explode out of him,
but Xar held it in. Alyx was insulting his wife! He wouldn’t stand for this
kind of attitude. The man’s delusions of grandeur had to be stopped.
“Either way, you can’t order the whole
Division to stay out,” Xar said darkly. “That’s not your call. The decision is mine.”
“You waved your right to make the decision
when you stepped out on the Division,” Alyx shot back defiantly. “Where were
you when we needed you? It’s too late to come back now.”
Xar clenched his fists and took a deep
breath, but turned away. He had been
absent. He should never have let this poor excuse for a Jedi Master take command. He should never have promoted him in the first
place. He glanced back at the delusional man.
Alyx was still speaking, to the others,
this time. “Have you all lost your minds?” he demanded. “Do you really think
this is going to help the NI? Do you really believe that all these warriors
we’ve been fighting are going to just suddenly flip around and fight their own
people?” He raised a finger and spun it around as if to emphasize the point.
“Do you think they’re going to just abandon their precious ‘Return’, just like
that?”
Suddenly the anger in Xar’s head spiked.
Pure rage overwhelmed him, fury at the man in front of him who had tried to
take the Division away from him, to destroy the Jedi and, by doing so, his own people.
Xar launched himself forward like a
rocket. In an instant, he was on top of the other Grand Master.
He drove Misnera to the floor under his
weight, his hands at the man’s throat, squeezing and shaking him as hard as he
could. He wouldn’t let it happen again! Varnus was his world, its people his
people! This cretin in front of him wanted to destroy everything! He squeezed harder, trying to choke the life out the
man underneath him.
“No!” he shouted. “I won’t let you kill
them again!”
“Get him off me!” Alyx shouted beneath
him, gasping for air. “He’s crazy!”
A
second later half a dozen hands grabbed at Xar, trying to pull him away. Xar
struggled with them, gripping the man below with all his might, but he couldn’t
seem to make his hands move. His arms weren’t responding right, and his
thoughts started to drift. He felt Gaius’ arms going around his head, pulling
him up and off of Misnera. Finally his grip slipped away, and he fell back.
For a moment, he had seen Dasok Krun’s face on the man he’d been choking.
“No!” Xar shouted, thrusting his arms out,
pushing the bodies around him away. “Get away!”
Then sudden, stabbing pain spiked in his brain,
and he threw his hands up to hold his head.
“Xar!” he heard a whole group of people
say. He felt himself pitching forward, saw the deck plates rising up to meet
him, just before everything went black.
* * *
Detention
Center
NI
Senate Complex, Tralaria
1800
Hours
Gene Rytor stepped into the
detention cell and stared down at the man inside. Queklain stood up as he
entered, a force field providing a blue curtain separating him from his captors.
At Rytor’s nod, the two guards in the room filed out, closing the door behind
them. He’d also ordered them to switch off the room’s holocams. The men holding
Queklain were all hand-picked by the Diktat himself, and fully understood the
gravity of the situation.
They could not run the risk of a trial or
give the prisoner any opportunity to escape. The Null Sphere had been housed in
the cell directly above this one, overlapping both with its Force-canceling
field. But Rytor was taking no chances. He had come to deal with this Warlord,
and get some answers.
“I have some questions for you,” he began,
crossing his arms and staring at the man.
Queklain simply sneered at him. He said
nothing in reply.
“I’m not going to torture you,” Rytor
said. “I doubt it would do any good. Why don’t we be civilized and chat for a
while instead?”
Again, his comments were met only by stark
silence. After staring at the Warlord for a moment, Rytor realized he wasn’t
going to get a response. Very
well then. He began to pace back and forth in front of the glowing
blue field.
“You see, I have my own contacts, even
among the Altarin’Dakor,” he continued, explaining. “No one has heard of a Shok’Thola named Queklain. The only
mention of that name is in some of the most ancient records of the original
Great War.”
He stared at the man in front of him, an
image of hate glaring back at him through the force field.
“And yet,” Rytor continued, “Here you are,
with all the powers of a Shok’Thola,
acting the part and with the same name from those legends. I don’t think you’re
an impostor.” He raised a hand to forestall any protest. “You’re very much
real. Somehow – and I don’t have any idea how – you ended up here in our time.
Now you’re acting behind the scenes, playing both sides against the middle. I’m
going to take a chance and say this: I believe that you’re acting on your own.
And I think that if we kill you here, now, none of the other Shok’Thola will ever know anything
happened at all. You are, I’m afraid, all alone.”
“You’re a fool,” Queklain finally said.
“What did you plan to achieve here?” Rytor
asked him, ignoring the man’s confident tone. “What are your plans for the New
Imperium?”
“I
will kill you very slowly, Rytor. Do you know how long I can keep a body alive
while I torture it? A very, very long time.”
Rytor brought his pacing to a halt,
reached to his waist and pulled out the blaster he had there. Then he walked
over to the wall and hit the button to deactivate the force field. Once the
wall over energy vanished, he trained his blaster straight for the Warlord’s
chest. Queklain didn’t use the moment to make an attack, something which
increased Rytor’s confidence level just another notch.
“Why don’t we put my little theory to the
test,” he offered. “You’re powerless now, I’m afraid.”
The Warlord’s eyes narrowed. “You can’t
kill me. You know that. You’ve doomed yourself and your pathetic little empire.
You could have had everything…”
“That’s enough!” Rytor shouted. He
released the blaster’s safety and took a step forward. “I’m going to give you
one last chance. Do you have anything useful to say about your plans, or do you
just want to die here in obscurity?”
Queklain
glared at him for another long moment. But Rytor refused to budge. Suddenly he
spoke.
“What do you want to know?” he growled.
A surge of victory swelled in Rytor’s
chest. His gamble had paid off. “Tell me why you are here,” he ordered.
The man took a deep breath. He seemed to
believe Rytor, now – and that convinced him that his theory was correct. Rytor
been uncertain before, knowing that making a gamble like this could be the last
thing he ever did. But Queklain seemed genuinely afraid of Rytor’s blaster, since
the Null Sphere still in place.
“I was imprisoned a long, long time ago,”
Queklain said. “During the Great War, yes. I was freed
by your unfortunate friend known as Nico.”
Rytor nodded slowly. So he’d only emerged
recently, then. That also reinforced the notion that he was acting alone.
“What were your plans for the New
Imperium?”
The Warlord grunted. “I want what all the Shok’Thola want,
Rytor. Power. I want this galaxy for myself. Don’t
you?”
“And you actually thought the New Imperium
could win?” Rytor asked.
Queklain sneered at him. “Don’t be a fool.
The New Imperium doesn’t matter. Only chaos matters. Every Shok’Thola knows that in the end there will only be one of us.
They’ve only worked together until now because they were ordered to.”
“So the Shok’Thola eventually want to kill each
other?” Rytor asked in surprise, lowering the blaster a bit.
“Of course they do. You don’t think we
actually plan on sharing power?” Queklain shook his head. “I needed a base of
power by which I could challenge the others. Surprisingly, your little
government has been effective in halting not just one, but two major
Altarin’Dakor offensives. That’s quite impressive, Rytor. With you under my
control, why should I go and conquer some other, distant government? This was
the perfect place, a vital place, to keep our internal war from spreading
across the galaxy and alerting everyone to our presence.”
Queklain gave a snort. “In the end the New
Imperium will be destroyed, either by one of the others, or myself.
It is merely a platform, leading to the next, which will lead to the next. Until I have eliminated them all.”
“And why do you want to do that?”
“Because there can only be one ruler among
the Shok’Thola. That one will become
the Altima, the source of all power. All the others will eventually fall, to
make way for the one that will rule over everything.”
“Galaxy-wide
destruction.” Rytor shook his head. “Are you all this nihilistic? Or is
it because you were trapped in a prison for twenty-five thousand years?”
Queklain snorted. “I remember almost
nothing of my time before awaking. But I know the power I have. The others are
unaware that I even exist. It is the perfect place from which to strike at
them. What are you, Rytor? An insignificant speck. I
could have given you real power, a real meaning to live. You don’t understand
the truth; the Shok’Thola are all
that matter.”
Now Rytor understood why the Shok’Thola weren’t working together, why
each one he’d encountered had been oblivious to the schemes and machinations of
the others. Each had wanted completely different things, had totally different
goals, and was only focused on one thing – their own success. That was why the
Altarin’Dakor hadn’t already succeeded. The Warlords were ultimately fighting
each other. The galaxy was simply the setting, the prize to be won at the end.
“Well then, this should speed up the
process a little,” he said. He raised the gun, and fired.
Queklain stumbled back against the far wall
and slumped to the floor, his face a mask of shock as the smoldering crater in
his chest began to emit smoke. Rytor immediately could see that it was a fatal
blow; the wound had cauterized, destroying most of his vital organs. The
Warlord had only seconds to live.
In those final seconds, Queklain’s
expression went from one of disbelief to one of sheer horror. His eyes went
wide, his face paled, and he stared up at Rytor as if he were looking at death
itself. And at that moment, Rytor realized that both he and his quarry knew the
truth: the Warlord was not coming back after all. Rytor’s idea of using the
Null Sphere’s effect would work; this death was going to be final.
So. They’re not
immortal, after all.
“Please...” the dying Warlord began to
mouth, his voice barely a whisper.
Rytor fired again, blasting the man’s face
apart.
It was over. A Shok’Thola had fallen.
Then he felt something, a feeling of dread
like he’d never experienced before. Rytor couldn’t use the Force, but he was
sure at that moment that he felt something leave the room. And in his head
sounded a kind of ethereal scream that sent cold terror into his gut. It was
intangible, horrible, as though the creature’s soul was being dragged into a
hell he couldn’t begin to imagine.
Just as quickly, it was gone. What had
just happened?
Rytor took a moment to gather himself, to catch his breath, then calmly replaced his
blaster. He turned and left the room, trusting his men to follow orders and
dispose of the body discreetly.
He had learned something valuable, this
day. The Shok’Thola were not unbeatable. They could be killed, under the right
conditions, and he’d discovered a way to do it. Now there was one less Warlord
in play. Rytor had served Kronos first, then had been
scooped up by Queklain against his will. There was still one more Shok’Thola in New Imperium space, but
she had taken no interest in Rytor. He was confident that Zalaria didn’t know
about him.
That put Rytor in a favorable position; he
was now free of any direct Shok’Thola
influence. And that also gave him a unique chance to make a landmark decision.
He was technically no longer an Altarin’Dakor agent. He was in charge, now, the Diktat of the New Imperium. And that New
Imperium had just defeated the forces of Nimrod, the most powerful
Altarin’Dakor Warlord known, and was in a position to turn back the whole tide of
the war.
Rytor had originally joined with Kronos because he was convinced the
Altarin’Dakor were unstoppable. Now that was obviously no longer the case.
Perhaps he no longer had to work for the Altarin’Dakor at all.
He gave a momentary start. Had he just switched sides?
He would have to think on this issue quite a bit more.
* * *
Briefing
Room
Titan-class
Battleship Grand Crusader
1335
Hours
“I fear,” Icis began, “that he will eventually go insane.”
Everyone gathered in the room exchanged
worried looks. Xar pointedly avoided looking at anybody, knowing what their
gazes would undoubtedly hold. Shock. Anger. Distrust.
They all sat in the briefing room adjacent
to the Titan’s bridge area, itself as large as the bridges of some vessels. Xar
sat in a seat near the head of the long briefing table, one arm resting on top,
staring at the viewports looking out on the darkness of space. Clustered around
was most everyone else, including Icis, Zalaria, Gaius, Percy, and Amason. Alyx had stormed off the bridge as soon as they’d
stopped Xar from trying to kill him.
Xar had told them about seeing Dasok Krun.
Maybe he shouldn’t have, but he figured things couldn’t get much worse than
they were now. Better they know why to distrust him than to think he’d turned
traitor. Xar had nothing to hide. He’d let his wife do a full scan of his brain
through the Force. He’d waited as placed her hands on his head, felt a shudder
run through him as she touched him, felt her in his mind. Was that what Nico had felt, before
everything suddenly went dark?
“There is more than one person in your
mind,” she had said, finally. “I can feel parts of your mind that are closed to
me, that are clearly not your own personality or consciousness, yet are somehow
wrapped up inside you. Almost like an amalgam of different conscious entities. Like…”
She’d glanced at Novitaar. “Almost like him. But not integrated like he is.”
Now everyone was reacting to Icis’
statement with varying degrees of disbelief. Amason was the only other person
who was seated, several chairs down from Xar, looking lost in thought. Gaius
had leaned against the wall, while Percy was pacing back and forth furiously.
“Why do you say that?” Percy finally asked
Novitaar.
“Dealing with split personalities is a
serious challenge,” she replied changing the subject. “It requires careful,
specialized treatment that if he doesn’t receive could debilitate him for life.
Xar is a very powerful Force-user. He may not be able to cope with the changes
in his mind, and if he loses control the results could be disastrous.”
Xar shook his head, smirking. So now he
was too powerful for his own good, was he?
“What makes you think that’s the problem?”
Amason asked.
“Violent mood swings,” Icis answered. “Coupled with the fact that Xar’s symptoms have been getting worse
over the last year and a half. I’ve been watching – that’s my job, after
all.”
“Why didn’t you say something before this,
then?” Percy asked him.
Icis merely shrugged. “I had no concrete
evidence, no name to put to my concerns.”
“No one would have believed you,” Zalaria
said flatly.
Walt leaned towards Xar, eyeing him from
across the table. “Xar, why did you attack Alyx? What were you feeling?”
Xar said nothing. He continued to stare
ahead. He hated people talking about him like he wasn’t really there. And now they
were doing it again, trying to fix him. As though he were a
broken child’s toy.
“So what can we do to help him?” Gaius
asked.
Icis looked over at him. “He needs expert-level
help that he cannot get from us. We can support him, but I fear that his
delusions may turn him against us all, eventually.”
“He can take a leave of absence,” Percy
put in. “He can’t be expected to fulfill his duties, suffering from such a
condition.”
“Xar,” Amason said, addressing him again.
“I have some connections at one of the finest hospitals in the galaxy, on
Obroa-skai. Let me give them a call. I’m sure they can help you. You’ll be back
to normal in no time.”
Xar narrowed his eyes. So, they had
labeled him and were ready to dismiss him, to hand him over to others. They
wanted to be rid of him. Get him out of the way, so they would be in charge.
“Go, leave me alone,” he told them. “I
wish to be left alone.”
For a moment, silence filled the room.
Amason stared at him, gaping, as if struggling for something to say.
“I said go!” Xar shouted.
That was all they needed to hear. Walt
practically jumped up, and joined Percy in hastily heading for the exit. They
all started to file out, Icis included. Zalaria moved to escort them from the
room. Xar looked away. Doubtless they were afraid of him, worried he’d snap
again and attack one of them, too. They needn’t bother. Xar wasn’t concerned
with them. If they feared him, then all the better reason for them to do as he
said.
Just as they reached the door, Icis turned
to Zalaria and paused, speaking with her for a moment. Xar couldn’t make out
their whispers. After a moment, she nodded, and together they turned around and
came back.
“I said…” Xar began as they approached.
“We need to talk about this,” Zalaria
said, her voice allowing no argument about the subject. She put her hands on
her hips, and he closed his mouth. Icis walked over to stand in front of him.
“What do you know about Absorb Force
Energy?” Icis asked him.
Xar frowned, taken aback by the randomness
of the question. He knew the ability that the man was referring to – knew it
all too well. “The dark-side power? It’s terrible,
forbidden,” he said honestly.
“And how many times have you used it?”
“Just once,” Xar said. “On
Dasok Krun.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Don’t you think I would remember using it
again if I did?” Xar snapped.
Icis crossed his arms in front of him. “I
read the biography you wrote. When you mentioned the scene where you killed
Runis, it sounded a lot like what happened when you killed Dasok Krun.”
“What are you saying? That I used it on
him, too?” Xar snorted. “I suppose it’s possible. But where are you heading
with this?” He glanced at Zalaria, who was watching Icis more curiously than
Xar.
“Tell me,” Icis said, ignoring his
question. “Just now, when you flew into a rage, whose face did
you see just before that?”
“Krun’s,” he said. “I already told you.” His
patience was wearing thin. Why was he wasting his time talking about this?
“Krun was known for his anger, wasn’t he?
Now, what traits would you say Runis had?”
Xar shook his head. “What does it matter?”
“Just tell me.”
Xar threw up his hands, exasperated. “I
don’t know… Revenge, mostly. Hatred and distrust. Pure evil. Are we done here?”
Icis glanced at Zalaria, then back at him.
“And wouldn’t you say you’ve been less trusting of everyone lately?”
“What are you saying, Icis?” Xar demanded.
“That they’re both in my mind somehow?”
Icis fixed him with a level stare. “That’s
exactly what I’m saying. Or at least, a part of them is.”
Xar thought about that for a moment – or
rather, tried to, but something refused to let him brush against it. The
thought was too disturbing. How could Icis be insinuating that those two were
inside Xar’s mind somehow? Xar hated those two men more than anyone else in the
galaxy! And why only now was it making itself known?
“So if you’re so smart, tell me why this
hasn’t manifested itself before,” Xar demanded.
“Perhaps it was triggered by the traumatic
events of the past few weeks. You nearly died fighting Nimrod. Then after that, Derek’s death. Aside from all that, you’ve
been getting progressively worse, Xar. I’ve been watching, from the outside.
It’s my job, remember?” he repeated.
“I told you never to say his name again,”
Xar said darkly. That name brought all the painful memories rushing back…
“Xar, listen to reason!” Zalaria chided
him sharply. “Let the boy go and deal with the present!”
Xar
blinked in shock. “I… I can’t let him go!” he shouted.
“There’s something wrong with you! Don’t
you even care?” she demanded.
He stared at her, unable to find words to
say. “I…” he began. The anger that had been flaring up inside of him began
fading quickly away. What was happening to him?
Icis stepped closer to him, leaning a hand
down on the table beside of him. “Listen, Xar, I think that part of them is
inside of you. Maybe even part of their souls.”
“That’s impossible.” he said. “There’s no
proof.”
“Runis was cunning,” Icis countered. “He
knew of arcane powers. Maybe nobody else in the galaxy has used this ability!
How can you of all people say it’s impossible?”
“I have proof,” Zalaria’s soft voice spoke
up suddenly, cutting him off. Something in her voice made the hairs on Xar’s
arm want to stand up, and he turned to look at her askance.
She stared at him intensely. “There have
been other times, like just before, when I couldn’t recognize you, Xar. Do you
understand what that means? I could not sense you in the Force at all. I sensed someone. But it wasn’t you. And it has happened before today; this
is not the first time.” She shook her head slowly. “I never told you. Honestly,
it frightened me.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Because I didn’t
understand it. I still don’t,” she admitted.
The fading away of the anger had let a
bone-sapping tiredness creep in, and Xar hung his head, the sheer gravity of what
they were saying overwhelming him. If Zalaria didn’t even understand it, then
surely no one could. He had no words to rebut their arguments, no proof that
what they were saying wasn’t, in fact, the truth. What could he do? He didn’t
want to go insane!
“So that confirms my theory,” Icis said,
“that this problem has been with him for some time. Maybe it was exacerbated by
the events of the past few weeks, but it has been there all along.”
Xar thought for a moment, then opened his mouth. It took strength to summon even enough
will to speak. “So what you’re saying is that if I had died fighting Nimrod, we
would never have discovered this. I would never have even known about it.”
Zalaria smiled. “You see, it seems you
don’t know everything there is to know about destiny, after all.”
He blinked. What did she mean by that?
That this could all somehow be meant to be? That maybe things
were supposed to happen this way? How
dare she? The thought itself was too dangerous to even consider. Xar couldn’t dare
to believe in destiny again. He had sworn that he would give up all of his superstitious
beliefs and omens.
Icis was speaking to him again. “The
situation is more dire than I first anticipated. Xar
needs more than just professional therapy and guidance. No hospital in the
galaxy will be able to help what he has.”
Xar and his wife both looked up at him.
Icis opened his mouth to explain.
“Xar, I believe that the person you are is
inherently good. I remember how you were when I first met you. But think for a
moment. There are two evil, dark Jedi in your mind and only one of you. That’s
two to one odds.”
Xar shook his head.
“What are you saying?” Zalaria asked.
“I’m no expert by any means, but I can
only see two possibilities. Either one personality will ultimately become dominant,
or the three of them could merge. If that happens, then the Xar we have come to
know will cease to exist.”
“Why? Can’t he overcome the other
personalities?” she said.
“The Xar that we all know is only
one-third of the equation; the other two-thirds are sadistic, murderous dark
Jedi. If they were to merge, which do you think would win out? What would
happen to him then? Look how much he’s changed already.” He shook his head.
“Xar has to win out over the two
personalities. The question is, how?”
Xar let his head hang, a sudden feeling
of despair threatening to overwhelm him. There were two killers loose in his
mind, had been for years, now. If what Icis said was true, then he was probably
going to slowly lose his battle against the other two. He was right; Xar was getting
worse. He’d known it, but hadn’t been able to care enough to do something about
it. Now, it might be too late. Could he summon up the strength, the will, to
care this time?
Finally he turned to look at his wife. “Can
you help me?” he asked her.
Zalaria’s face held one of the saddest
expressions he’d ever seen from her. “I’ve never encountered anything like this,
Xar,” she said. “This power comes from a technique that I have no experience
with. If I tried to remove it forcibly… Well, you well
remember what I did to your friend, Nico.”
The matter-of-fact way she said it should
have shocked him, but he merely nodded, accepting her logic as infallible. What
was done was done. Nico would not be coming back; he’d accepted that fact, now.
“So there’s no hope,” he whispered.
A feeling of despair washed over him then. Xar didn’t even know himself.
Everything he’d done had been the result of the others’ influences within him.
“Perhaps there is,” Icis said.
They both looked at him. “What?” Xar asked
feebly.
The man hesitated, as if unsure how to say
what he wanted to say. Finally he spoke. “If there’s one person in this galaxy
– no, I mean this whole universe – who knows how to help you… Then I know who
it is.” He shrugged, in what Xar could almost have taken for embarrassment had
he not known the man better.
“Who?” Zalaria
asked.
“Angol Moa.”
“Angle what?” Xar said.
“Angol Moa. I think she can help you. But
to meet her, I’m going to have to take you somewhere,” Icis said.
“Where?” Xar
asked.
“The Traveler Homeworld,” Icis replied.
Xar stared at him speechlessly. It was
probably the last thing he’d ever expected Icis to say.
* * *
Titan-class
Battleship Eternity
Ven’lar
System
1440
Hours
Maarek brought his fighter to a
perfect landing on the hangar’s deck plates and began to power down. He
disengaged from the Archon system, then pulled the opaque blast shield off of
his face, taking a moment to catch his breath.
The nausea and emotional swings he’d had
when first flying the fighter were nowhere to be found. Best of all, he was
able to fly the Archon without even a hint of vertigo. He felt completely free
again – more free than he’d felt in a long time, in fact.
Unfortunately, however, the effect lasted
only as long as he was jacked in. He had to take his time getting out,
readjusting to the real world around him. But that gave him time to think about
all that had transpired so far.
He had spent the last several days
re-acclimating himself to the Archon and its systems. It had taken surprisingly
less time than he’d thought. In fact, as soon as he’d climbed into the cockpit
of the fighter, it had felt like revisiting an old friend, one that he knew
almost as well as he did himself.
Of course, Alona had been there to help,
too. Every day she met him at the hangar and met his every need from start to
finish. She’d helped him get reacquainted with the controls, simply getting the
feel for the fighter and running simulations for the first couple of days.
Then, after that, she’d gone out with him, flying another Archon on his wing as
they made a test flight once around the Eternity.
If Maarek had thought that the ship looked massive on a holoscreen, it was
nothing at all compared to seeing it in person, up close.
He’d also seen the other three Titans in
formation with the Eternity: the Abyss, the Oblivion, and the Maelstrom.
Each one was near or above fifty kilometers in length. Now he understood the
kind of firepower that Strife had.
Maarek had heard that Nimrod had the
largest fleet of all the Warlords, so he’d naturally assumed that all the
Titans he’d hit Varnus and Tralaria with were the bulk of his fleet. Now he
understood that they were simply an advance task force – and all the other
Warlords had theirs, as well.
Now Maarek was flying missions for one of
them. It took some effort to settle his gut every time he thought about that.
The sheer vastness of the Altarin’Dakor armada completely overwhelmed him.
Having Alona there to help him was an
incredible boon, and he enjoyed every moment that he was able to spend with
her. It calmed him for some reason, and made him feel more comfortable about
what he was doing. After all, it wasn’t like he had switched sides. They
weren’t going to attack the New Imperium; they were going after another
Warlord. He was actually helping the
NI, he reminded himself.
He tried not to think about what would
happen if circumstanced changed.
He found himself enjoying spending time
with Alona a lot. It kept him busy. Not only was she stunningly beautiful, but
as their time together stretched on, he was able to get more and more in the
manner of conversation out of her. And he liked what he was learning. As stoic
and composed as he’d found her to be at first, he understood now what that was.
That was the Jedicon in her, the façade that, as a warrior, she was required to
have.
Underneath that, she was a highly
perceptive – and incredibly self-confident – ace pilot. And he found himself admiring
that a lot.
He’d never expected to actually meet a
Jedicon pilot. The mere thought of them had struck fear into his heart ever
since encountering them at the Battle of Mizar. Jedicon had killed most of his
wingmen in Inferno Squadrons, and their deaths were like holes shot straight
through his heart. They’d nearly killed him, too.
If he’d known from the start that Alona
was a pilot, he probably never would have even spoken to her. But instead, he’d
gotten to know her first before discovering what she was. His guard had been
down, his mind open. Now he realized that Jedicon pilots weren’t evil.
Merciless killing machines they might be, but they were simply people who had
been trained that way, underneath it all.
He knew that he wouldn’t stand a chance
against Alona in one-on-one fighter combat. He still hadn’t learned anything
about the Force yet, so he had no idea how to block her abilities. But because
he already knew Alona, that knowledge
didn’t phase him. In fact, it had the opposite effect.
He’d always wondered what it would feel like to meet a woman who was even
better than he was. He’d imagined what kind of reaction he might have. Would he
be jealous? Or would he fall head over heels for her?
Now he knew the answer. He could barely
stop thinking about her when they were apart. He was falling for her, and he
knew it. This could be big trouble.
The first day, Strife had led him to the
hangar personally. It had taken them more than half an hour to take the series
of turbolifts and conveyors that brought them to the private hangar of the
Warlord, where his personal ships – and the Archon fighters – were housed. Along
the way he had returned to the more thoughtful, philosophical conversations
that Maarek remembered having with Victor, before.
“A warrior is more than the sum of his skills,” he’d said as they
walked. “And, a fighter pilot is more, as well.”
“What do you mean?” Maarek asked.
“To win, you must not merely be the fastest or the strongest. You must
have a superior attitude, one that comes only from total confidence in
yourself. A warrior must know exactly who he or she is, and must also know exactly
who the enemy is.”
Maarek just nodded. He’d heard this kind of philosophy before. He knew
that most fights were decided long before the killing blow was dealt. But what
Strife was suggesting was easier said than done.
“Have you discovered who you true enemy is?” Strife asked him suddenly.
So, it was back to that. Maarek thought for a moment before answering.
It wouldn’t do any good to lie. The more he’d fought – especially in this
crazy, convoluted war – the less he felt he understood anything at all. “Not
yet,” he said finally.
“At least now you are willing to admit the truth,” Strife said, walking
with his arms behind his back, his robes swishing at his feet. “I must confess,
Maarek Stele – I used you. The Archon System was still unrefined the last time
you flew it. Its interface with the pilot tended to drive him emotionally
unstable, with violent tendencies. It antagonized you, deceived you even, to
the point that you killed even the wingmates you flew with.”
Maarek stared straight
ahead, ignoring the flash of indignation that welled up inside of him. He remembered
the flight Strife was talking about. He’d shunted it out of his mind since that
time, not wanting to think about what he’d done, about the men he’d killed. He
didn’t want to remember their screams of betrayal as he’d cut their ships
apart.
“You are not to blame,” Strife said.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Maarek said.
If the Warlord was put off by the
bluntness of his reply, he didn’t show it. “Very well.
In the interval, we have improved the system greatly,” he continued. “Now the
system will calm you, keep you collected, your wits sharper. Your
decision-making skills will be enhanced, not inhibited.”
“Glad to hear it,” Maarek bit off sharply.
Beside him, Strife made a grunting noise. “We must always continue to
learn, Maarek Stele. No matter how long we live, we must endeavor to study new
things, to grow. Some of the others have forgotten this. Over the millennia, we
have mastered psychology, biology, physics and even time – we even learned how
to manipulate these things through the Force. But we must not let ourselves
stagnate here.”
“Is that why you’re working on the Archon System?” Maarek asked. “To advance further, both technologically and in warfare? I
mean, why didn’t you develop this system eons ago? You
should have had the technology.”
For a moment Strife said nothing. They walked in silence, so long that
Maarek glanced at the man to see if he was even planning to continue the conversation.
But finally, Strife spoke again, his cold blue eyes distant.
“This may seem difficult to believe, but I was given an opportunity that
precious few ever have.”
“What do you mean?”
“A chance to start over, Maarek Stele. Some time ago, on a planet called
Mies, I quested for an object of unspeakable power. I came into contact with a
Celestial device, and was drawn inside. It sent me…” He paused, and took a
breath. “Back in time,” he finished.
He glanced at Maarek as if to gauge his reaction. But Maarek just kept
looking at him. What was he supposed to think? This was little worse than the
claims that he’d lived for over a thousand generations and was strong enough to
destroy an entire planet. It was just one more bellicose – possibly even insane
– rambling.
“You don’t have to believe me,” Strife said, as if knowing his thoughts.
“Along the way I was shown incredible things. Secrets from my
past. Untold glory ahead in my future. My eyes
were… opened. I now know the truth: the Altarin’Dakor are
merely a group of small fish swimming within an ocean of giants. In the end, no
matter what we accomplish, we are insignificant in this universe.”
Maarek didn’t respond. There was really nothing he could think of to
say. This kind of philosophical rambling wasn’t something he cared for. How
could the Altarin’Dakor see themselves as
insignificant? What else could be out there that was moer powerful than they
were?
But the Warlord wasn’t finished. “Once I thought that power was the ideal
that we must seek to obtain – that power could solve anything. Now I understand
that it is not power, but knowledge that is the most influential force in the
universe. Knowledge can turn a man who is an enemy into a friend. It can make
civilizations stop with a single word. It can show you your true place in
relation to all things.
“Ah, here we are,” Strife said, breaking off as they reached a set of
doors. As they approached, they slid open, spilling them into the interior of
the Warlord’s private hangar.
And that was when he saw it again. The Archon.
It was by far the most beautiful fighter he’d ever witnessed. And, by far, the most deadly.
The craft was gleaming white, with a streamlined cockpit and fuselage,
aerofoils and swept-forward wings. It sported five beam weapons in the front,
in addition to two automatic rail cannons and a pair of missile launchers. But
the most deadly aspects of the ship, he knew, lay inside. Bonded to the Archon
system, a pilot would become nearly invincible.
He found his mouth going dry. All he wanted was to climb back inside, to
link with it again. The sensation was overwhelming.
He’d waited so, so long for this.
“I give you the latest-generation Archon, Maarek Stele,” Strife had
said, that day. “From now on, she is your domain.”
His reminiscing finished, Maarek finally felt right enough to pull
himself out of the cockpit. He really hoped that his training in the Force
would begin soon. Maybe he’d learn a trick or to about how to repress these
feelings of nausea. But then again, they might not teach him those. After all, with him like this, he could never
fly anything but the Archon, ever
again.
It took nearly five minutes for him to
make it all the way down the boarding ladder. It struck him that he might not
be of much use if the ship got ambushed and they had to launch fighters in a
rush. But then again, they were on a Titan-class battleship. Who was going to
ambush them?
At the foot of the ladder, he found Alona
waiting for him.
“You
took a long time to get out, Maarek Stele,” she said. “Are you getting worse?”
Her voice held true concern in it, and he
appreciated that. “Just Maarek is fine,” he said. Her accent was really
starting to sound pleasant. Why had he hated it, before?
“Very well, Maarek. Are you feeling all right?” she asked,
a hint of annoyance in her voice.
He flashed her his
best smile. “I was just evaluating my performance up until now,” he explained,
certainly not about to tell her that he’d felt like vomiting all over the
controls after the flight. “I like to do that after every few missions, just to
gauge my abilities.”
“I am very proud of how quickly you have
progressed,” she told him, appreciation in her voice. “You are a good student,
and a fast learner.”
“Thanks. I have a good teacher.”
Her lips curved into a smile. “Come, to
the debriefing room.”
There were only half a dozen other test
pilots running the Archons out of the private hangar, and debriefing never took
very long. All the other pilots were Jedicon, and so far Maarek had had no
further interaction with them. They certainly hadn’t flown together, yet. So
far, it had been only him and Alona.
But that was just fine by him. They were a
formidable team in their own right. And her certainly preferred to have Alona
on his wing than any other Jedicon pilot on the ship. Having her there felt…
comfortable. It just felt right. It brought him a sense of peace and security
that he hadn’t realized he was lacking, before.
He
stole his first kiss from her in the debriefing room that evening, as soon as
everyone else had left. At first, he’d merely sauntered over to her, asking her
to show him his brainwave scans in more detail. Then he slowly inched closer
and closer, watching her eyes for any sign of surprise, or reluctance. Instead,
he found only the same evaluating gaze, and a playful smile that came to her
lips the moment before he touched them with his.
To his surprise, she returned the kiss,
not pulling away at all. In fact, to his surprise, her hands reached up around
his neck, stroking the back of his head, and she pulled him even closer. They
remained like that for a very, very long time.
They finally pulled away, and Maarek found
himself staring straight into the deep jewels that were her eyes. “I like you,”
he said breathlessly. “I like you a lot.”
Alona grinned. “Then don’t waste your lips
on words… Maarek.”
She gripped his head tightly and pulled his mouth down to hers again.
* * *
Titan-class
Battleship Overlord
Tritonia
System
1220
Hours
“Power,” Akargan said, “is the key
to all questions you may the face in this universe. With enough power, you can
solve any problem, right any wrong, defeat any opponent.”
Lasitus nodded his agreement, standing
beside the Warlord on the bridge of his flagship, the Titan-class Battleship Overlord. Around him milled over a hundred bridge crew, each attempting to look as busy as
physically possible in the presence of their supreme leader.
Lasitus knew that had little choice in the
matter but to nod, really, and agree with whatever Akargan said. One didn’t
disagree with a Shok’Thola lightly.
He had to pick and choose his battles wisely.
The last few days with Akargan had opened
his eyes to the true nature of the Warlord’s rule, and to what the
Altarin’Dakor had become, now. They’d traveled from the surface of Tritonia to
where Akargan’s fleet lay in orbit – four Titans, capable of smashing virtually
any fleet in this galaxy to shreds. Now they were on the flagship, the Overlord, and in formation were the Warhawk, the Extinction and the Exterminator.
A whole navy, with a whole army contained within. All devoted
and loyal to a single man.
Now Lasitus understood how the
Altarin’Dakor worked. The officers under Akargan served him out of fear, not
respect. To them, he was not a beloved comrade or an iconic leader. No, he was
something else entirely. A god.
Where
did we go wrong? he wondered.
Lasitus was beginning to doubt whether Akargan
could ever be turned back to see the right path. That was the real reason he’d
come. He’d wanted to turn his former ally from the inevitable path of
destruction that he was on, and he’d hoped that his presence would remind his
friend of better times.
However, twenty-five thousand years was a
long time. Long enough to forget what you once were. Akargan truly believed
himself to be a deity, now. And now, perhaps the only thing that could bring
him back was for him to completely realize that he was still, deep inside, a
normal human being.
Those thoughts, however, he kept to
himself, pondering them only when he was sure Akargan was otherwise occupied.
Not only was Lasitus closely watched, but he also knew the Warlord could quite
easily read his mind. Despite all of Lasitus’ resurgent powers, he felt like a
gnat next to a giant beside the Shok’Thola.
Lasitus knew that, eventually, Akargan
would probably make him do things that he didn’t want to do. The thought
disturbed him. How much of himself would he lose trying to save his onetime
comrade? Would Lasitus revert to the man he’d once been? For him, not so many
years had passed. Instead of consciously living all those generations, he’d
slept them away, blissfully unknowing. Would the old Lasitus return, as it had
on Varnus?
“Are you listening?” Akargan’s voice broke
through his thoughts.
“Of course,” Lasitus replied, mentally
recalling the last few things the Warlord had stated. “If you are powerful
enough to stop Strife and his forces, then the rest of the Shok’Thola will most likely defer to you without opposition. You
will have proved your superiority.”
“Don’t waste your breath on flattery,”
Akargan spat, causing several officers on the bridge to jump. He smiled, then,
revealing a row of white teeth. “You will eventually see as I do, brother. It
is inevitable.”
Lasitus didn’t reply. Instead he kept
staring forward, out the bridge’s viewports. If there was some way to get
Akargan to see sense, to turn him from this self-destructive path, he had to
find it soon.
He knew he was betting his life on this.
But in the past months, he’d found more and more that he didn’t know what his
purpose in life was, really. He’d thought that helping the New Imperium and
stopping the Altarin’Dakor was a cause worth fighting for. But he’d tried to do
it without resorting to violence, attempting to keep the order from slipping
into the same kind of attitudes that the AD had.
Then, he’d discovered that his efforts
were too little, too late. The New Imperium wasn’t as noble or idealistic as
he’d dreamed. And then, in the end, he’d fallen, too.
What was his purpose, after surviving in a
stasis field since the time of the Great War? He was probably the only person
alive from that time who wasn’t a
Shok’Thola. His chances of survival in that pod must have been abysmally
small. One would think that defeating the odds like that meant he had some
special purpose, some higher calling to fulfill in his life. But for all his
meditating on it, he was completely in the dark as to what, if anything, that
might be.
Perhaps this was it. If he could turn
Akargan, it would bring some kind of closure, bring everything full-circle.
And, barring that, perhaps he could still help prevent the Altarin’Dakor from
taking over the galaxy.
“A mission, I think, would help you
understand things better,” Akargan said suddenly, breaking through his musings.
Lasitys felt a surge of panic. Had he let his thoughts wander too far, into
dangerous territory?
“A… mission?” Lasitus asked.
Akargan nodded. “There is a contested
system between Strife and myself. He has resources and supplies stored on a
base on the planet Borrose. I’ll send you with Moyabi. Take the Warhawk. Destroy that base utterly,” he
ordered.
The Warlord’s expression was otherwise
unreadable. Lasitus’ mind raced. A mission to attack another
Warlord? At least, then, he wasn’t fighting against the NI. Akargan had
given him his word that he wouldn’t attack, but would he keep his promise?
Lasitus nodded. “When do we leave?”
“You can leave at any time. Go now. Just
do as I command. Come back only when you are finished.”
“Is this a test, Akargan?” Lasitus asked
him. “Sending me away?”
The Warlord grinned back at him. “Of
course it is. Regardless, there is another matter that requires my attention. One that I must attend to, alone.”
Then he turned back towards the viewport,
shunning Lasitus completely. It was as good a dismissal as any.
* * *
Royal Palace
Planet Varnus
1500
Hours
"So
how do we get there?" Xar asked as their shuttle touched down on the
palace’s private landing pad.
"To Kajarn?" Icis
gave a dry laugh as Xar shut the ship down and they unstrapped. They had come
straight from the Grand Crusader
after Xar bid his wife and the others farewell. Xar had decided to leave
immediately; there was nothing left for him to do here, nothing to hold him
back. As they’d said, he wasn’t fit for duty right now. He could admit that.
Now he could devote all his time to solving the mystery of what was wrong with
him.
"It's easier said than done,” Icis
said, looking at him. “First, we have to take a ship and fly out to a nexus
hub."
"Which is what?"
Icis led the way out, heading down the shuttle’s entry
ramp and out into the cool air. It was still midday, and the sound of
construction teams working out in the streets echoed their way to the palace. Icis
headed towards the entrance. "A transit point. A way of connecting with Traveler space. They're usually
located at the secret hideouts of whatever Traveler has been assigned to this
region."
"I thought that was you," Xar said, stepping
up beside him. They entered the palace corridors and started winding their way
through to the command-level living quarters.
Icis shook his head as he walked. "No. I went
rogue, remember? I snuck my way here. I wasn't even assigned to this galaxy,
originally."
"That's right." Icis had been with him so long, sometimes it was hard to remember what had brought him
here in the first place. "Well, we can take my old ship," he offered
as they .
"The Black Star?” Icis
looked over at him. “Don't you think she's too conspicuous?"
"Not where we're going, right? Besides, she's got
the speed and firepower to get us out of any potentially bad situations. Unless
you think the Travelers would blow up a Crinn ship on sight?"
Icis shook his head. "We watch, but don't
interfere, remember? Even if we showed up at Kajarn's doorstep, I think they'd
ask questions first before shooting."
"Let's hope."
"There is, of course, one little problem,"
Icis said, turning down a side corridor.
"What's that?" Xar asked.
"I've been banned from Kajarn forever, remember?
I'm not a Traveler anymore."
The
statement hit Xar like a blow between the eyes. He had forgotten that fact. It
had seemed unimportant at the time. Who could have known that Icis would ever
actually want to go back?
"So how are we supposed to get in?" he
demanded, growing angry. Icis could have informed him of that small little
detail before this! Instead he’d waited until Xar had said his farewells and
was finally feeling optimistic for the first time in weeks.
Icis held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Well,
I can get us there, all right. But as for what they do with us afterwards...
Well, I'm hoping to get some help in that area. I don't actually know how to
find Angol Moa."
"What?!"
"Don't worry. With any luck, she'll find us. At least, I hope so." He
broke off uncertainly.
“This doesn’t make me feel very hopeful,
you know,” Xar told him pointedly.
They continued to walk in silence for a
moment, passing few others in the corridors. Traffic in the palace – in all of
Vectur, for that matter – had dwindled more and more since the battle. People
were getting out while they still could.
They had almost gotten back to Xar’s quarters before
Icis spoke up again. "Anyway,” he said, “since we're heading there for a
bit of psychiatric help, what do you think about
bringing along someone else who could use a little help to find himself? Some
assistance in... mental issues."
Xar stopped, staring at him. He knew who Icis was
talking about. "Nico."
Icis nodded.
It took Xar only a second to consider.
“We’ll bring him,” he said.
An
hour later they had packed whatever things they would need for the trip, then they had gone down to medbay there and wheeled their
patient out, to the protests of Doctor Vannik and his staff. They walked back
through the palace corridors, Icis pushing a hoversled in front of him with an
unconscious Nico lying on top of it.
Before long they were in the military hangar section.
Xar led them past rows of TIEs hanging overhead, down a locked corridor that he
accessed via identicard, then to a sealed smaller hangar that only responded
after giving Xar a retinal, fingerprint and voice identification scan.
When the doors opened and the lights came on, a
gleaming black ship sat in front of them, looking like a raven ready to take
flight. Fortunately, this private hangar hadn’t suffered damage in the battle.
"The Black
Star," Icis said. "It's been a while."
Xar nodded. This ship had a lot of history,
and a lot of memories for him. It was his master's old ship. Somehow taking it
on this mission seemed right. Like bringing things full
circle, again.
The ship seemed chiseled from polished rock, all its
angles on top and bottom cut at angles meant to deflect scanners and energy
weapons. It had two large outstretched wings and a thick yet streamlined
fuselage. Two gun turrets rested on top and one in her belly, and the cockpit
jutted forward like a raven's head, with room for a pilot and co-pilot in front
with two more officers in the rear. An array of weapons in front rested on
either side of the cockpit. The whole ship was larger than a normal Corellian
transport like the YT-1800, yet far more graceful-looking. Designed by the
Crinn using technology left over from the Altarin'Dakor, she was a formidable
ship. Xar had lived on her for quite a few years, traveling across the galaxy
from place to place in search of ancient Force secrets and artifacts.
"Let's go," he said, producing the remote
that lowered the ship's boarding ramp and activated her internal lights and
systems. He led the way up the ramp and into the inside, entering the ship's
central corridor, with living rooms spaced in the aft and kitchens, study and
common areas forward. However, once in the hallway, he froze. He could almost
feel the remnants of Runis' presence, here. Would he suddenly see him here,
passing through the corridors?
"You okay?" Icis asked.
Xar shook his head. "Just... fond memories,"
he said.
He helped Icis secure Nico's hoversled and the
necessary equipment for keeping him alive in one of the staterooms. Xar wasn't
particularly fond of caring for an invalid on this trip, but he figured he owed
it to the man. If he deserved to get help for his problems, then Nico probably
did, too.
They stowed their gear in the other two staterooms,
then Xar led them forward to the cockpit. As they entered the large study, with
its line of viewports near the ceiling facing forward, he suppressed a shiver
that tried to run through him. This was where, in his dreams, he had relived
the final struggle against Runis, and lost.
The room's large desk was still set into the corner,
and transparisteel-encased weapons were still mounted to the far wall in case
they were ever needed. Those all belonged to Xar now, of course. They no longer
had a stigma about them; he had made them his own, over the years.
Wordlessly he continued on through the room, through
the access-way into the ship's cockpit, and sat down with Icis next to him. He
powered the ship up, running through the pre-flight checkups, the
Crinn-language controls still overlaid with Basic labels by Alyx, or whoever
had flown the ship last. He peeled them off, not wanting distractions.
Despite not having left this hangar for the last two
years, the Black Star powered up as
though it were brand-new off the line. Xar lifted her up on her repulsorlifts
and swung her around to face the exit, which was opening up before them. Then
he pushed the controls forward, sending the craft into motion.
They passed through a short connecting tunnel with a
door at the end, which after opening spilled them into the primary launch
tunnel for military ships. It was a tight fit, but the ship passed through into
the the main access and towards the light resting at the end.
Seconds later, the Black
Star emerged into open air, blasting into the clear blue sky over Vectur.
Xar turned to starboard, passing rows of skyscrapers, many of them broken and
jagged, with shattered windows that stared outwards like dead eyes. Rubble
still filled the streets that hadn't been cleared. He continued the turn,
seeing the palace below him, the scars of battle still looking fresh on her
exterior. The tower once jutting out of the center was gone, ending in a broken
shaft.
Then he angled the ship up, gunning for space. The
palace and surrounding city receded below them. Within moments, the blue sky
around them darkened to the blackness of space.
Soon, three bright objects began growing large in
front of the cockpit windows. They resolved into individual shapes, revealing
more and more detail as the Black Star
approached. The Titans were massive; one was over thirty kilometers long, and
the other two were over fifty. Xar stared out at the center ship, the Grand Crusader, and could feel his wife's
presence there, growing closer as they drew near.
They had said their goodbyes, embracing as Xar
prepared to board the shuttle that would take him down to the surface. It had
been a cherished private moment between them, as they knew they might not see
each other again for some time.
"By the time you return, our son will probably be
born," she had warned him. Her expression had been hard to read, but he
was willing to assume that she wasn't happy by that proposition
Xar had nodded, assuring her he would do everything in
his power to get back before that happened. But in truth, he knew he couldn't
make any guarantees. Anything could happen between now and then.
Xar didn't know what would happen to them on Kajarn,
but he vowed that he would make it back, and see his son. He would not grow up
without a father, this time.
"Xar?" he heard Icis say. The Grand Crusader was growing closer ahead
of them.
Turning to port, Xar pulled away, sending the ship toward
the immense length of the Cataclysm,
laying just off to the left of the Grand
Crusader. The black hull of the second Titan loomed ahead, tens of
thousands of windows becoming visible below them as they passed overhead. Xar
shook his head; this was the closest he'd ever been to an enemy Titan. He'd
never considered the Nexus in the
same category, and even though these ships were now technically on his
side, it still made his breath catch in his chest. That ship
- and those windows - were filled with Altarin'Dakor, beings originally
from outside of this galaxy. It was more than a bit surreal.
However unbelievable it might seem, however, where
they were going next was far more so. A part of Xar wanted to be giddy at the
thought. All his life he'd sought to uncover mysteries and explore new wonders.
Now he had no idea what to expect in the days ahead.
The Cataclysm
behind them, Xar set in the coordinates that Icis had provided him into the
navicomputer. "Well," he said, reaching up for the controls.
"Here we go."
"May the Force be with us," Icis said.
Without acknowledging the comment, Xar pulled the
levers down. The stars extended into starlines, and the Black Star shot into
hyperspace.
* * *
Titan-class
Battleship Eternity
Ven’lar
System
1840
Hours
Maarek was beginning to get the hang
of the Archon. Each day, he was able to stay out in it a little longer. And
each day, he felt the fighter’s system melding with his mind even more deeply.
This ship was beyond any other kind of
fighter he’d ever flown or encountered. It was, in every sense of the word, a
superfighter. With the meld, he could control the fighter with his mind,
enabling him to fly harder and pull turns that conventional pilots could never
dream of doing. The ship also increased his response time and decision-making
abilities, meaning he could go faster and more aggressive than anything else
out there. He could outfly virtually any other fighter in the Altarin’Dakor
fleet – which also meant that anything coming out of his home galaxy couldn’t
even come close. He’d been flying the TIE Avatar for a few years now, and had
gotten used to it even over his classic Defender. But compared with this, the
ship felt like an Ugly – an amalgam of random, outdated parts assembled by
amateurs. One Avatar could easily dispatch a whole squadron of Avatars or
Defenders. He knew that if he’d had this at the battle of Varnus, his fight
with Kamren Thansil – and even the Jedicon, maybe – would have turned out very
differently.
Maarek was enjoying the time spent with
Alona, as well. She went out flying with him every day, and though she was an
excellent pilot of the Archon, Maarek knew that soon he was going to surpass
her in his mastery of the ship. But that didn’t matter to him; it was her
presence he valued most, especially their times in the briefing room once their
test runs were over.
He’d found himself spending more and more
time with her outside the training. Her high position within the hierarchy of
the Altarin’Dakor enabled her to go virtually anywhere she liked. She’d come to
him on the Envirodeck a lot, but just as often had taken him to places on the Eternity that he’d never been to before.
So far they’d gone to an envirodeck simulating a desert paradise, apparently a
kind of reward location for Altarin’Dakor officers.
All the other Altarin’Dakor except for her,
and Strife himself, had treated him rather indifferently. Still, he’d counted
himself lucky. He’d been fighting the Altarin’Dakor ever since they’d entered
NI space, and it felt completely strange and surreal to receive anything but
hostility from them at this point. But he was beginning to understand that not
all Altarin’Dakor were the same. The AD onboard this ship, serving Strife, were
completely different from those who had been in Nimrod’s fleet. In fact, he’d
remarked to Alona that they seemed like totally different militaries, or even different
races. She’d responded by telling him, to his surprise, that was exactly the
case.
She’d also shown him areas on the ship that
were technically off-limits. He’d known better than to press his luck and go
alone into restricted areas, but Alona had taken him past checkpoints with
ease. As such, he’d inspected one of the main hangars, as well as a strategy
room filled with an incredibly detailed, interactive map of the Altarin’Dakor
galaxy. Some of the things he’d seen on some of the worlds there he wasn’t sure
he could even believe.
Their favorite place to visit, however,
was the observation deck. There, with a virtually uninterrupted view of the
stars, he shared more intimate conversations – and many more kisses.
Maarek was starting to realize that he was
changing at an alarming pace, one he couldn’t exactly fathom. Only a few weeks
ago he had hated all Altarin’Dakor, and the Jedicon most of all. But now was he
actually falling in love with one? Wasn’t he betraying what his squadron
members had died for? Or was this different, since they served a different
Warlord? Did any of that even matter at this point?
Besides, Alona felt like a real person,
not a Force-wielding killer. All he knew was that flying the Archon, and
spending time with Alona, he was happier than he’d been in a long, long time.
Probably, in truth, since the Empire had invaded his home system of Kuan so
many years ago, and taken his life in a direction he’d never anticipated.
However, there was another problem he was
now facing. In spite of the progress he’d made with the Archon, he had also
begun facing a much more difficult challenge: learning how to use the Force.
He’d avoided this for all of his adult
life, ever since he’d learned from Palpatine’s Secret Order that he was, in
fact, Force-sensitive. He’d repressed it for so long that he’d forgotten about
it, had subconsciously written off the uncanny feelings he’d occasionally get
as simple pilot instincts.
But now he was having a crash-course in
the Force. And he was finding that tackling it like a tactic to be memorized,
or like a new fighter to shake down, was not quite working in the way he
expected at all.
And while Alona – a trained pilot Jedicon
– was flying with him every day in the Archon, his instructor in the ways of
the Force was the other Jedicon that had been present in Strife’s chamber that
day – Chele.
Naguis’Dakor
Chele was not like Alona at all – in fact, they seemed almost total
opposites. She was of the warrior caste, and he knew from his briefings about
the AD that she had been training all her life for this – to be the ultimate,
perfect Force-wielding warrior. She was, in fact, considered to be a living
weapon, an extension of her Warlord’s will. As the first such person Maarek had
ever made acquaintance with, he didn’t know what to expect. How far from normal
would she be? Would he be able to converse with her? Was she even… human?
Now after only a few days training, he
already felt like his head would explode during the sessions.
Maarek sat on the matted floor in a large
training room, his instructor the only other person present. She was sitting
cross-legged in front of him, dressed in her white Jedicon robes, her vividly
red hair flailing wildly around her head. The look in her eyes was similar to
that of a wild predator preparing a killing strike on its prey.
“You must feel what you are doing,” she
hissed in accented Basic, chiding him again. Maarek’s progress so far had been
slow – far too slow for this Jedicon, at least.
“Take the Power into your mind, into your
hands, and bend to your will. It is more about feeling that technique. What you do must become natural to you. Like your flying, yes? In battle, you cannot think about
what you must do – you have to do
it.”
Sitting cross-legged on the ground, Maarek
felt sweat running down his forehead from the exercises Chele had been putting
him through. He shook his head, trying to throw some of it off. “Wow, that’s
different,” he breathed. “I always heard – about the Jedi, at least – that you
learn to use the Force more passively, less aggressively. That it guides your
actions, not the other way around.”
“Perhaps that is how your so-called Jedi
do it in this galaxy,” she admitted, “but this is the Altarin’Dakor way. You
will learn how to use the Power like an Altarin’Dakor.”
And so he was. These were no mere
exercises – everything she was teaching him to do was practical in the extreme.
The Altarin’Dakor were born to be warriors, and they
wasted no time on things that wouldn’t be useful in combat. He spent no time
trying to understand what the Force was saying to him, something he’d heard the
Jedi studied. The Jedicon used the Force as a tool – and most often, a tool of
war.
She was a harsh instructor, putting him
through drills that had him gritting in frustration and gave him a splitting
headache. However, despite her pushing him to try harder, to learn more
quickly, she hadn’t lost her temper or walked out on him. Either she was under
strict orders from Strife, or she actually didn’t mind teaching a slow learner.
So Maarek tried, but his progress was dismally slow, even to him.
The truth was,
her presence was just too blasted distracting.
Chele was nearly a perfect female specimen
in every sense of the word. And every day when they began practice, she shed
her white robes to reveal a tight-fitting battlesuit underneath, its shape
leaving very little to the imagination. Despite his best intentions, Maarek
could not keep himself from looking – and being distracted. Each time he did
so, she punished him – usually with a smack on his backside with some invisible
tendril of the Force.
He worried that by enjoying Chele’s looks
that he was betraying what he was building with Alona. But in this setting,
with just the two of them here for hours on end, it was well nigh impossible to
resist. And since there was nothing yet committed between he and Alona, what
was wrong with it? He was still single, still free to do as he pleased. And
Chele’s presence was quickly becoming as intoxicating as Alona’s.
“Now we must learn how to control the
world around you. What is the word you use?” She tapped her lips thoughtfully.
“Ah, yes. Telekinesis.”
“But I’m not interested in learning how
to…” he began.
He might have saved his breath. Chele wouldn’t
take no for an answer. And so, by the third day, he was learning how to do
simple pushes and pulls, things he’d thought he would never be able to do. However,
Chele gave him no respite. Once he could move a few objects around a bit with
his mind, she dove into the more mental disciplines – with a vengeance.
She taught him how to reach out with his
mind, to sense the life in the room as well as all around them in the ship.
Tentatively he followed her lead as she taught him how to probe the mind of
another, to get a general sense of their surface-level intentions and emotions.
After he had only a rudimentary practice
of this, she proceeded to teach him how to close his own thoughts off, to
project a mental shield around himself. This was what he’d wanted to learn all
along – the only thing, in fact. All the othet stuff was for the real Jedi –
Maarek simply wanted to survive the next time he went up against a Jedicon
pilot.
It took him four hours before he could
even get what felt like the most basic protective barrier in place. But as soon
as he had, he realized just how seriously the Altarin’Dakor method of learning
was.
“Defend yourself,”
Chele ordered suddenly.
Within seconds, he felt his mind being
attacked.
“No, wait!” he protested. “I’m not…
ready!”
“If you are not ready, then you will be
dead,” she hissed. Then she attacked.
Her mind exploded through his shield and
suddenly she was inside of his brain,
calling up memories and thoughts inside Maarek’s head, and he could do nothing
to stop her. He could feel her
presence in his mind! She was sorting through his memories like books in al
library. His father and mother’s faces flashed through his mind, along with
countless battles, a hodgepodge of brief clips of missions innumerable. It was
as though his body were a puppet, and someone else was
pulling the strings and even controlling what he saw.
Finally, he screamed, falling to the floor
and grasping his head in both hands.
Abruptly, the invasion of his mind ceased.
She was gone as quickly as she’s entered, and the only trace of her presence
was a small lingering headache just between his temples. “We go again,” she
ordered.
He looked up in shock, but had no time to
protest as the next attack came in. Desperately he tried to throw up his
shield, but this time failed entirely. This time, her ravaging in his brain was
even worse than the first.
For the next two hours they repeated the
exercise, until Chele was sure that Maarek could build a barrier almost
instantly, without even thinking about it. It also had to be strong enough to
stop her basic attack. It took a long time, but Maarek finally did it. He knew
that she was far stronger in the Force than he was, still, and that he would
have to train a lot more in order to be ready for a real attack situation, but
the basics were there. Maarek had learned how to block telepathic attacks in
the space of a day.
He had been sitting cross-legged for most
of the time, and his legs were killing him, so he was leaning forward on his
hands and knees, the sweat dripping off his chin onto the mat below. He
remained there for several minutes, waiting for the world to stop spinning
around him, feeling as tired as any workout he’d ever done in his life.
“You did well today, Maarek Stele.”
He heard her voice, sounding as though she
were right beside him. He felt her breath on his ear. Slowly, he raised his
head, and found himself staring straight into her eyes, their noses less than a
centimeter apart.
Then she leaned forward and kissed him.
For a moment Maarek simply froze in shock.
Her hands gripped his head on either side, gripping him tightly. He caught her
scent – something strongly like sweet, ripe fruit, without even a hint of sweat
despite the long training session. Emotions and thoughts ripped through him. He
wanted to pull away; this didn’t feel right! But his body was refusing to move.
Was he… Could he actually be kissing her back? He wasn’t sure. This was crazy! He
was falling for Alona, not this stranger! Still, her lithe body moved even
closer, and she suddenly pushed forward into him.
Maarek fell to his back, and Chele was
immediately over him, her lips seeking his again and again, overwhelming him.
Then, just as suddenly, she pulled away
and stood up. “That is a sample,” she said.
“Of what?” he gasped, blinking up at her
in surprise.
“Of what will happen if you choose me.”
Then before he could reply, before he
could ask her what she was talking about, she turned and sped out of the room,
leaving him in utter, frustrating confusion.
* * *
The
Madas System
0400
Hours
The Black Star soared through the darkness
of space, weaving its way past city-sized chunks of rock and ice.
Icis and Xar had entered a massive
asteroid belt, the only significant body in the Madas system, and were heading
for a big one that was looming straight ahead of them. With a diameter of maybe
fifty kilometers, there was nothing in particular to set it apart from the
millions of others in the system, except for a single set of coordinates in one
of Icis' datapads.
They began to circle, and Icis studied the rough,
broken shape of the gigantic rock beneath them. Its surface was littered with
craters and holes. Xar glanced at him uncertainly, probably wondering if this
was the right place or not.
"There," Icis said, pointing to a relatively
small hole not unlike most of the others.
"Are you sure?" Xar asked, edging them
closer.
"Take us in," he said.
Xar guided the ship down, and as they approached, Icis
saw that there would be plenty of room for the Black Star to enter. They did so, entering into a smooth tunnel
built into the rock itself. Soon, that rock gave way to metal. The Black Star’s wings had precious few
meters to spare on either side.
They entered a small, private hangar. As
they pulled inside, a couple of lights built into the ceiling came on, sending
dim illumination across the chamber. Only one other vessel was there; it
appeared to be some kind of medium transport of a make Icis couldn’t identify.
Other than that, the hangar was barren of
much – only a scattering of old equipment, most of it looking unused or broken
down. A stack of large crates were piled against the far wall, leaving a small
opening that led deeper within the base itself.
"Place looks deserted,"
Xar said. "Or like maybe he's in the process of moving out."
"He probably is. The Altarin'Dakor
advance got really close to this area," Icis replied.
"I can sense someone
here," Xar said.
Icis nodded. "That’s his ship,
so he must be here. Be careful, he might have some booby traps waiting for
us."
"I'll see if I can find and
disarm them. Let's go." Xar unstrapped and led the way out.
They donned their coats – heavy,
military-style things with fur linings – but even so when the boarding ramp
descended Icis was struck by the cold. The hangar’s force field was keeping the
atmosphere inside the hangar, but was letting virtually all the warm air out.
He could see his own breath in front of him, streaming out like gouts of steam.
Icis moved across the floor, passing
derelict equipment – some covered with dust – and over to the far ledge, where
he climbed up the ramp that butted up against the back wall. Along the way he
lost sight of Xar, who vanished somewhere in the shadows. He ducked through the
entranceway between the crates and found himself in a basic kind of storage and
control room.
Moving over to a computer screen built
into a console there, he brought the terminal to life. A command screen awaited there, and he quickly activated the rest of the
hideout’s lights and heating systems. Either Noa Rintor wasn’t here, or he was
making it look like he wasn’t. Either way, Icis saw that they would have to
explore deeper inside, since the controls to activate the nexus were
inaccessible from here.
Turning, he moved through an exit in the
back wall and found himself among even more abandoned equipment. Most of it was
standard-era junk, although he noticed some boxes with Kajeat writing on them;
those would be supplies ordered through the Traveler network. He wondered how
long this particular base had been in operation.
He moved through the room quickly and
approached the exit, heading deeper into the base, but stopped when a figure
came out of the shadows in the doorway.
"Stop right there,
Novitaar."
A man stepped into view, a blaster
in his hand. It was Noa Rintor, the real Traveler assigned to cover Epsilon
Sector. So he was here, after all. He
was bound to make it difficult for Icis to activate the nexus and travel to
Kajarn, though Icis was fairly sure that he wouldn’t use that blaster.
Travelers couldn’t resort to violence unless their lives were directly
threatened, and even then, there were many who would sacrifice a temporary
shell in order to keep from interfering with another civilization’s
development.
"What are you doing here,
Novitaar?" Rintor demanded sharply, his voice echoing in the chamber. His
blaster hand hadn’t moved.
"I have to go back to
Kajarn," Icis said simply. “I’m here to activate the nexus hub and go
home.”
Rintor blinked in utter surprise. "Are
you crazy? You know you can’t do that. Kajarn isn’t your home anymore. You are
no longer a Kajeat. You can never go back there."
Icis shook his head. "Nevertheless,
I have to go. There is a very important reason."
"Your reasons do not matter.
You've been banned from Kajeat society forever. You’re not even one of us. I
can't let you through."
“Please stand aside,” Icis said.
“No way, Novitaar.
Turn around and leave, or else.”
“I’m sorry, Noa Rintor, but you
cannot stop me,” Icis said calmly.
“And what makes you think that I can’t?
You have no Force powers and no authority,” Rintor chided him.
“This is why,” said Xar, stepping up from
behind, a blaster trained on the man’s head.
Rintor glanced over at Xar – and did a
double-take when he saw who it was. “You?!” he exclaimed. He turned back to
Icis. “Are you insane? You’ve brought him
here?”
“Drop the gun,” Xar ordered.
Rintor lowered his blaster reluctantly,
and Xar snatched it away, popping the power clip out one-handed and tossing the
gun away onto a table full of junk. Rintor continued to stare at Icis in
disbelief. “You’re not actually going to take an outsider to Kajarn!?” he
blurted.
“I have very important reasons, as I said,”
Icis explained.
“This cannot occur,” Rintor protested,
glancing helplessly at Xar. “I will not open the nexus for you.”
“I don’t need your help,” Icis said. “I
know the codes and how to operate it. All I need you to do is stand aside.”
“You know I cannot do that. Listen to
reason, Novitaar. If you go, you will only be bringing about your own doom.
They’ll have no mercy. They’ll lock you up forever this time!”
“It’s a chance I’m willing to take,” Icis
explained.
“I’m warning you for your own good,
Novitaar!” Rintor warned. “You’re mortal now, aren’t you? You’ll die in a cell
on Kajarn. Isn’t it bad enough that sixty or eighty years is all you have left?
Do you want to spend the rest of your short life in a prison?”
“I…” Icis began. Then Xar slammed the butt
of his blaster against the back of Rintor’s head, and the Traveler collapsed to
the ground.
“This conversation is useless,” he said.
“Let’s tie him up.”
Icis recovered quickly, then cast around
the room for something to use. “Let’s put him in there,” he said, pointing
towards a large storage chest. “By the time he gets himself out we should be done
here.”
Within moments they had placed Rintor inside
and sealed the lid closed. As a Force adept, Rintor would be able to escape,
but hopefully not before Xar and Icis were long gone.
“Where to now?”
Xar asked once they were finished, returning the blaster to his holster.
“The main control room must be deeper
inside,” Icis explained. “Follow me.”
As they walked, they moved through a
narrow corridor leading further inside, passing a number of side rooms, most of
which were sealed and must have been for personal quarters. This was a small
base, not made to house many visitors, if any. A lot of the base’s space was
probably taken up by the computer systems and mechanisms controlling the nexus
hub.
“They don’t outfit you guys very well, do
they?” Xar remarked at one point as they passed yet another sparsely-furnished
room. “No wonder you broke out on your own and ran a smuggling empire.”
Icis grunted, sending out a puff of steamy
breath. “Do you know how many Travelers there are? Quadrillions.
If we simply outfitted one per sector per galaxy, we’d hardly be able to record
anything, and still would have to pay and support a whole race’s worth of
workers and their paychecks, not to mention the fact that each one has their
own information network. Not that we can’t afford such a thing,” he assured
Xar. “It’s just that some areas get… higher priority than others.”
“And the little fact that the AD are
bearing down on Epsilon Sector doesn’t warrant a bit more attention?”
“Trust me, Xar. In the grand scheme of
things, this is just a minor scuffle between inferior, even barbaric, species.
Most Kajeat even consider it a local dispute rather than an invasion.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Xar spat, sounding
angrier the more they continued on the subject.
“I agree with you. That’s why I’m fighting
on your side,” Icis told him.
“Plus I doubt you were given the height of
luxury when they assigned you to the AD galaxy,” Xar said.
“Don’t remind me,” Icis warned him. “Ah,
here we are.”
They finally entered Rintor’s control
room. It was unlocked, and Icis led the way into a cramped space dominated by a
massive control panel and wraparound holoscreen display. On the screen was a
view of the asteroid’s interior. It was a massive chamber located directly in
the heart of the space rock.
“That’s where the hub will be located,”
Icis said, pointing. “We just have to activate the controls and fly through the
portal that appears there.”
“The portal?”
“Watch.” Icis put
in the command coders into the system – codes that he’d stolen long ago through
his network contacts – and the display came to life. Icis thanked the Force for
Kajeat rigidity. Changing the codes would have taken lot of time and red tape
on Kajarn – since all the systems on any traffic to this area would have to be
updated, as well – so Rintor hadn’t bothered. That made things a lot simpler.
He’d have hated to hurt Rintor for doing his job.
A few minutes later and the device was ready. Lights came on within the chamber, and Icis could
make out machinery lining the walls, golden lines forming geometric shapes that
converged directly above and below the center of the room. “Okay. Now all we
have to do is fly through that spot and watch the
fireworks begin.”
“If you say so,” Xar said doubtfully.
“Trust me. It’ll work.” Icis locked the
system back down and hurried them back towards the entrance. He just hoped that
Rintor didn’t awake before they could fly their ship to that spot, otherwise
nothing would happen.
As they passed the storage room, he saw
that the box was still sealed. Rintor hadn’t woken up yet. Icis hoped that Xar
hadn’t hit him too hard.
Moments later they were in the Black Star once more and were taking
off. Xar, at the controls, swung the ship around, then
led them down a side corridor, the doors sealing it now wide open.
“Just a bit further,” Icis told him.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Xar
replied, his voice tense.
The tunnel narrowed even further,
returning to simple hewn rock. Xar held the controls tightly, heading for the
light growing slowly larger ahead. A moment later, they emerged into the nexus
chamber.
Suddenly there were kilometers to spare
all around the Black Star. The golden
lines, framing black panels that angled down towards the center of the chamber,
seemed to glow with an inner light. The ship continued edging forward, until
they were almost right between the cluster of devices
in the middle of the room.
“Nothing seems to be happening…” Xar began
as they hit reached the center of the chamber.
Then his words were cut off as the Black Star was enveloped in light,
coming from above and below at the same time. Xar cried out in surprise, and
Icis gripped his seat’s arms hard as a disk of light opened around them,
growing to consume the whole view outside.
Then
the Black Star entered the portal,
and they were gone.
* * *
Titan-class
Battleship Grand Crusader
Varnus System
0430
Hours
Zalaria strode alone into the midnight interior of the Grand Crusader’s meditation chamber. The
entranceway closed shut behind her, plunging her into complete darkness.
Then the lights came on, and the vast
expanse that had been her brother’s ultimate weapon revealed itself.
She was a lone speck of shadow amidst a
sea of light. The chamber was a cylindrical space several kilometers in
diameter. Its white walls shone, burnished, all around her. Silently she strode
along the thin walkway that suspended her out into midair in the center of the
structure. There, a seat descended down from the ceiling, a throne awaiting the
return of its master, the steps leading up to it angled to as to make the
approaching person knees in obeisance.
Zalaria approached the dais and paused,
considering what it might enable her to find – and to do. This was how Nimrod
could exercise instant command over all the forces within his empire. This was
how he reached out across dozens of light-years to cause whole stars to
supernova. This could be the key to winning this entire war.
But she had other concerns, as well. Earlier
in the day, she’d received a jolt of surprise as her sense of Xar through the
Bond suddenly became dimmer. It had been completely unexpected; her sense of
Xar was always something in the back of her mind. One moment she’d been feeling
his presence as always – if not close, then at least on this side of the
galaxy. Then, in the span of an eyeblink, he was gone, and she could not even
begin to guess where. It was the furthest removed she’d ever felt him before.
Xar was far, far away, now.
At the moment it wasn’t important. She
walked up the steps to the seat and finally sat down, its bulk engulfing her
lithe frame. It hadn’t been intended for someone of her size, but nevertheless,
she knew how to use its controls. She had put off coming to this room for quite
some time, but knew she eventually had to use its unique advantages.
This would be the second time. The first,
she’d attempted to establish contact with the remainder of Nimrod’s forces,
both here and in the Altarin’Dakor galaxy. She’d given them orders to send as
many forces through the Gate here to supplement what she already had. Unaware
that they were now being controlled by her, they had agreed. It was time to
check their progress.
She needed as many reinforcements as
possible. Her own fleets, ordered through the Gate, had met with unexpected
resistance from some of the others. Only a few had made it intact. In truth, a
civil war had already broken out amongst the Shok’Thola. Sides were being drawn and alliances were forming.
Currently, she had yet to make one herself.
The chamber came to life, and suddenly the
walls were gone, replaced by the magnificent void of space. Suddenly she was
aware of everything happening within Nimrod’s empire.
Immediately a hundred
pressing concerns were thrust upon her. Requests for orders,
information, and aid had poured in during her absence.
Nimrod’s empire was dying.
She was beginning to understand, finally.
The Shok’Thola truly were the keys holding the Altarin’Dakor together. For
millennia, they had held the galaxy in a state of relative peace. Only minor
Warlords had been killed throughout the last ten or so millennia; none of the
major ones had perished. It was unthinkable to their thralls that their masters
– their gods – could die. So when the inevitable happened, their empires
collapsed under their own weight.
Sometimes Shok’Thola would lose a border skirmish or even a major conflict.
Sometimes they would actually be defeated and their bodies destroyed, only to
return in a regenerated form shortly thereafter. But lately, Shok’Thola had started to die the final
death. The Altarin’Dakor were not prepared for that.
When word finally arrived that Nimrod was truly
dead, his empire had descended into chaos. Various monarchs and grand admirals
had decided to seize power for themselves, plunging nearly half the
Altarin’Dakor galaxy into civil war already. Despite her assumption of command
and strict orders, without her actually being present few were following her
commands. Some had rebelled, while some had given up in despair. Slave races
were overthrowing their oppressors. Commanding officers were committing
suicide, leaving their men leaderless.
A group of fleets had responded to her
call. However, they had come under attack at every step along the long journey
to the Altarin’Dakor Gate. Even after leaving Nimrod’s territory, the forces of
other Shok’Thola had assaulted them.
Finally, at the Gate itself, it appeared a massive battle had taken place, a
final attempt to stop them. Perhaps Altima himself knew and had ordered them to
stop her forces from reinforcing her.
Could this be the end of the Return? With
only a few Shok’Thola dead, the level of devastation was almost unimaginable. What would the
others do? Would the entire society collapse in on itself?
Fortunately, some of her
own forces had managed to make it through before the situation had
become so chaotic and were now en route. She hadn’t known how to adapt the
chamber to call her own forces yet, so she’d had to rely on scouts sent out. Hopefully
her own forces would arrive soon, along with whatever survivors were left of
Nimrod’s fleets.
Many forces in this galaxy had decided not
to comply with her orders. Case in point were the five
Titans that had fled the Tralar System after her brother’s death. They,
unfortunately, knew immediately that their Shok’Thola
had perished. Those ships had been easy enough to track using the chamber;
however, they had managed to sabotage their own ships, making it impossible for
her to take command and control them remotely.
The state of those ships currently was not
good. They had fled together into the Galbagos Nebula, undoubtedly hoping to
avoid detection. There it seemed that some dispute had occurred as to what to
do next. Without their Shok’Thola,
their existence had suddenly become meaningless. Men had abandoned their posts,
and mass suicides had taken place. Then, apparently, the remaining Jedicon on
the ships had decided to mutiny. They’d stormed the bridge, but the commodores
had retaliated. So far the Jedicon had wrested control of two of the Titans.
The results of the other conflicts were still pending.
Zalaria didn’t care what the outcome would
be. The ships were unsalvageable. It would be a waste to engage the five Titans
with their own remaining ships, and boarding and capturing them might prove
impossible, considering the hundreds of thousands sequestered onboard. Now the
ships were in a state of utter chaos, virtual derelicts in the cauldron of the
nebula while they fought amongst themselves.
It was best to ensure they would never
become anyone’s problem. The officers onboard had managed to successfully
disrupt her from taking control of its primary functions. However, they would
be totally unaware of the backdoor protocols that gave her access to the ships’
most vital zones – their power cores.
Reaching inside through the invisible link
provided by the meditation chamber, she activated the self-destruct sequences
on each of the five Titans.
Their crew would know what was happening,
but would be powerless to stop it. There would not be enough time to reach
escape pods and achieve the necessary distance from their mother ships. When
the power cores blew, they would be like miniature suns shining within the
depths of the nebula.
One by one, the cores of the Titans went
critical, the explosions obliterating the ships from stem to stern. Five bright
spots flaring within the nebula, adding their own gasses and debris to that of
the cloak in which they had hidden.
For Zalaria, she saw their destruction as
flaring, then vanishing blips on the expansive canvas
laid out before her. And with that particular issue out of the way, she turned
her attention to other, more pressing matters. She knew that the other Shok’Thola were up to something. Their
fleets were on the move. If another one of them decided to attack next, she
would have to be ready. Perhaps they would join forces against her, and she
would have to fight them all off at once. But when this massive Force artifact
came fully under her control, maybe – just maybe – she would be able to do just
that.
* * *
Titan-class
Battleship Eternity
Ven’lar System
Maarek was continuing his training, and over the last month
he knew that he was making good progress.
Chele continued to teach him at a
withering pace, pushing him as hard as any drill
instructor he’d ever met. She made no more romantic overtures towards him
though, something that now was confusing him just as much as her initial
advance. Why be so forward at first, the act as if nothing had happened at all?
Even though they continued to train one-on-one, now she was all business.
She attacked his mind constantly, now. Even when they were discussing something, even when Maarek was
trying a totally different exercise. It was forcing him to adapt
quickly, to be prepared in any situation. He was now able to keep a constant
shield around his mind, almost without even consciously trying to do it, like a
computer program running unseen in the background. And though she was still
strong enough to break through his barrier most times, it was getting tougher
for her each time.
Maarek pursued his learning relentlessly,
constantly reminding him that this ability would mean the difference between
survival and certain death. He would face Jedicon in battle again, he was sure
of it.
After the lessons, he tried to learn a
little more about her, to make small talk and ask her questions. But she
brushed him off each time, leaving him alone to clean himself up and return to
his quarters. Each day it happened, Maarek found
himself getting more and more frustrated.
Alona and Chele were complete opposites.
The former intrigued him, a match for him in both wits and piloting. She was a
mystery, and he found himself thinking about her time and time again during the
day. Yet his attraction to Chele was different and confusing. She was totally
unknown, attractive only in the physical, calling him to something more
dangerous and uncertain.
He’d never really found himself in this
kind of position before. He liked two women at the same time. But which one
should he choose? And how much longer could he keep up this pretense of only
casual interest? He wasn’t the kind of man to try and play two women at the
same time.
At the next opportunity, he asked Alona to
come to the observation deck with him again. She readily accepted, and part of
him was thrilled that she was responsive to his invitations. Every moment he
spent with her was, well, intoxicating.
So here he sat, on a bench in a private
observation window, with the blue-haired Jedicon sitting next to him. As
always, she wore her jumpsuit and white robes. Her big eyes stared out through
the viewport, and he could see stars reflecting in those big, dark pools.
“Tell me,” he asked, “Do you have any
family?”
She waited a moment before responding, then turned to glance at him mysteriously. “I do not know,”
she said, in her typical accented Basic.
Her response took him aback. “What do you
mean?” he asked. It was a simple question; how could she not know if she had
family?
“I was taken as a child to train and
become a Jedicon,” she explained. “I was given a new name and a new place to
live. It was decided before I could walk that I would become a warrior pilot.
If my parents live, or if I have any siblings, I have no way of knowing.”
He frowned. “That must be hard. Didn’t you
miss not having a childhood? Not having any freedom?”
She smiled almost condescendingly. “There
is nothing to miss. All Altarin’Dakor are born into such a life, depending on
which caste they are appointed to. The life chosen for me is freedom, Maarek Stele. We each act in accordance to that which
will improve all Altarin’Dakor. The training was difficult for many years, but
now I am in a position of highest honor among all Altarin’Dakor. As a personal
servant to the Shok’Thola, I enjoy
all the freedoms and privileges that I want. I am very fortunate. Most
Altarin’Dakor never achieve even a small portion of
the authority and freedom that I have. Everything I have is thanks to my Shok’Thola. I have no need for a family.
I exist only to serve him.”
“I… see,” he said, considering her words. Her
devotion to Strife was alarming, even a bit disturbing to him. It was as if she
was in love with him. Did that mean Maarek would always be second best?
Her whole life had been determined for her
since birth. It was just another example of how tightly controlled their entire
society was. He supposed that for her, it had paid off in the end. But for
countless others, they lived like slaves their whole life. Did she see that as
beneficial?
They were so devoted, so passionate about
their cause. He had never seen such a well-oiled machine as the Altarin’Dakor
navy. They moved with such professionalism, yet with a sense of camaraderie
that he’d never quite sensed before. It almost felt like everyone was related,
part of the same gigantic family, all with the same values and goals.
What could it be that inspired such
loyalty and unity among them? He decided to voice his thoughts to her.
“This is very similar to when I served in
the Empire,” he explained. “Everything was tightly controlled, but most people
obeyed out of fear. But you don’t seem to.”
“What do you mean? Who were you afraid
of?” she asked him.
He thought for a moment. In the Empire,
there were some good commanding officers, people he had respected. But there
were just as many who were not good men. Those, you served out of fear of
facing the consequences of failure. And each of those served under his superior
as well, all the way up the chain of command to the top. Ultimately that’s what
the Empire was built upon, from the stormtroopers who kept order to the Death
Star itself. “I suppose it was the Emperor,” he said finally.
“You served your Emperor, but out of fear,”
she repeated. “Was his empire great?”
“Very,” he said. “He conquered the whole
galaxy for a while. But then he was overthrown.”
“What happened?”
“A rebellion,” Maarek explained. “He
couldn’t keep tight control over everything. People wanted their freedoms. They
said the Empire was evil, and they fought back. Eventually they won, I guess.” Small
vestiges of the Empire still remained, he knew, but they were only denying the
truth. It was over.
“Your Emperor was not worthy to be a
leader,” she said suddenly, breaking into his thoughts.
“What makes you say that?” he asked her,
surprised. He’d never really heard anyone say that before.
“Because he was defeated,” she explained,
as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “If a leader is killed, then
he is proven to be a failure and an impostor. Only the strong have the right to
rule.”
He blinked at her in mild astonishment. She
really believed that, he realized. And that was why the entire Altarin’Dakor
culture revolved around that ideology. Superiors could be challenged and
replaced, their defeat itself proof that they hadn’t been worthy to hold their
position. “You really do believe he’s immortal, don’t you?” he asked. She knew
who he meant, he was sure.
“I do not believe. I know,” she replied
simply. “The Shok’Thola cannot be
defeated. That is why he is worthy to be served. You must understand this. The
foundation of the Altarin’Dakor is built upon this truth. The Shok’Thola are the Altarin’Dakor.”
“But you’re fighting against other
Altarin’Dakor, serving other Shok’Thola,”
he pointed out. “What happens if one of them is ever killed?”
“Then he would be proven inferior and
unworthy. A liar,” she answered matter-of-factly. “I would pity those who
served him.”
“But you don’t believe that could ever
happen to you?” he asked.
For a moment he saw her eyes flare in
anger. He felt the hair on the back of his neck standing up for a long moment
before her expression softened. “Your words are blasphemous, but you do not
understand,” she said finally. “If I did not believe, then I would have no
reason for living. I live to serve the Shok’Thola.
He cannot die, and he cannot be defeated. We may lose a battle, but the end is
inevitable.”
She turned back to look out the window,
her voice turning thoughtful. “Perhaps others feel the same about their own Shok’Thola. If we fight, eventually one
of us will be proved wrong. But they do not believe it will be them, and I do
not believe it will be me.”
“I understand,” he said finally. Her
devotion to Strife was completely unshakable. He would have to learn to live
with that unfortunate fact. She truly did believe he was immortal. But Maarek
was still skeptical. He’d never seen the man come back to life yet. Maybe if he
saw it with his own eyes.
He shook his head, overwhelmed at the
thought. The Altarin’Dakor weren’t just an empire or a military. It was a
religion. They didn’t just serve the Shok’Thola, they literally worshipped them, holding
ceremonies nearly every day. The Jedicon in the very same room with Strife – though
they were standing there and saw that he was a man, like them – they still
thought they were actually serving a god. People had served Palpatine for many
different reasons, but no one had ever thought he was divine.
The Altarin’Dakor were
brainwashed, certainly. But they believed so strongly, and that fact nagged at
him strongly. What if what they were taught was actually true? Would it still
be considered brainwashing, then?
He didn’t have an answer to his own
question. So, he slipped an arm around her as they sat, staring out the
viewport at the stars.
“I have heard that you have been spending
extra time with Chele recently,” she whispered suddenly.
He pulled away, a jolt of shock going
through him. It had completely slipped his mind as he’d gotten lost in the
conversation. “I… It’s not what you think…” he began. But from the look in her
eyes, it was clear that she knew. He was caught. Alona knew that Chele was
after him. And Maarek hadn’t exactly been running away from her, either.
“Alona, I’m sorry…” he began. “I didn’t mean…”
She put a finger over his lips quickly,
silencing the rest of his words before they could come out.
That was when he noticed the mischievous
look in her eyes. “You look like a confused little boy,” she said, a hint of a
smile coming to her lips. He thought to respond, but she spoke further.
“It is quite common in our culture for
rivals to court the same potential partner,” she said. “Chele is attracted to
you, also. She is sending me a challenge to see who can win you first. I will
have to make an extra effort in order to claim you, I see. But I am not
concerned. I enjoy the challenge, and I know that in the end I will be
victorious.”
He looked at her incredulously. He had
thought that she would be angry, maybe even end what had begun between them.
But was she actually… approving? Thinking of it as a challenge?
He started to protest, to apologize to her
again, but his voice hung in his throat. She withdrew her hand.
“You may choose when you are ready,” she
said. “But I will make sure you choose me.”
He felt himself blushing, and could feel a
drip of sweat running down his back. He honestly didn’t know what to think right now. She was
practically telling him he could choose between them. Was she serious? Should he
seriously consider Chele? But he didn’t want
to choose her, he wanted Alona! Should he take her up on the offer to court
both of them and see which he wanted more? But how selfish, how wrong that
felt! He’d never this awkward before in his life!
Suddenly her arms were around him again,
and as she kissed him, he felt warmth spreading through his body, slowly
erasing his protesting thoughts like mist evaporating in the sun.
Don’t
think too much, he thought to himself. Maybe he should count himself lucky.
Alona’s kisses became more passionate,
longer. Pretty soon he wouldn’t be capable of any further rational analysis of
his predicament. And though he knew he would have to decide eventually, there
was no reason to say that he couldn’t delay making that choice.
Besides, if she was willing to let him
test the waters before deciding, then who was he to argue?
* * *
Titan-class
Battleship Grand Crusader
In Orbit, Varnus
1630
Hours
Sector Admiral and War Coordinator Gaius Adonai was
sitting alone in the conference chamber, nursing a large cup of caf and trying
to remember when he’d last slept, when Zalaria strode in, the trails of her flowing
dress stretching out behind her.
He looked up as she came in, dressed in a royal
white gown, her hair tied back behind her head. Her abdomen was prominently
swollen, now, drawing his eyes there immediately. Gaius couldn’t help but stare
in confusion at the change in her appearance. When he’d seen her three weeks
ago she’d barely even been showing; now she looked to be six or seven months
along already!
“I did not see Misnera or any of the Jedi
Council assembled on the bridge,” she quipped as she entered.
All sense of fatigue gone, Gaius took a long
drink of caf and placed his cup on the conference table in front of him. “The
Jedi Division have decided to sit this one out,” he
told her gruffly. “They have no desire to continue the offensive.”
She walked past him, over to the window,
and stared out of it for a few moments. He could hear her taking level breaths.
He wondered how she would react to that news. Hopefully she would keep her
cool. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to be suffering any mood swings from her
pregnancy; she must have solid control over her emotional state. Of course, her
usual demeanor was arrogant, short-tempered and obsessed with power, so he
didn’t know how it could get any worse, in any case.
She turned back to him. “And what is your
standpoint on this issue?”
Gaius crossed his arms in front of him and
glanced down at his cup, thinking. “We have retaken most of the systems in NI
space, but Mizar’s still out there,” he said. “The AD will keep using it as a
staging base to launch attacks against us and the rest of the sector. We need
to take it, use it as a buffer zone, a first line of defense. It’s either that,
or we should get out of Epsilon Sector completely.”
“An apt analysis,” she remarked, drawing
his attention again. “My scouts report that the Mizar System is unusually
quiet,” she said. “There is very little activity going. We should probably move
in soon. But something is wrong. Something momentous and dire is about to
happen. You can feel it, can’t you?”
He nodded thoughtfully; he knew what she
was talking about. Something wasn’t right in the Force. “It feels like the calm
before the storm,” he said.
“When you move in, you will likely have to
do so without me. I will follow after you as soon as I can.”
When he looked askance up at her, she
inclined her head and placed a hand on her stomach. “Within the next two weeks
I will be retiring to give birth to my son,” she said.
Gaius gaped at her. “How?” he blurted
without thinking.
She smiled slightly. “Through the Force
and my knowledge of biology, I have accelerated the child’s development. He
will be safer in a secured location, rather than with me, facing the dangers
ahead.”
He digested the news silently. If she said
she could do it, then he didn’t doubt it. But it was the craziest blasted thing
he’d ever heard in his life.
“Far be it from me to get in the way of a
mother and her child,” he said.
“You won’t have any problems taking
Mizar,” she said. “We now have superior firepower. But the Jedi concern me. I
will not let them sit idly by like spoiled children just because they got
hurt.”
He eyed her warily. She spoke
contemptuously about them, as if losing more than half their number was a minor
wound, easily mended. What did she expect of them? Was this normal life for an
Altarin’Dakor?
Zalaria was bent on one goal: victory. In
her mind, they had taken losses, but had won. Now it was time to move on. The
dead were gone. Insignificant. To her, everyone –
Gaius included – were simply tools to be used.
“So what’s your plan?” he asked her. “We take
Mizar, and then what? Fight off the other Warlords one by one?”
“If we must,” she replied.
“And will you absorb their forces into
your own, just like you did at Varnus?”
“Most likely I will be able to,” she
replied. “The tradition remains, among our people.”
“So eventually there’s going to be a whole
army of Altarin’Dakor here,” he said. “I thought that’s what we were fighting
to stop.”
“Would you rather it be
me, or a Shok’Thola who may decide to
kill you for sport?” she snapped. “It may not be your ideal vision of the New
Imperium, but it will keep you alive. The point is, the Altarin’Dakor are here now. Like
it or not, we are staying.”
“Is that what you intend to do then?” he
asked her. “Kill the other Warlords and take over the whole galaxy in order to
win? Is that your plan?”
“Don’t think I hadn’t considered it,” she
quipped back at him. “It might just require that, in the end. We will
ultimately have to deal with Altima, remember.”
Gaius just shook his head.
“What?” she demanded.
Megalomania,
he thought. “You’re all the same. Justify your thirst for power however you
want.”
She snorted back at him. “Don’t delude
yourself, Gaius. Glory, conquest, wealth, power; these mean
nothing to me. They are mere temporal things, destined to vanish in the
endless depths of time.”
He looked at her skeptically. “So what
does all this matter to you, then?” he asked.
She said nothing more, then. She apparently
didn’t feel like deigning to respond. Fine, then.
He waited for several minutes while she
just stood there, like a stoic phantasm, her thoughts unsearchable. Who knew
what such a creature was thinking about? Did she even think like normal humans
did, anymore?
“We have some problems among the ranks,”
she told him finally. “The Altarin’Dakor forces are getting quite anxious. They
want to know why we are holding here instead of pressing further with the
invasion.”
“You’ll just have to come up with some
reason to satisfy them,” he retorted. He knew very well that she’d lied to
them, telling them that the New Imperium had been defeated and that they were now
occupying the NI as conquered space.
She shook her head slowly. “I’ve prolonged
things as long as I can. I even executed the commodores of all three of our
Titans, citing disobedience to my orders.”
He winced at that fact. It was getting
hard to keep thinking of the NI as different from the Empire. Sometimes he felt
like he was just pretending, deluding himself. Things were changing, fast.
“If I told them the truth, that we were
turning to engage other Altarin’Dakor forces – that we
are, in fact, working to stop the
long-prophesied Return – everything that they believe in and live for would be
destroyed,” she said.
“Do you think you can keep up the charade
forever?” he asked her.
She didn’t respond. She would know as well
as he did that the NI and AD forces had been completely isolated from one
another. There was no interaction, even on the small scales that Zalaria’s
forces had been during the past year or so. It was all because these forces had
belonged to the Warlord Nimrod. And, incidentally, these forces thought that
the New Imperium was a conquered foe. So why should they work together with
them?
“Without those forces we won’t be able to
retake Mizar,” he told her. “But I won’t go into battle with men that I can’t
trust to follow my orders.”
“Don’t forget that the Altarin’Dakor
forces are solely under my command,” she reminded him. “We are playing this
charade on several levels, Gaius. You are not Altarin’Dakor. You cannot do this
without me.”
“Well then, if this is a charade, then why
don’t you just end it?” he offered, extending a hand towards her. “Why don’t
you kill me right now and take total control?” He knew that in truth, she could
easily do so at any moment. All it would take was a whim and a small portion of
her powers. But he didn’t fear it. He’d faced death too many times to be
afraid, now.
“Despite what you may have been led to
believe, Gaius,” she replied tartly, “I am not an evil person.” Then she stood
up and turned toward the double doors at the room’s exit.
He barely heard her whisper on the way
out, and he thought she said not anymore.
Taking her comments as the random murmurings
of a crazed despot, he simply rose and followed her back onto the bridge.
* * *
Titan-class
Battleship Warhawk
En
Route: Borrose System
1450
Hours
Lasitus stood on the bridge of the Warhawk, arms crossed in front of him, watching the crew flawlessly
performing their tasks in a state of near total quiet. Beside him stood Kodonn’Dakor Moyabi, dressed in his
battle armor, himself standing silent watch over the
ship’s commodore.
Unlike the other Titans he’d been on so
far, the Warhawk was one hundred
percent a warship. The bridge was smaller, more stripped-down, more functional. It was split into various, self-contained
levels, each devoted to one section of the massive vessel under its control.
The bulkheads were thick, and unlike many other ships, the bridge itself was
located deep inside the Titan, surrounded by kilometers of armor.
It brought back memories of his past life,
vanished ages ago, when he’d led legions into war against the forces of the
galaxy, intent on claiming ultimate victory for the Altarin’Dakor. Those
memories had been shrouded in mystery to him before, but thanks to Akargan,
they were now laid bare in all their ugly truth. He had wiped out entire worlds
from the bridges of ships like this one.
Was
he about to do so again?
“So we go in, accomplish our mission, and
destroy the base,” Lasitus said, speaking for the first time in an hour. Moyabi
seemed to lack a single hint of something that could be called a personality.
Most likely during his lifetime of training, he’d never found the time to try
and develop one. He was the stereotypical Jedicon, and Lasitus hated him for
that.
Akargan had given him virtually no
information about this mission he’d been sent on, and Moyabi hadn’t deigned to
enlighten Lasitus any further. All he knew was that on Borrose was one of
Strife’s communications bases, secreted in amongst one of the local cities.
Apparently inside was a database of all of Strife’s agents currently employed
throughout the galaxy. If it was true, it would be a
treasure of a find for Akargan to get his hands on. But how well would it be
protected? Would there be failsafe measures to destroy the data should the
facility be compromised? Was Akargan even telling him the truth?
Despite their earlier meeting, it was
still hard for Lasitus to see Akargan as a real, full-blown Shok’Thola, on par with some of the
other ancients. After all, the two of them had practically grown up together,
fighting in the Great War, as it was now called. Lasitus knew his former
comrade’s tendencies, habits, and even his flaws. He knew exactly the humble
beginnings the Warlord had come from. Akargan was very much a man, not some
kind of deity like his followers believed. This enabled Lasitus to approach him
in a far more confident manner than the other followers did. After all this
time, Akargan still felt like a fellow
However, going up against a Shok’Thola from before the Great War was
another matter entirely. The name Strife had stricken fear into Lasitus ever
since he’d been a child. Strife was one of the oldest, one of the strongest,
and had been a Shok’Thola thousands
of years before Lasitus was even born. As a result, even subconsciously,
Lasitus was almost deathly afraid of him.
Back in the old days, the Shok’Thola had ruled the Altarin’Dakor
as a group, and though each Jedicon served a specific Warlord, they at least
knew of the existence of the other Warlords, as well. But time had changed
everything he’d once known about the Altarin’Dakor. Now Shok’Thola ruled independent territories, where their followers
truly believed them to be gods of some kind, completely oblivious to the
existence of the others. This to Lasitus seemed detrimental. What would happen
to one Shok’Thola when they learned
the existence of, or were defeated by, another Warlord? Would the entire
society collapse? Was it collapsing already?
“There is one correction,” Moyabi said at
last, staring straight ahead.
“What?” Lasitus asked. He’d nearly
forgotten asking the man a question.
“First we must go down to the surface.
There is a database there of Strife’s operatives. We must ensure that we have
the names of any and all spies that are within our own forces,” Moyabi stated
flatly. “After we leave, we will bombard the planet from orbit. We are to leave
no survivors at all, Lasitus.”
“I… see,” Lasitus answered. So, that was
what Akargan had neglected to inform him about. Not until it was too late.
He didn’t voice the panic that suddenly
welled up inside him. What was he going to do now?
“We have arrived at the entry point to the
Borrose System,” an announcement came over the bridge just then.
“Excellent,” Moyabi replied. “Open the
wormhole and take us into orbit.”
And with that, Lasitus realized he
wouldn’t have enough time to decide. He was on a ship with hundreds of
thousands of Altarin’Dakor warriors, and enough firepower to level a planet.
And Akargan had been one step ahead of him all the way – now he was trapped,
and if Lasitus played his hand now, he knew he would never make it close to the
Warlord again. He had failed.
Lasitus realized he had made a terrible
mistake in coming to Akargan. Now, more people – perhaps millions of them –
were going to pay the ultimate price for his foolishness.
* * *
Titan-class
Battleship Eternity
Ven’lar System
1750
Hours
Maarek was coming to grips with the grim reality that it
now took longer than it used to in order to get around. Still, with his now
trusty cane in hand to help bear his weight should he become too dizzy, he was
eventually able to make it to the briefing room and sit down. Mercifully,
everyone had waited for him to arrive. He was, after all, their star pilot, so
he supposed it made sense.
Maarek had wondered if Strife himself
would be here to give him his first real mission. He’d had no further contact
with the Warlord since their first meeting. But Strife was nowhere to be found.
From now on Maarek’s orders would be passed down through Alona, it seemed.
Over the last few days Maarek felt he knew
the Archon well enough to take it into combat. And even more important, his
mastery over the Force had improved to the point that he was able to keep his
shield up at all times, subconsciously projecting it while going about his
day-to-day tasks. He still needed to improve, however, on the strength of it.
He’d taken the squadrons out into a mock
battle. During the fight, he’d asked Alona to try and disable him through the
Force, something that he now wished he hadn’t. Alona, a powerful Jedicon, was
able to break through his barrier within seconds. For a moment he’d relived the
horror of that day on Varnus, when his ship had barreled straight down towards
the city streets, and he’d been forced to watch Rann and Tanya’s fighters
explode as they impacted on the surface.
The terror had been so much that Maarek
had been out for several minutes. Later, however, during their private time
together, Alona confessed to him that she was surprised he’d lasted as long as
he had. Apparently since she knew him so well now, it was easier for her to
break through into his inexperienced mind. He tehn told her about the fateful
day it had happened to him for real, and what his pilots had meant to him.
Perhaps, as a wing commander herself, she would be able to empathize with him.
He didn’t fault her for putting him through
that again. He knew she hadn’t meant it; she was simply doing her job. And that
job was to make Maarek as ready as he could be for actual combat against other
Altarin’Dakor – especially Jedicon.
His failure tore at him inside, and he had
rededicated himself to making his barrier as strong as possible. Perhaps other
Jedicon pilots weren’t nearly as strong as Alona was. Against them, she said,
Maarek would fare better. But regardless, he wouldn’t give up. He would be
ready before he faced a Jedicon pilot again. And next time, his shield would
hold.
Alona came into the center of the briefing
room and began to address all the pilots in the wing encircled around her. Maarek
finally eased himself into his chair, surrounded by a room full of
Altarin’Dakor pilots – many of them Jedicon.
After a moment the room stopped spinning
around him, and Maarek focused on Alona, standing there in her white Jedicon
robes.
“We have our first mission that will take
us into actual combat,” she announced in Altarin’Dakor. The earpiece in
Maarek’s ear translated everything she was saying into Basic almost as soon as
the words were out of her mouth. If it hadn’t, Maarek would have been
completely lost. He’d picked up some Altarin’Dakor words and phrases since
coming, but he wasn’t conversational in it yet. Language skills had never been
one of his strong points.
“We have received a distress signal from
our base in the Borrose System,” she continued. “They are under attack from a
Titan-class Battleship belonging to a rival fleet. Our first real combat will
be against enemy Altarin’Dakor pilots. May we bring glory to Lord Strife with
an overwhelming victory.”
The round of applause filled the chamber
and sent chills down Maarek’s spine. He couldn’t sense the slightest
trepidation from them, or the smallest sense of remorse that they were killing
other AD. As far as they were concerned, they were the enemy.
“As you know, one of the key reasons for
developing the Archon System is to combat against Jedicon pilots. Should our
minds become clouded, our link with the fighter should protect us and enable us
to function normally.” She spun in a slow circle, glancing at the rows of
soldiers gathered in the room. “Our integration with our fighters is virtually
complete. We are the ultimate elite pilot-warriors. Honor to the Altarin’Dakor!
Glory to Strife!”
The call was taken up, reverberating
throughout the chamber. And even though Maarek didn’t join in, he still felt a
sense of pride rising up in his heart. He was one of them. He had sat with
them, ate with them, and trained with them, and was now about to fly the most
advanced fighter the galaxy had ever seen. Whatever it was out there they were
about to face, they were more prepared for it than anyone else could ever be.
It was time for the real testing to begin.
* * *
Titan-class
Battleship Grand Crusader
Varnus System
1700
Hours
Gaius followed Zalaria through the double doors from the
conference room onto the ship’s massive bridge. Unlike some he’d been on, the
Titan’s command chamber was a silent and completely composed environment.
Holograms hovered here and there – maps of the galaxy and of NI space, status
reports, and fleet orders of battle. He still hadn’t gotten used to it all yet.
Assembled and waiting for them there were Walt
Amason, Rodin Kaler, Stan Sanders and Jann Percy. Stan wore a frown on his
face, while Amason was sitting in a chair at one of the consoles on the side.
Kaler and Percy stood near one of the ship’s wide, spread-out viewports, having
a quiet conversation between them.
Gaius knew the men were uncomfortable,
here. They were surrounded by even more Altarin’Dakor than they had been on the
Nexus, with far fewer NI personnel.
At least on the former flagship, they’d started to become familiar with some of
the bridge crew. Now, looking around the massive chamber – three stories of
walkways, command stations, and bewildering equipment – he knew that some of
these officers had actually served Nimrod, and had fought against the NI. How
long would their loyalty hold if they actually went into battle?
Standing several meters away – but still
within earshot – was the ship’s new commodore, a bald, middle-aged man with a
muscular build that made him look more like a grunt than a commanding officer.
He, at least, had been one of Zalaria’s men, though how well the Titan’s crew were accepting him, Gaius wasn’t sure. The man barely
spoke a word of Basic. That made Gaius nervous. In battle, clear and concise
communication was vital to survival.
The NI officers – now the members of
Gaius’ so-called War Cabinet – looked at him expectantly as he and Zalaria came
to a halt in their midst. Gaius wasn’t sure what they were expecting him to
say, but he hoped they would be willing to accept the decisions he was having to make.
“Some good news,” Zalaria said first.
Eyes slowly shifted to her. Gaius knew
that they still considered him to be the sole commander of the navy. And they
didn’t like deferring to her, not one bit. If any of them were shocked by how
large her abdomen had become, they were hiding it well – somewhere behind the
expressions of disdain on their faces.
“It’s about time,” Stan said finally.
Inclining her head, she raised her hand
out towards the stars outside the viewport. Gaius followed her hand with his
gaze. Through the forward windows he could see the massive trunk of the Grand Crusader extending for tens of
kilometers ahead, along with the two giant wheel structures that housed much of
the Titan’s formidable forward weaponry. The sheer bulk of the ship was still
hard for him to comprehend. Due to its shape, it was many times more massive than
the Nexus had been. So far he’d
personally seen less than one percent of the ship, and he doubted that amount
would increase by much.
Then, outside the viewport, stars began to
shift positions as a ripple seemed to blossom out in the void. Then, fading
into view like a phantom, another Titan-class Battleship appeared.
“Gentlemen, I give you the Nimbus,” Zalaria said.
The vessel was massive, as most Titans
were. But whereas he remembered the Nexus,
Zalaria’s last ship, as an elegant, almost fragile-looking ship, this one was
different.
It was clearly a ship meant for war. Well
over forty kilometers in length at Gaius’ guess, the new ship was armored in
dark metal. The bow began in a sharp, spear-like point, from which the hull
rose and flared in a series of ribbed sections edging ever higher, creating
what looked like sharp-pointed, forward-sweeping waves rising upward all across
her spine. It was far more massive than the Nexus
had been, that much was clear. What was confusing, however, were the numerous blackened spots along
her hull, including sections where holes had been carved, exposing some of the
internal decks to the outside, along with the unmistakable gash marks of
Altarin’Dakor beam weapons.
“She’s damaged,” Percy remarked.
Zalaria nodded. “Unfortunately, the Nimbus is the only ship that survived
running the blockades that the other Shok’Thola
have in place at the Gates – both on our side, and
yours. I have yet to discover if any of my brother’s former forces were able to
make it through, either. Apparently, several of the others have somehow decided
to join forces. It could things a bit more difficult for us.”
The news cast looks of alarm between the
command staff.
“That’s putting it mildly, don’t you think?”
Rodin Kaler said, his face turning livid. “How long have you known about this?”
“Long enough to develop a
counter-strategy,” she quipped back smoothly. “Do not despair.”
“Well, we now have four Titans,” Stan
Sanders commented. “We have more firepower now than we ever had with just the
NI forces alone. That gives us a better fighting chance, doesn’t it?”
She shook her head once. “We are still not
unbeatable. We have no Jedicon other than those that have just arrived. Mine
were wiped out at Varnus, and Nimrod’s all had to be slain. We still need more
reinforcements, as many resources as we can gather.”
“Why can’t you muster more of your forces
back in your galaxy – or Nimrod’s?” asked Percy.
“You must understand,” Zalaria explained,
“Nimrod controlled nearly fifty percent of the Altarin’Dakor galaxy. His
territory is now a lawless region, in a state of chaos and civil war. What is
more, other Shok’Thola are invading
his space and stealing territory for themselves. Our
entire society is extremely unstable at the moment. Only the other Shok’Thola can reestablish order and
keep things under control, but they are currently all focusing their efforts
here, in this galaxy.”
“Do you think the other Warlords will come
after the New Imperium?” Stan asked. “Will they be looking for payback, or
might they bypass us entirely to strike into the rest of the galaxy?”
“Their strategy is still unclear,” she
replied, “But we do know that Mizar is still under their control. Therefore
they may wish to take advantage of its useful position as a staging base.”
“We have to finalize a plan of attack on
Mizar, and soon,” Gaius said, watching to gauge their reactions. No one seemed
overly surprised; they’d almost certainly expected this time would come.
“What’s the status of the new Majestic
cruisers?” he asked Amason.
The other man blew out a sigh and pushed
himself up out of his chair. “I placed an emergency order for ten of them, back
among some of our allies,” he said, starting to pace anxiously. “Since we lost
Moro we have no capacity to build ships ourselves. I had to incur a massive
debt on this, since we currently do not have the funds to pay for them.”
“We’ll do our best to reimburse you after
the war is over,” Gaius told him.
“I’ve heard that one before.” Walt shook his head. “At any rate, they’re
supposedly on their way. I guess they’ll get here when they get here.”
“And
what’s our logistical status?” Gaius asked, turning to Percy. “Is it as grim as
I’ve heard?”
“Probably more so,” the man replied. “As
you know the NI is down to about a fourth of its original territory. We don’t
have the forces or population to occupy all the space we once held. Our economy
has completely crashed and the local population doesn’t know what to do, but
they do know as well as we do that we can’t keep going like this. There isn’t
enough revenue coming in to pay our soldiers or purchase new supplies.” He gave
an exasperated look at everyone gathered. “We have to end this soon if we still
plan on living out here. Once the war is over we’ll have to try and pick up the
pieces that are left.”
Gaius nodded. It was a grim situation. “We
have to consolidate, until the war is over at least.”
“What of your quest to find allies among
some of the oldest races?” Kaler asked Walt Amason.
“The mission was a disappointment at best,
a failure at worst,” Amason said. “We made some allies along the way, but
nothing remotely even as strong as the NI. The Barabels sent us a few divisions
of troops, which helps some. But the Sharu – they weren’t interested in helping
us fight the Altarin’Dakor. They didn’t even give us the time of day. None of
the other, supposedly super-advanced, civilizations did. If you ask me they’re
not quite as advanced as they try and make out. I think they rely on gimmicks,
mostly.”
“Hmm. Well, only on battalion of Barabel
troops isn’t going to recompense my losses from Varnus or anywhere else,” Kaler
complained. He shifted and turned to look outside the window as the room fell
silent once more.
“Tell us about these other Warlords,” Stan
told Zalaria.
“Yes, I think we’re at the need-to-know
point, don’t you think?” Amason stopped pacing to add.
She grimaced, but complied with their
request anyway. “When my ships passed through the Gate into this galaxy, they
were able to obtain an order of battle of all other Altarin’Dakor vessels that
have passed through the gate recently,” she explained.
“Unfortunately, they discovered that the
flagships of virtually all the major Shok’Thola
were on the list. These include Akargan, Velius, Strife, Asellus, Calvernic,
and Raftina. That means that they are all now in this galaxy. They must
eventually be dealt with.”
Percy made a low whistle, while Stan looked
down and shook his head slowly. Amason blew out a long sigh and started pacing
again, his boots echoing off the polished metal floor.
Stan looked about to respond, but she
stopped him with a raised hand.
“There is some good news, however.
Altima’s personal flagship was not on the manifest, which means that he is
probably still in the Altarin’Dakor galaxy. This presents us with a unique
opportunity. If we can make a strike at the Gate and destroy it on the other
side, we might be able to prevent Altima from traveling to this galaxy, and
delay the return of more Altarin’Dakor forces for decades or even centuries,
considering the chaos there.”
“Finally, a proactive approach,” said
Percy. “I like that. How could we implement such a plan?”
“It will require a strike with massive
force. We’ll have to take all the firepower we have to the very edge of the
galaxy. It may leave the New Imperium virtually undefended, but such a brazen
move might actually draw the others after us, instead.”
“Then maybe that’s what we need to do,”
Amason added. “We can’t keep fighting a war of attrition. We have no chance if
we do.”
Everyone looked at Gaius, obviously
wanting to know what he thought. But Gaius had already made his decision. He’d
spent hours deliberating over it in the ready room. There was only one way they
could ever hope to stop the Altarin’Dakor, and that was to destroy the Gate.
Otherwise, the galaxy would continue to be ripe for invasion no matter how many
Warlords they killed.
“First things first,” Gaius said. “Deploy the
fleet. We head to Mizar. Then, after that, we’ll look at this plan.”
* * *
Onboard the Black
Star
Location Unknown
Time
Unknown
Eventually,
Icis' eyes adjusted, and he saw that instead of a surrounding brightness, they
were actually traveling through a tunnel of light, the sides of which were just
slightly brighter than those ahead. How long they traveled that way, he could
not have said. Time did... strange things... whilst in the Transit.
Beside him, Xar had a look on his face that seemed
part bewilderment, part worry. Icis did the best he could to explain that this
was, in fact, the normal procedure though which all Travelers passed back and
forth to Kajarn, the home of the Travelers.
After a while, the brightness that lay at the end of
their tunnel of light began to take on a significantly bluer hint to it, and
Icis felt a wave of nostalgia begin to wash over him. He had only seen that
blue a single time in the last several thousand years. This was it. He was
almost home.
Suddenly, the light around them vanished. All that
remained was the blue, like that of a bright azure sky, enveloping them on all
sides. Xar actually gave a small gasp at the transition.
Then, as through a haze of blue, a
circular object appeared ahead, growing quickly darker, quickly closer.
Soon it was clear what it was. A sphere over fifteen thousand
kilometers in diameter. The Traveler Homeworld.
The surface was completely gray and featureless, save
for an equatorial line that itself emitted a bluish light. Constructed
artificially by the Kajeat eons before, it actually had self-contained
environments of all varieties in special zones designated within. And to
actually access the planet's interior - and surrounding the planet itself like
a broad ring - were the docks.
The docks were a series of broad platform structures
hovering anywhere from one to a hundred kilometers above the surface, linked to
one another by narrow tubes, forming a latticework that wrapped around the
entire planet. Transport actually to Kajarn itself, of course, was done by
teleporter, so the connecting tubes were rarely used anymore.
There were ships, too. Countless
ships. Docked at those structures, and moving
in between and away from them, of all shapes and sizes. Thousands
upon thousands of them.
"I... I've..." Xar whispered softly,
struggling to find the words. "I've never seen anything like this."
He turned to look at Icis, his face bathed in blue light. "I mean, I've
seen Celestial constructions this big. But they're abandoned, just relics.
This..." He glanced out the viewports once again. "This is
alive."
Icis understood how he must be feeling. It was his
first time to the Travelers' homeworld. Compared with their
artificially-constructed planet, even the Empire's Death Stars would have
looked tiny and primitive in comparison. "You are now among one of the
First Races," he said. "Welcome to Kajarn."
As they grew nearer to the planet and the platforms
loomed ahead, Xar looked down at the controls with a bewildered look.
"Gravity's not pulling us in," he remarked.
"Each environment has its own gravitational
field," Icis explained. "The space outside Kajarn is kept
gravity-neutral." A second later, the Black Star passed through an
invisible force field, and trails of air began to stream off the ship's wings.
"We are now inside atmosphere," Icis said.
Xar simply shook his head in disbelief. "So where
do we go?"
Icis pointed towards the nearest platform looming
ahead. "That will do."
The platform was maybe a kilometer wide. Xar guided
the Black Star up to one of the obvious airlock ports on the side and slowly
floated them up until they nearly touched, then
activated the docking system. A series of magnetic clamps locked them on, a
short tunnel extended from the platform to the ship, and seconds later they
were officially docked.
"Well, this is it." Icis said. "Let's
get our stuff. We should probably bring Nico, as well."
"Now? How do you know
they won't be hostile toward us?"
"I don't," Icis told him. "But we can't
just leave him here. He’ll be safer with us."
With that, they unstrapped and made their way towards
the back. In a short time they had gathered their bags, and Xar was wheeling
Nico out on his hoversled, and they passed through the Black Star's airlock
into the stark white corridors of the nexus hub platform.
The first hallway was empty. That was good. Now all
they had to do was get to the teleporter and enter Kajarn before security
caught up with them. Once inside, they could make a scene and, when it was
obvious that the general populace knew there were outsiders onboard, he should
be able to appeal to speak with Angol Moa herself. Should being the operative
word, of course.
They weaved their way through the featureless
white-lit hallways, blue light streaming in through the occasional window. Icis
knew his way through; fortunately, all the platforms had the same general
layout. Also fortunately, they were almost always unoccupied unless someone was
actually docked there. He had chosen an empty one, trusting that would be just
the case.
There were no security droids or checkpoints in the
platform, nor were there any customs or immigration protocols. It was usually
assumed that only Travelers could conceivably come to Kajarn in the first place
- and rightly so. After all, Icis was one.
In fact, they made it all the way to the teleport
chamber before their luck ran out. There were guards there, all right, and they
had been waiting for the intruders to come to them.
"Halt!" the lead officer shouted as
they rounded the last corner. He and seven others stood directly in their way,
in front of the teleport pad. All of them had guns trained on Icis and Xar.
They had managed to get here just in time, it seemed.
"Don't shoot!" Icis said, dropping his bag
and raising his hands immediately. Xar glanced over at him, and after a second
slowly did the same.
It took Icis a moment to realize how ridiculous they
must look. Two intruders, calmly sauntering their way through the corridors as
though they owned the place, one of them pushing an unconscious patient on a
hoversled, complete with life support equipment attached and running.
Unfortunately, all eight of these officers were
Kajeat, which meant that they were all Force adepts. This could be bad.
"My name is Icis Novitaar..." he began.
"You are not Kajeat!" the leader shouted.
"Only Kajeat are allowed here! Outsiders are not welcome on Kajarn!"
Icis froze. It was a harsh reality, having your own
people refuse to acknowledge you as one of them.
"I am Kajeat," he protested, keeping his
voice calm. I was raised here and achieved full Traveler rank. "Please,
let us pass. We seek a meeting with Angol Moa."
The man kept his gun pointed straight at Icis.
"You are not one of us," he said stubbornly. "You can't fool our
scanners. Outsiders are to be turned away and sent back immediately and without
question. Turn around now!"
It was impossible to tell the age of a Kajeat by their
appearance, but apparently some of them were still fairly young. At least two
of the guards had begun to gape openly at Icis when he'd mentioned his name.
Apparently his reputation as something of a rebel was still floating around the
homeworld.
However, they made no move to countermand their
superior officer.
"Gentlemen, I suggest you let us pass," Xar
said, speaking up for the first time. "You should know that I can probably
defeat all of you at once."
Several of the officers took on expressions of
disbelief, and he heard Xar grunt beside him in surprise as their weapons
remained steady.
"Icis! Don't they know
who I am?" Xar asked, looking over at him.
Icis turned slightly towards him, careful to keep his
hands raised. "I'm afraid not," he said.
Xar just stared at him.
Icis sighed. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but
most Travelers don't know you exist. They have no idea what goes on in our
galaxy. Neither we nor the Altarin'Dakor galaxy are part of the intergalactic
community."
"But the war..."
"Is a minor one by our standards," Icis
explained. "Frankly put, we're a backwater. Most of the Kajeat that do
know about it consider it a local dispute."
"A local dispute!"
Xar snapped. "Are you insane? Do you know how many people have died in
this 'local dispute'?"
"Imagine wars that happen between different
galaxies," Icis countered. "How many lives do you think those cost?"
"That's beside the point!" shouted Xar.
"Quiet!!" the officer bellowed, straining to
drown out their yelling at each other. The officers were glancing back and
forth at each other in seeming confusion, clearly perturbed by their quarreling
guests. "Turn around and leave! You can continue you argument on your way
out of Kajarn!..."
He broke off as a flash of light enveloped the
teleport pad. When it was gone, there was someone else standing there, and Icis
immediately recognized him as a Thiganik'llor. His blue-skinned body was
covered with white feathers, and he had a set of wide wings folded behind him
in addition to his clawed hands and feet.
"Stop immediately!" the newcomer ordered. At
his word, the officers turned back in surrprise. The 'Lor sauntered over to
them and began speaking with them in sharp tones. Icis took that moment to edge
closer to Xar.
"What was that?" Xar whispered to him.
Icis cocked his head over towards Xar. "That is a
teleporter," he explained. "That's how we get around Kajarn."
"A what?"
He broke off as the 'Lor turned to them and the
officers trained their guns on them once more. "I am Solus Emsu," he
announced. "You are to come with me at once."
Icis felt his jaw drop. An Elder was here?
He gestured Xar to move forward and do as they were
told. Xar took hold of Nico's hoversled once more and steered him toward the
teleport pad. The officers all began to file in around them.
Icis couldn't believe that an Elder had actually come.
This was either going to be good, or very, very bad.
"Are we actually going to..."
Xar began as they stepped onto the teleporter.
"Don't worry, you won't feel a thing," Icis
assured him. "Some people get disoriented, but that's all." His own
stomach was starting to feel queasy, but for completely different reasons.
There was a flash of light, and suddenly they were all
gone.
* * *
Titan-class
Battleship Abyss
Entering Borrose
System
1220
Hours
Maarek
half-stumbled as he tried to hurry his way across the flight deck, but caught
himself in time to avoid too much embarrassment. He paused, enduring a moment
of agony as the world seemed to spin around him, then
slowly started forward once more as the sensation faded.
Alona and the others were already in their
cockpits and were linking in and powering up their powerful Archon fighters.
The rest of the hangar was a sea of organized chaos, with Altarin’Dakor pilots
and troops everywhere, working to get the strike team launched as soon as
possible. They worked with speed, but were composed, not panicked.
Maarek’s own fighter lay only ten more
meters ahead. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself forward, his cane clinking
every time it touched the deck beneath his feet. The air smelled of coolant, polished
metal and exhaust.
The strike team of Archon pilots would fly
into Borrose first, escorting a small formation of troop transports carrying
Jedicon and shock troops down to the surface for the counterattack. Then they
would provide air superiority until the Abyss
arrived to drive off the invaders from orbit. In theory, the Titans would do
little more than take potshots at each other before one of them decided to
leave. Ships of this size and expense rarely engaged one another directly –
much like top-level predators on most habitable worlds.
Nearly to his fighter, Maarek spotted
Chele in the distance, leading a group of elite Jedicon into one of the sleek armored
transports. Each of them wore a suit of black stealth armor. Their job would be
to enter the base and eliminate whatever attackers had infiltrated inside. He
felt a pang of fear for her safety, just as he did for Alona, who would be
flying with him. Chele caught his eye and raised a hand in mock-salute at him,
then flashed him a wink before she ducked inside.
The day before, they’d had a grueling
training lesson in which she’d assaulted him mentally for two hours straight.
He’d done better than he ever had before. But he still didn’t know if he was
ready. The whole time, she hadn’t spoken to him about their relationship, and
she still hadn’t mentioned Alona. He was unable to tell whether she was growing
impatient waiting on his decision.
But Maarek felt he had made his decision, or perhaps it had already been made since
the beginning. He had wanted to tell Chele then, had wanted to tell her that he
had chosen Alona. But for some reason, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to
say it. Maybe he was afraid of disappointing her. Maybe he still wanted to keep
his options open. But there was another possibility he was afraid of, one that
sent self-doubt stabbing into his mind. Maybe he really did want two women at
the same time.
He shook his head, then immediately
regretted it as the world spun again. Blast it! Now wasn’t the time to consider
such things! He took the last few steps up to his fighter and made his way up
the steps leading to the cockpit, knowing if he let himself get distracted out
there, he was as good as dead.
After a moment he dropped into his seat,
and the ladder pulled away and the cockpit sealed, cutting off all outside
sound. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, relishing the peace and quiet
for a split second. Don’t screw this up,
he told himself. He had to remember, he’d been given another chance at this.
Flying was life, and this was his second lease on it. Better make it good.
The built-in connectors in his headrest
reached out and touched the implants in the back of Maarek’s head. From that
point onward, Maarek stopped seeing things with his own eyes. Now, he was the Archon. He could feel its wings
like his own arms, and its rear ailerons were his legs. The armored exterior
was his skin, and its powerful array of weapons were
his teeth.
Now, he felt invincible.
The pre-flight sequence took less than a
minute to complete. Just as the last of the troops finished entering their
transports, Maarek’s wing of Archons launched out of the belly of the
Titan-class battleship.
Once in space, Maarek guided his ship into
formation with the other group of Archons as they streaked away from their
mothership. The transports launched seconds later. Maarek was able to switch
his vision to an aft view of the fighter almost without even thinking about it,
and it brought the Titan into view behind and overhead.
The Abyss
resembled nothing so much as a wickedly-carved dagger out of some fantasy Holo-drama.
Black, and sharp-pointed at the bow, it contained four wing-like areas that
fanned out in different directions near the stern. It was fast, stealthy, and
extremely well-armed, perfect for this mission.
“Setting
a course for the target system,” Alona’s comforting voice entered his head.
“Understood.
Locked in and ready,” Maarek sent back. He didn’t actually have to speak the
words. Just thinking about it made it happen. The sophistication and beauty of
the Archon fighter never ceased to amaze him.
Moments later, all the ships were in
formation. But when Maarek expected the whole lot of them to
jump into hyperspace, that didn’t happen. Instead, there was a flash of
light ahead of the leading ship, and as he watched in amazement, a hole opened
up in space, filled with an unearthly red light shining out from within. Then,
one by one, the fighters and transports passed through onto the other side.
When it was Maarek’s turn, he felt his Archon moving forward on autopilot, the
anomalous opening filling his vision, unable to look away, as the ethereal light
of ultraspace expanded to surround him.
Then he was inside.
* * *
Spaceport
Planet
Borrose
1450
Hours
Lasitus
followed Moyabi’s retinue through the interior of the spaceport, stepping
carefully around the bodies strewn across the floor. The nerve gas that
Moyabi’s men had attacked with had done its job well. At least they were
enemies – Strife’s forces, he reasoned. At least, most of them were. Quite a
few were dressed in civilian clothing. He tried not to look at their faces.
What was he becoming? Did he have to
accept responsibility for their deaths, as well?
The
throng of shock troops led Moyabi, Lasitus and the other Jedicon deeper inside
without incident. There had apparently been no survivors. It made Lasitus
suspicious. This was far too easy; it had to be a trap of some kind.
He kept his eyes straight ahead, watching
Moyabi’s back. But still, he couldn’t erase the stench of death that came to
his nostrils. It brought painful memories back into his mind, ones he had shut
away as tightly as he could. He couldn’t deal with those, not now. The wounds
were still too fresh, the events that had caused them transpiring just a matter
of weeks earlier.
Lasitus knew that it wasn’t just the death
of someone who had been closest to him. It had been what he’d been willing to
do to avenge that loss. He knew he was a killer – plain and simple. And he’d
enjoyed it. The old Lasitus was still very much alive, and always would be.
But the truth was, even his love of
shedding blood didn’t disturb him nearly as much as another, inescapable fact.
What brought that true horror was how he’d stood by to begin with while Derek
was killed. His moment of indecision meant that the boy’s blood was on his
hands. Lasitus was responsible for his death just as much as those Jedicon had
been, and that thought was unbearable. He had to do something to try to atone,
even though he knew it would never be enough. He would never forgive himself
for his failures.
The man who had been Bren – he still
existed too, somewhere deep inside. Slowly, Lasitus had come to realize that he
hadn’t reverted completely to the old man. It wasn’t glory or personal power he
lusted for, anymore. The violent man inside was still there, and he had no
compunctions about using it to accomplish his goals – but those goals had
changed. He wanted to protect life, not take it. He would not stand idly by
again.
Perhaps that was what had driven him to
Akargan, the only remaining person from his former life. If he could somehow
save his former friend from what he had become, would it validate Lasitus’ own
second chance at life? And yet, after only a few days with him, Lasitus knew
that his cause was hopeless.
He couldn’t allow Akargan to destroy
Borrose. Millions would die, and their blood would be on his hands, too. He had
to figure out something, fast. He knew he could dispatch Moyabi fairly easily. But
would that be enough? If he wanted to stop the Warlord, he would have to take
up arms against him. But deep down he knew that it was
a hopeless cause. Just as the New Imperium didn’t stand a chance against the
Altarin’Dakor, he didn’t stand a chance against Akargan.
Moyabi had stopped in front of a closed
hangar door inside one of the private docking areas. There were no bodies in
this area at all. The spy reports had said that Strife’s base was in a sealed
area within the spaceport. It took only moments for Moyabi’s slicers to
override the door’s controls.
The doors opened to reveal rows of
computer banks and workstations taking up the whole interior of the hangar. It
was also occupied – apparently the base was on a separate ventilation system,
because its denizens were still very much alive – and ready for them.
The firefight lasted only moments.
Moyabi’s Jedicon and the shock troops rushed in as the base’s dozen or so
occupants let loose with their weapons in a desperate bid to stop them. Within
seconds they were cut down – whether by lightsaber or pulse rifle, the end
result was the same.
As the smoke cleared, Moyabi and the
slicers picked their way through the room towards the main control consoles.
Lasitus followed them at his own pace, his mind still working desperately on
his own situation. They didn’t need him, anyway. He hadn’t had to do anything
since shuttling down to the surface, and even during this firefight, he hadn’t been
in any real danger.
The main control consoles had only
received minor damage from the shootout. It took less than half an hour for
them to break through the security system and get inside. Again,
too easy. Something didn’t feel right about this.
“There is a large store of information
here,” one of the men reported.
“Just take everything,” Moyabi ordered
them. “We will sort through the data on our return.” He turned away to allow
them to work, and looked back towards the entrance. “Let us return to the ship
so that we can turn this miserable rock into space dust.”
Lasitus’ mind was racing a million klicks
an hour as he followed the Jedicon out.
What was he going to do? He couldn’t let them kill everyone on Borrose.
Every passing second made the sense of panic inside him grow
stronger.
* * *
Borrose System
1530
Hours
The dust-covered world of Borrose hung suspended in
space, growing closer in Maarek’s cockpit window every second as they
approached. In the distance hung the Titan-class Battleship Warhawk, one of the Warlord Akargan’s
ships. The vessel was massive, with a bulky finlike projection extending
downwards almost as far as the ship was long. A retinue of smaller ships
surrounded the Titan, while their target – the capital city’s starport – lay on
the other side.
Maarek guided his Archon in between the
cluster of transports and the rest of his wing. As the planet grew closer ahead
of them, he saw another large blip appear on his screens – the Abyss was coming out of hyperspace
behind them.
“Two
minutes to engage,” Alona’s familiar voice came to his ears. “The transports should be on the surface
thirteen minutes after that.”
“Understood,” Maarek said back. Following
his words was a flurry of chatter in Altarin’Dakor that he didn’t understand –
probably acknowledgements from the others, or supplementary comments. He knew
that this was to be a fast mission: go in, kill the invaders and prevent the
base from being compromised – most likely by blowing it up – and getting back
out. They didn’t want an extended engagement with the enemy here.
Enemy squadrons were beginning to turn to
engage them, now. Maarek recognized Stilettos, Aggrssors, even a few Nightstars
and Punishers. No Widowmakers yet, thankfully. He wasn’t ready to face a
Jedicon again just yet.
This would be a tough engagement, but he
was sure the Archons would still make space dust out of them. “Alona, I need
you to guard our exit corridor while the transports go in…” he began to say.
“Do not try to protect me, Maarek Stele!”
she shouted over the comm, her voice startling him with its ferocity.
He bit off what he was going to say back.
Her decisive tone left no room for argument. He knew she was right. To treat
her with favor would be a grave insult both to her rank and her honor. It would
mean she was too weak, unworthy of her high position. It would be a death
sentence among her peers. He would lose her by trying to save her
“I meant, take
the approaching squadron at two o’clock!” he said instead. He would just have
to trust her not to get herself killed. Chele was going down to the surface too,
he knew. There was nothing he could do for her, either.
Suddenly Maarek was aware that they were
in firing range. Glancing at several enemy fighters, he targeted them and began
to unleash his craft’s beam weapons, sweeping from one target to the next. The Archon’s next-generation Xyrilan-class
beams operated on a different frequency than normal, and were able to penetrate
opponents’ shields and cleave clean through their fuselages. His beam weapons
hit one enemy Punisher and sliced it in half, swept over to an Aggressor and
cut away its port wing, sending it spinning away. He also opened fire with his
craft’s mass driver rail cannons, their projectiles laced with anti-shield
charges. The slugs slammed into a Stiletto, blasting it into a thousand pieces.
Craft after craft split open and
explosions blossomed in the distance ahead of him. The enemy returned fire, but
their beams went wide; the Archons were moving too fast, their pilots able to
anticipate their attacks just before they happened. This was uncanny; Maarek
had never felt this calm in a dogfight before. Even though his actual body was
completely enclosed in an opaque cockpit and even though his helmet had no
visor, he could see and feel everything going on around him. Remarkable that it
no longer felt odd at all.
More enemy ships were exploding, and Maarek
was feeling more invincible than he ever had before. With every passing moment
he felt himself grow more excited, and he knew the fighter was building off of
his own emotions again, making him even more aggressive, more dangerous. His
earlier fears that he wasn’t ready to take the Archon back into combat seemed laughable.
Nothing the enemy had could challenge his Archon Superfighter. It wasn’t even a
fair fight.
Within seconds a handful of enemy
squadrons were obliterated. The entire wing of Archons blasted through the
first wave without losing a single fighter. Alona and half the wing turned back
to reengage, while Maarek the rest of them continued to escort the assault
transports toward the surface. Behind them, the Abyss began to vomit out hundreds more conventional fighters into
the fray.
More enemy blips appeared on the edges of
his vision, and the sky around his fighter began to light up with beam weapons
from the enemy capital ships and enemy fighters. Glancing to port and locking
onto a half dozen opponents with merely a thought, he sent missiles streaking
out towards them. Seconds later, Maarek and the first line of transports hit
the upper edges of Borrose’s atmosphere, and his wingtips began to glow.
“Ten
minutes to the surface!” Alona announced. “Provide air cover while they operate!”
“Copy,”
Maarek said. Time to see how well this
thing performs in atmosphere, he thought. Chele, be careful down there. He knew that she would attack her
task with the utmost ferocity and determination. He did not envy whatever
opponents she was going to face at the base, Jedicon or not.
At least fifty enemy fighters had pulled
in behind them, but the Archons and transports hit solid air well ahead of
their pursuit. Ahead, he could see a few squadrons rising up to meet them from
the vicinity of the capital. Not enough to stop them, though. Maarek would see
that those transports made it safely down to the surface, then
he would pick off any fighters that tried to make a run at them.
Then he would have to trust Chele to do
her job and come back in one piece. Just as Alona had made
very clear to him concerning her, as well. This was war, and you had to
take chances.
He engaged the approaching fighters on the
way down, sending out more missiles and beam strikes. Their blitz was strong
enough to scatter the enemy formations, giving the assault tranports enough
room to blast through to the surface. Within moments they would be making hot
landings and disgorging their troops into the interior. Maarek kept one eye on
them and one on the sky, watching and waiting – even while fighting – to see
what would happen next.
* * *
Starport
Planet
Borrose
1545
Hours
Lasitus and the team had nearly reached the hangar again
when the attack came.
Beams and blasts of energy erupted from
troops and Jedicon hidden behind counters, terminals and benches. The first
line of Akargan’s troops went down immediately, simply cut apart by the
barrage. The rest scattered and returned fire, taking shelter behind anything
they could find on the terminal floor. Within seconds the whole place was a war
zone as probably fifty or more soldiers on each side opened up on one another.
Lasitus dove down behind an information counter
as Jedicon rushed forward against each other, lightsabers blazing. Shock troops
screamed as they poured fire into one another or engaged in single-handed
combat. Explosions erupted in the air from propelled grenades, blasting
transparisteel panels and holographic displays into fragments that scattered
across the whole terminal. A group of four soldiers to his right screamed as
their bodies were pierced by blasts of energy and supersonic projectiles, and
they clattered to the ground just outside of arm’s reach.
Still in shock from the unexpectedness of
the attack, Lasitus hunkered down in his position, the sounds of battle filling
the air around him. He was still trying to get his bearings when he saw two
enemy shock troops rise to his right, training their weapons on him. A surge of
panic shot through his body as his fight-or-flight instincts kicked in.
Until now he had avoided using the Force; in
fact, he’d refused to even touch it since that horrible day on Varnus when he’d
slaughtered those Jedicon. Even when facing Moyabi and even Akargan he’d
managed to find a way around even touching it again. But now he was faced with
a familiar decision – defend himself, or die.
Thrusting out a hand, he sent out a wave
of force that blew the two troops off their feet, hurling them backwards
through the air and sending them through one of the far wall’s floor-to-ceiling
windows. He couldn’t even heard their yells over the
din of battle raging around him.
That threat abated, he glanced over to
take in the rest of the fight. Screams and explosions continued to fill the
air, and he could feel his blood beginning to heat up. The warrior within – his
true self – wanted to get out. He knew that if he let it, he would be able to
deal with the rest of the enemy with impunity.
He had to make a decision. He didn’t want
to kill anyone, and he didn’t want to let Moyabi destroy everyone on Borrose.
He could help these attackers – even kill Moyabi, or at least allow them to do
it for him. But if he did that, if he didn’t stop this attack, he would never
be able to return to Akargan, and his chances of affecting the Warlord would be
lost forever. He had to decide fast.
He
saw Moyabi moving forward, his lightsaber spinning in his hands as he deflected
bolts of energy from one opponent, then clashed against an enemy Jedicon’s own
saber. His long, braided hair swung wildly behind his head as he struck with
all the ferocity of a Jedicon in the midst of battle rage.
Standing, Lasitus drew on the Force and
stepped forward.
Using the power within him, he extended a
bubble of protection around both himself and – meters away – Moyabi. Suddenly
bolts flew at him, but impacted harmlessly against an invisible field two
meters away. Moyabi was protected, as well, and he began to cut through
opponents with renewed vigor.
Following Moyabi, Lasitus strode forward
one step at a time, allowing the Jedicon to kill each enemy in turn before
moving on. A dozen warriors threw themselves at the Jedicon, only to be cut
down mercilessly like mere training dolls. Moyabi kept pressing forward, not
looking back, not even acknowledging Lasitus’ assistance. They were nearly to
the hangar doors, now.
Then suddenly, appearing from inside the
door, a new figure came into view, hoisting something large in its outstretched
arms. There was a flash, followed by smoke, and Lasitus dove instinctively to
the side.
The bomb went off about ten meters away in
midair, and the force of the explosion sent him reeling. He let his body roll
with the momentum, crashing into a table and chairs set up outside what had been
a tapcafe. After a moment, ears ringing, he pushed himself up to his hands and
knees, surveying the scene to assess the damage to the terminal.
His central group of shock troops had been
obliterated in the blast zone, along with all but two of Akargan’s Jedicon. As
he watched, the figure from before – a red-headed woman, he realized, clad in
close-fitting battle skin – dove onto those last two Jedicon. Her opponents
reacted well, brandishing their blades and coming against her at one time,
slashing at her as she came in. But Lasitus quickly realized this was no
ordinary Jedicon. Not one, but two azure blades snapped to life, one in each
hand, and she took them both on in a lightning-fast flurry of strikes. One of
the Jedicon fell with a gash across his chest, then a second later his
companion followed suit, his head sliced cleanly away and his lifeless form
falling to the ground.
The woman whirled, snapping locks of
auburn hair away from her face as Moyabi – the last Jedicon alive – came in
next. Lasitus stood to his feet now, eyes fixed on the pair as they met in a
clash of light and noise. Moyabi attacked with powerful strokes from his
muscled arms, his blade a whirl of light under his Force-enhanced speed.
Somehow, thought, with her twin blades the woman was able to parry his strikes,
spinning just out of reach and then coming back in, sending him retreating
backwards with a complicated series of strikes of her own.
Locking bladed with her for an instant, Moyabi
glanced back and met Lasitus’ gaze once, inquiringly – almost asking for help,
perhaps? It didn’t fit the Jedicon. Lasitus knew he should have been helping
his ally regardless, but he found himself standing his ground. Let it play, a voice inside of him said.
The woman attacked with a fury, spinning
both blades in a deadly dance overhead. Moyabi fell back, defending, then with
a yell he ran stepped in a desperate attack. Their glowing weapons met once
more, then there was a flurry of light from her blades
as she spun. Her weapons weaved once, then twice through the other Jedicon’s
body, and Moyabi’s arm fell away first, then his torso split open in three
sections, spilling his innards onto the floor at the woman’s feet.
“Only you remain,” she turned to him and spoke
in Altarin’Dakor. “What is your name?”
Lasitus didn’t respond. He respected this
woman’s skills, but she was no match for him. He didn’t want to kill anyone
else unless absolutely necessary.
“If you will not respect the honor of the
Jedicon, then you will die a nameless memory!” she shouted at him, stepping
forward.
“Don’t do it!” he yelled at her in
Altarin’Dakor. “Do not force me to kill you!”
Her mouth twisted into a grin, and she
lunged at him.
She left him no choice. It was kill or be killed.
She ran forward, blades twirling, and he thrust out a hand at her.
The blast of Force he sent this time could
have stopped a star cruiser in its tracks. Targeted against a single body
weighing maybe half as much as his, she had no hope of escaping its grasp. Her
body flew backwards in the blink of an eye, slamming into the far wall hard
enough to leave an imprint of her form in it. He heard bones crack, her weapons
flew from her hands, and as he released her she fell, dead even before she hit
the ground.
Not for the first time, Lasitus felt the
rush of the kill flowing through his veins. And, also not for the first time,
he hated himself for it.
He looked back across the terminal
interior, now little more than a blasted shell, and saw that there was no one
else remaining to fight. His allies were all dead, as well. Some distance
behind him, overturned in one of the blasts, was Moyabi’s cart containing the
data discs stolen from the enemy’s secret base, their cartridges scattered
across the floor. Moving over to them, he began to scoop them back up. This was
what Akargan wanted. This was why they’d come. Without them the mission would
still be a failure.
He would bring these discs back to Akargan
and complete his mission. Now that Moyabi was dead, Lasitus was in charge of
the Warhawk and the task force. They
would do as he said, or else. And there would be a change to the plan. No
attack against Borrose would occur before they left. Let Akargan react to that
as he willed.
Seeing the body of the dead woman lying
lifelessly as he passed, Lasitus made up his mind again; he would not kill
anyone else. Especially not a woman. Not again.
* * *
Borrose System
1600
Hours
Maarek banked hard to port, the angle of his maneuver only
possible thanks to the Archon system encased around his body.
As he pulled around, his two pursuers came
back into view. Switching with a thought to his rail guns, he opened up on
them. Supersonic slugs of shield-penetrating metal alloys pierced the air in an
instant, ripping into the enemy fighters. The port wing of the first one disintegrated,
sending the fighter plunging towards the ground. The other was hit head-on,
ripping first the Stiletto’s cockpit to shreds, then
blowing the rest of the fighter apart in a gout of flame and gas.
Rolling over, Maarek dove for the ground, then pulled up in a split-S to avoid the trio of enemy
fighters that had been circling above him. His opponents were good, and he knew
that like all Altarin’Dakor pilots they were connected to their fighters
through the neural implants in the back of their heads, enabling them to
perform far beyond a mere humans’ capabilities. But their technology primitive
compared to the Archon. Maarek was his
fighter.
Shaking his pursuers took only a few
seconds, then he pulled another tight loop to track
one of them down. An Aggressor, it dove for the ground to try and escape.
Maarek rolled and pulled right onto his six, then fired with two of his
cannons. The beams of blue-white energy reached out and sliced the craft
cleanly in half, separating it into two halves. A second later both pieces
slammed into the dirt of the surface.
“Maarek
Stele, what is your status?” Alona’s voice sounded in his head.
“Situation nominal,” Maarek thought back. “Just mopping up here. How are thing in orbit? What’s your
tally?”
“The
situation is still a standoff. We have lost five Archon fighters so far.”
Maarek felt a twinge of disappointment.
They weren’t completely invincible. “How
many enemy have you killed?” he asked.
“To
date the Wing had eliminated three hundred and twenty enemy fighters.”
Maarek felt himself smile – or at least he
thought he did, since he couldn’t feel his actual body at the moment.
“There
is a problem, Maarek. The strike team has been neutralized.”
Maarek’s attention snapped back to her. “What
do you mean?”
“They
failed their mission. It seemed they would success at first, but there is an
extremely powerful enemy down there. I can sense his presence even now. It is
far stronger than any Jedicon I’ve ever felt before.”
Maarek couldn’t believe what he was
hearing. All he could feel was a rising sense of panic. “What about Chele?” he
asked, the world feeling more surreal by the second.
“Her
transmitter is off. She is dead.” Alona said simply.
“No!” Maarek shouted. He rolled his
fighter around again and dove for the surface.
“You cannot
go down there!” Alona warned. “The Abyss is going to bombard…”
He cut her signal off with a thought, adjusting
his dive to bring him back over the city, the lights of the spaceport standing
out against the ground below. This couldn’t be happening! Not again!
The two fighters he’d let live had circled
around and were ahead of him. He felt their attacks before they came, and jukied his fighter to starboard. Their beams of
energy sliced through empty air beside him.
Locking missiles on one, he fired two
warheads, then targeted the other and cut loose with all five beam emplacements.
The enemy fighter didn’t stand a chance.
All five beams hit dead on. There was a flash of light and a glowing halo that
appeared where the fighter was, then the beams died and Maarek could see a
strangely colored cloud of gas and two small pieces that had been wingtips
falling towards the ground. The rest of the fighter had been vaporized.
His missiles hit the other fighter and
exploded, sending fire and metal flying in all directions.
There was nothing else remaining between
him and his target. Diving his Archon downwards, he
rained death upon the spaceport.
Switching to missiles, he fired every last
one he had left, sending each one into a different building. The warheads penetrated
inside and exploded, blasting duracrete into the air and sending fireballs
rising into the sky. Two of the smaller buildings collapsed, consumed in fire.
Maarek’s rage was far from abated; in
fact, it was rising with every passing second, a thirst for vengeance and blood
impossible to ignore. The Archon made him invincible! He would make the enemy pay! They would know the power he held
in his hands!
Kriffing kriff, they’d killed Chele! NO!
Maarek leveled off, coming in fast on a
strafing run. Opening up with his rail cannons, he sent the slugs into the main
terminal building, raking them back and forth to get maximum dispersal. Then he
fired his beams next, pouring fire through the main building as he passed
overhead at a blur. His beams sliced through the complex, sending explosions of
fire pouring out in their wake.
As soon as he was past he immediately
began to loop back around for another pass. He could see the complex below,
clearly divided in two by the glowing line his beams had left. He leveled back
off, then dove in again. Another couple of runs and he
should be able to finish the whole place off. And whoever was left alive in
there – whoever it was that had killed her – well, he would make sure their
remains would never be found. Ever.
* * *
Starport
Planet
Borrose
1610
Hours
Lasitus
ran as fast as he could back towards the main hangar as explosions continued to
rip through the base.
The attacks seemed to come from everywhere
at once. At first he’d thought it was orbital, but he realized that if it was
he’d already be dead by now. A squadron of fighters must be strafing the place
after realizing their strike team had failed.
With half of his power enhancing his speed
and the other forming a protective shell around himself
and the hovercart with the datatapes, Lasitus ran hard. The transparisteel roof
and windows shattered into thousands of deadly shards that filled the air.
Metal beams and girders fell down from above, proceeded
by explosions and blasts of flame that chewed through the interior of the place.
Lasitus sped forward, never stopping,
relying on the Force to avoid falling debris and explosions an instant before
they occurred. The floor was littered with rubble, and he leapt over piles of
duracrete, collapsed support beams, and crushed dividing walls. If he could
just get back to the main landing pad, the shuttles they’d come in on might
still be there in one piece.
Suddenly a blinding light filled the
terminal once more. Lasitus let the Force guide him, diving instinctively to
the side as a massive beam of energy tore through the air once more. Searing
heat touched his skin, seeming to suck the very air from the room. Explosions
ripped through the building, shaking the ground beneath him as cracks split the
floor. By this time all he could hear was ringing in his ears.
Just as suddenly the light was gone, and
Lasitus’ danger sense flared again. He pushed himself up and ran, dragging his
cargo with him with the Force, as fire fell from the ceiling towards him.
At the far end of the room he could see
the exit. He ran for it as fast as he could. Glass shattered at his feet as it
hit the ground, and chunks of duracrete impacted against the protective bubble
over his head.
Something huge exploded in the room. He
took an instant to glance back, and saw that the entire central structure of
the terminal had collapsed. A wall of fire was rushing towards him as if in
slow motion.
With the Force filling him, he put
everything he had on speed and ran, knowing he had only seconds to get out.
Ahead, the ceiling above him finally caved in, and he watched it descending in
a painfully slow fashion in front of him. Adrenaline and the rush of battle
surged through his veins. Almost
there.
With a final burst of speed he dove
through the hatchway, flames licking at his heels as he emerged into the night
air. He hit the duracrete floor of the pad and rolled, letting the cart go
behind him. It hit the ground, and datatapes scattered across the ground. Then
the terminal behind him collapsed, and a blast of fire and dust rushed out of
the entrance.
I
made it. Breathing out a long-held breath, Lasitus picked himself back up
to his feet. His blood was rushing in his veins – he felt alive! That had been too close, he decided. He looked back at
the devastation that was all that remained of the spaceport. Then he glanced
into the sky in the direction the attack must have come from.
There. A fighter of a design he’d never
seen before was streaking skywards, away from him, merely a speck in the night
sky now. Cold rage poured into his veins. That pilot had nearly just killed
him. He could feel the old Lasitus welling up again, the desire to exact
vengeance suddenly overwhelming.
Despite what he’d told himself just
moments earlier, he instinctively reached out, knowing he could eliminate the
enemy who’d nearly just done him in. A voice in the back of his mind reacted
against that, telling him to let it go, but in the rush of the moment he
refused to listen. It’s kill or be
killed, he reminded himself again. That was all it was. This one was just
another enemy that had to be eliminated.
The Force welled up in him once more, and
just as he was on the cusp of swatting the fighter out of the sky, he literally
jumped backward as a familiar presence hit him. He knew the person flying that
fighter! He’d encountered that presence in the Royal Palace before, on Varnus.
But how could that be?
Maarek Stele wasn’t a close friend, but he
wasn’t an enemy, either. Why would he be here? And even more, why would he be
flying for the Altarin’Dakor? Was something else going on here that he wasn’t
aware of?
He pulled away. He certainly wasn’t going
to kill Maarek Stele, even if the man had unknowingly just tried to destroy him.
He looked down at the datatapes lying
inside the hovering cart. What if there was really nothing of value on them?
Maybe this was all a setup. Perhaps it was merely a ploy just to see if Lasitus
would obey Akargan’s command and slaughter millions of innocent people.
Then he thought about Moyabi again. The
man was dead, and now Lasitus was in charge. The Warhawk would respond to his commands. He would tell it to turn
around and return to base, and then he would face Akargan and the consequences.
He made his way for one of the surviving
shuttles, eager to be away from this place as quickly as possible.
* * *
Planet Kajarn
Icis
knew immediately that they were now inside Kajarn. However, he also realized
that they were probably in a lot of trouble.
The reason was clear to him – this wasn't one of the
massive interior biospheres that had been created to house the billions on
denizens that lived on Kajarn. This was a security sector, with no unrestricted
access to the outside. He’d been to one of these sectors twice before in his
lifetime. Each of those times, the end result for him hadn’t been favorable.
They were marched down a much wider, yet still solid
white corridor. This one, however, was quite populated. Icis saw beings from
hundreds of the innumerable different species that made up Kajeat society. They
were all shapes, colors and sizes, yet they were all Kajeat. The Travelers were
probably, he figured, the antithesis of a homogenous people group.
Unfortunately, all of the Kajeat in this sector wore
security uniforms. Although crime was virtually unheard of on Kajarn, one could
not have a society of billions without some form of law enforcement, and this
seemed to be the central location for most of them.
"Icis, I thought teleportation was
impossible," Xar spoke up from beside him.
"Sorry I didn't have time to fully brief you on
Traveler technology," Icis said, feeling a twinge of annoyance. Didn't the
man see they were in serious trouble? "Besides, if I'd simply told you,
would you have believed me without seeing it for yourself?"
"You have a point," came
the answer.
"We've got to figure a way out of this,"
Icis said frantically, keeping his voice down.
"What?"
"They're going to lock us up straight away. We'll
never get our meeting this way!"
Xar spitted him with a hostile stare. "Maybe you
should have let me do things my way."
Icis shook his head. "You don't know what you're
saying. You're on Kajarn, Xar. I
don't care how strong you are, you can't fight you way out of this one."
Abruptly they seemed to have reached their
destination. They were in a large intersection, and corridors branched off into
many different directions. Solus Emsu had turned to face them and was
addressing the officers.
"Take the prisoners to their cells," he was
saying. "Those two to the standard holding cells."
He pointed to Xar and Nico, then to Icis. "That one goes directly into
isolation. He is to have no contact with anyone until the Council decides his fate."
"Elder!" Icis found himself crying out
instinctively. "You know who I am. I ask to speak with my father, Moa
Gault! He is on the Council of Elders!"
Solus Emsu turned to him sternly, and Icis felt
himself automatically beginning to wilt beneath that furious gaze. This was an
Elder, many times Icis' own young age of five thousand years. He was probably
much older than any of the Altarin'Dakor Warlords. It was difficult to even
speak to him, much less defy such a person. Yet he had to. It was his only chance!
"Moa Gault is indisposed," Emsu snapped at
him fiercely, his feathers ruffling. "He will not speak with an outsider.
That right is only reserved for Kajeat, and you are no longer a Kajeat. Take
them away!"
Icis felt like his heart had dropped out of his chest.
This was it. They were going to put him in a cell for the rest of his life! How
could he have been so stupid as to come back here? This was the end!
"Icis," Xar said in a warning tone.
"This is about to get messy. You'd better stand back."
"No!" He whirled to face Xar. "You
can't fight them! That is not our way!" How could he make the man
understand? He was nothing, here. The
Kajeat authority was unquestionable!
"I don't care anymore. I came here with nothing to
lose. Either I find what I came for, or I’ll die trying." Xar fixed him
with an intense stare, and Icis felt a chill run over his skin. Then the man
turned towards the officers.
"Hold it right there," the leader of the
officers said, stepping forward. "You two will come with my while they rest
of you take this one to Isolation!"
Suddenly, everything seemed to happen at
once. Officers rushed toward Icis and Xar, while out of the corner of his eye
he saw someone coming up to grab Nico’s bed. Desperately he turned away and
threw himself over Nico’s gurney, shouting at the men to stop. Xar crouched low
like he was about to attack the two men coming towards him. The captain raised
his sidearm, striding purposefully toward them and barking orders, looking like
he was actually going to fire at them at any second…
He froze in mid-step, and his shouted words became
fuzzy, befuddled, as though he were speaking underwater. Everyone around them
slowed to a halt, their hands still reaching out to grab their prisoners.
Then they began sinking into the floor.
Icis and Xar gasped at practically the same time.
Everyone in the room was sinking, except for them! They stood like statues,
their bodies vanishing into the perfectly white, solid floor, up to their
waists, up to their chests, their necks.
As their heads vanished beneath the floor, the muffled
speaking stopped. Icis and Xar stood there in silence, Nico's bed hovering just
behind them.
"What... in... the... blazes...?" Xar
whispered.
Then suddenly, in front of them another figure came up
out of the floor, rising until she stood perfectly level, right in front of
them.
Icis' jaw dropped even wider, this time.
It was her.
She was tall for a woman, almost Xar’s height – which
still meant she only came up to Icis’ chest. She wore a long black overcoat,
cut wide at the shoulders and folded over at the chest, which tapered down and
concealed everything but her boots just above the floor. The coat’s breast was
embroidered with red and gold patterns, and underneath she wore a violet button
shirt.
All of this was, of course, secondary to
the long, flowing mane of bright red hair that came out of her head and went
everywhere. It must have been of a dozen different lengths, because parts stuck
out like spikes from her head, while others curved downwards, ending around her
shoulders, while the longest segments trailed down almost to her thighs.
Her face was mature, yet youthful at the
same time. Her large eyes were of a deep, emerald green like he’d never seen
before. Her face held a smirk that said she knew exactly who they were and all
about their mission here. Which of course, he didn’t doubt in
the least. She was so striking that it took Icis a moment to realize he
still had his mouth open. He tried to work it, to say something, but his mind
had frozen like a ball of ice. It was her.
Finally she put her hands on her hips and
blew out a sigh of pure annoyance. “Well, it’s about time. I’ve been waiting for
you two for a while. Come on.”
“Ex… Excuse me?” Xar spoke up from beside
Icis. His face was still frozen in disbelief at what was going on – which, of
course, Icis himself was, too.
“What did you do to those guards? Where’d
they go?” Xar asked.
“Hmm? Oh, the
officers? They didn’t go anyway, dearie. You
came down here.” She pointed a finger
at him. “I pulled you into this parallel dimension. It makes it a bit easier to
get around, wouldn’t you say?”
“A… A what?”
Abruptly she looked down at what appeared
to be a chronometer on her wrist. “Oh, good. We should
have plenty of time left.”
“Left for what?”
Xar asked.
“Why, to save the universe, of course,”
she replied with a grin. And with that, she turned and began walking away.
Icis still hadn’t managed to get his mouth
working right. He turned to Xar and grunted loudly.
“What’s going on?” Xar asked, obviously
still dumbfounded.
“J… Just follow her!” Icis managed. He ran
around to the other side of Nico’s bed and started pushing it forward, rushing
to catch up. Xar complied, coming up beside him.
Xar glanced over at Icis and nodded at
their guide. “Who is this woman?”
Icis worked his tongue, swallowed hard, then cleared his throat before answering. “This, my friend,”
he replied, “is Angol Moa.”
“That’s the person we’ve been looking
for?” Xar seemed shocked.
“It would seem she’s been looking for us,”
Icis replied gruffly.
“She said she was waiting on us. Who is
she, exactly?”
Icis glanced between the two of them, then shrugged helplessly. “Angol Moa is Eldest of the Travelers,
and our Supreme Leader. And, quite probably, the oldest
living being in the universe.”
Xar looked back at Angol Moa, who gave him
a sly wink.
“The Force help
us,” he whispered.
Angol Moa turned slightly and waved them
forward. “Come, come. I’d like to get there this century, please.”
“Where are we going?” Xar asked.
Instead, she simply quickened her pace,
heading down one of the main corridors. They walked in silence for a few
moments before Icis realized they must be heading for another teleport room.
“How did she do what she did just before?”
Xar whispered, looking at Icis. “I couldn’t feel her using the Force.”
Icis stared at him in confusion for a
moment. The man had to keep asking questions Icis didn’t know the answers to.
What did it matter how she did what she did?
“Well?”
“I have no idea,” he said finally. “Xar,
Angol Moa created Kajarn. She created the Teleporters. She created all our
technology! She even created all of us!
Of course she can use the Force as well, as any Kajeat can. But I really don’t
think she has to if she doesn’t want to!”
“Calm down! I’m just saying I can’t feel her in the Force, Icis!”
Angol Moa glanced back at them just then. “Ah,
don’t worry about that. This is just my astral projection,” she said
matter-of-factly.
“Your what?” Xar asked incredulously.
Just then they reached the teleporter.
“Step inside, boys,” Angol Moa said, gesturing to the pad. “I’ll be happy to
answer all your questions in just a few moments.”
They complied, with Icis pushing Nico’s
bed onto the pad and stepping up beside Xar. They watched as, whether for their
benefit or for some other reason, Angol Moa stepped up to the pad as well. Then
came that familiar flash of light…
Suddenly they were in a darker room, one
made of metal, not painted solid white. Yet it was still obviously a teleport
room, and could have been one of thousands on Kajarn.
“This way,” Angol Moa said, heading
towards the room’s only exit. The door slowly split open, letting in a shaft of
natural light into the room.
They stepped through the doorway and onto
soft green grass. And as his eyes adjusted, Icis gazed at the scene in front of
them in utter amazement and shock.
The teleport room was a single structure
built into the hillside on which they now stood. Stretching before them was a
large valley full of multicolored trees, with a deep azure sky resting above
wispy clouds. Mountains rose in the distance, towering, craggy
rocks with white-capped summits. It was one of the most beautiful places he’d
ever seen.
“Come on now,” she said, then began
walking down the hill, moving in the same ethereal-looking motion as before.
Icis and Xar moved to follow, with Nico in tow.
“S… Supreme Elder,” Icis spoke up, finally
managing to address her. “Where on Kajarn are we? I am not familiar with such a
place.” Yet it must have taken up a large chunk of the interior to be this
vast!
The astral projection of Angol Moa smiled
back at him. “We aren’t on Kajarn anymore I’m afraid, kiddo. The Council of
Elders gave me my own personal planet a while back, mainly to keep me out of
their hair, to keep me from interfering with their politics and running of
things. Gives me more time to do my research.” She
paused, cocking her head to one side. “Of course, they were also worried that
my experiments would blow up the whole planet one day, so better this one
instead, don’t you think? Ha!”
Icis continued to follow her in a state of
semi-disbelief. Now he and Xar were in the same situation, and he knew exactly
what the other man must be feeling. This was simply… unprecedented. Icis had
never expected to find anything like this.
They reached the floor of the valley, where
yet more wondrous things lay in wait. Huge, white organic-looking structures
rose from the ground, spreading out into the sky and flattening like giant,
spindly mushrooms, serving some completely unknown purpose. All around them
rose trees of myriad hues – mainly green interspersed with red, yellow, and
orange. Some were even pink or purple. Exotic birds and avian creatures flew
through the air between them, their species unidentifiable.
The air was thick with the smell of
flowers and nectar, and the sound of the birds and other creatures, as well as
a chiming music that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. The
temperature was just right – not too hot, not too cold. A slight breeze blew
across his skin, rustling the leaves of the trees. Everything was just right.
It felt good to be here. The place was a paradise.
The apparition led them down a grassy
hillock surrounded by exotic trees sporting luscious-looking fruit. At the
bottom of the hill was a pathway nestled next to a babbling stream, crossed by
a bridge spanning the stream’s width. Nearby, sitting on a hovering high-backed
chair, was another Angol Moa, a semi-transparent holoscreen floating in the air
in front of her, her fingers tapping on a similarly semi-transparent keyboard
hanging just beneath her hands.
The first Angol Moa walked around to the
other side of the second, seated one, turned around, and sat down into the one
already in the chair, matching the other Angol Moa’s position precisely. And
then there was just one of her, typing away at her screen, ignoring the three
of them completely.
Xar and Icis stood there with Nico for a
long moment, so long that Icis began to wonder if the real Angol Moa had even
noticed them at all. But she had to have, hadn’t she?
“Are we…” Xar began.
Suddenly she whirled in her seat and stood,
and Xar found her index finger touching his nose as she stared him down. “You
really looked better without that scruff of a beard. Lovely weather today,
isn’t it? I made sure it would be.”
For once, Xar seemed completely for lack
of words. Icis felt the same; Angol Moa had that effect on everybody, including
himself. It was like she knew what you were going to say before you even said
it.
“Well.
Anyway, welcome to my home. Or my testbed, if you prefer.
I don’t have a preference to what you call it, personally. I haven’t decided on
a good name for it, yet. Let me know if you come up with any good ones. Just make
yourselves at home.”
It
was then that Icis noticed that they were not, in fact, alone. Other figures
were present, walking down the path, or coming out from the forest of exotic
trees surrounding them. Yet they weren’t human, he could tell. In fact, he
didn’t think they were even alive. All of them were humanoid in appearance, but
their skin glowed, and was semi-transparent. He thought he could see machinery
inside, so they were droids, most likely.
“These are my assistants,” Angol Moa said, looking at Icis. “I found they
usually listen better, have more patience, and last a lot longer than most
organic species.”
“You created them too?” Xar asked.
“Of course. Would you like to
be my guinea pig?”
Xar opened his mouth, but only a croak came out.
"Your… What?"
"You know. A subject for my experiments,"
she said matter-of-factly.
"I, ah... No," he stammered finally.
"No, I don't think so." Xar looked like he'd seen a ghost.
"Ah. Too bad." She
simply shrugged. Icis cringed inwardly. This was Angol Moa, all right.
An awkward silence ensued. Icis couldn't really think
of anything to say at a time like this. Xar cast about as though looking for
something to relieve the tension. “Ah, what’s all this?" he said.
"You must really, ah, love insects.”
Icis looked at what Xar had made a sweeping
gesture to indicate. There were bugs, he realized. Not small ones, but big
ones, of bright colors and interesting shapes. They weren’t real bugs, of
course. They were really normal objects, simply made to look like insects. She
had insect pins in her hair, he could see, and now that he looked closely, even
the embroidery on her coat was of some kind of insect. Then there were insect
shapes laid into the railing along the side of the river, and there were insects
on her large holo-screen, moving across it like some sort of screen saver. Insects everywhere.
Angol Moa nodded matter-of-factly. “Of
course; I used to be one myself.” She gave him a glance and must have seen
something in his face, for she blinked. “Well, never mind that.”
“What? When was this, Supreme Elder?!”
Icis blurted without thinking.
“What? Oh, fifty-seven… No, sixty. Wait…
Maybe… Sixty-two thousand years ago? Way before your time,
Icis.”
“And how long have you looked like this?”
Xar asked.
“Um…” She paused, tapping her lip. “That’s
a good question. I’m not really sure. Certainly for thirty
thousand years, but… Well, it all blends together, eventually.” She
turned back to her screen. Letters and numerals were flashing by in patterns
that Icis couldn’t begin to decipher.
Xar glared at her in disbelief. “Is she
insane?” he whispered to Icis.
“Seventy-eight percent of people who meet
me answer yes to that question,” she said without looking back.
Icis simply shook his head. It was hard to
imagine the supreme leader of the Travelers as a giant insect. It was like
having a Verpine as the Diktat, or as Chief of State.
“All right,” she said finally, tapping a
button and causing the hologram to collapse in on itself
and disappear in a flash of light. “Would you like to come to my laboratory
with me?”
Xar glanced at Icis, who shrugged. “I
don’t think we really have a choice. Lead the way.”
They
took off again, and she led them away along the path into a copse of
vibrantly-colored trees. On the other side was a grassy hillock, which they
climbed leisurely, Xar pushing Nico's gurney ahead of him. Something that
looked like a butterfly floated in front of Xar and landed directly on the
unconscious man’s nose, apparently along for the ride.
As they crested the hill, the trees gave
way to a panoramic view ahead, and despite everything he knew about Angol Moa
and her achievements, Icis' breath still caught in his throat.
It
was like a shining white city spread out before them, but all made of one
single, congruous structure. There were giant domes hundreds of meters in
diameter and spires that towered into the sky. Structures of odd shapes and
sizes were spread out here and there, each surviving some unknown yet
inevitably scientific purpose. Everything gleamed in the sunlight like a
colossal white palace. There were even floating structures, small and large,
whole buildings or facilities that hovered at varying heights. Giant,
transparent orbs rested nestled between buildings, with strange lights glowing
within.
Icis
shook his head in awe. He knew that Angol Moa was legendary for her brilliant
intellect and amazing inventions. But to actually see it with his own eyes was
something else altogether. They were on Angol Moa's own world! He was sure that
few Kajeat had ever been granted this kind of honor. And the fact that he, who
was an outcast, was actually here was too wonderful for words.
"Shall we?" Angol Moa asked, gesturing the way forward. "We have
a lot to discuss."
They nodded, and shortly they were descending the hill
towards the large, gaping entrance resting below them. Icis could make out more
glowing droids inside, waiting for them.
It had to be one of the strangest retinues he'd ever
been part of, he realized. He and Angol Moa, with Xar pushing Nico's bed, all
of them walking along a stone pathway towards the most magnificent center of
scientific research he'd ever heard of.
It felt surreal. He was really here at Angol Moa's
lab. She had invented most of the technologies that the Kajeat used. She had
built Kajarn itself.
He knew that the surprises, and the revelations, were
only just about to begin.
* * *
Titan-class
Battleship Abyss
Leaving Borrose
System
2210
Hours
There was no funeral. There was no memorial for those who
had fallen. Altarin’Dakor couldn’t spare time for the dead.
Maarek tried to pull himself out of his
cockpit, but he couldn’t even stand on his own legs. He collapsed in a pile on
top of his seat, the world spinning, and he lurched over to the side, vomiting
wretchedly.
Once he was finished, he pushed himself
back upright with no small effort, breathing heavily. It wasn’t the first time
he’d thrown up in the cockpit.
Despite the nausea and disorientation, his mind couldn’t stop replaying
what he’d seen and heard down there on Borrose. The sense of loss, the despair
and the pain, had flared up again just like on Varnus. It was beginning to feel
all too familiar.
Chele
was dead. And he hadn’t even been able to say goodbye. He hadn’t been able to
tell her that he was planning to choose Alona. She’d probably gone to her death
with hope still in her heart.
The pain was unbearable. The faces of
everyone he’d lost kept flashing through his head. Bast,
Rann, Tanya – and countless others. His friends and
his comrades.
Chele had been somewhat different. She’d
been his teacher, albeit a harsh one. But during the last few months they had
become familiar with each other, and they might have become more, given time
and the right circumstances. But now that was gone forever,
extinguished.
Burn him for a fool! What an idiot he’d
been! How foolish of him to play two women at the same time! What had he been
thinking? He should have told Chele before, let her know the truth at least…
“Look up, Maarek Stele.”
He raised his head at the sound and saw
only a light blur above him. He knew the voice, though. Alona.
She was leaning down into the Archon’s
recessed cockpit, one arm extended downwards toward him. He reached up,
grasping her wrist, and he felt himself being lifted bodily out of the fighter.
A moment later he was sitting on the
flight deck, trembling uncontrollably and dripping sweat, waiting for the world
to right itself around him. He felt Alona slide down to sit beside him. At her
presence, his sense of balance seemed to return again, for the most part.
Slowly he turned to look at her. She was
still wearing the pilot’s dark jumpsuit, her azure hair flailing wildly around
her head, some of it plastered to her forehead by sweat. Those incredible eyes
of hers peered into his like firebrands. Her sheer beauty, at that moment, took
his breath away.
“We must return quickly to the Eternity and report this incident to my
Master,” Alona said.
Maarek just stared at her speechlessly. It
took a moment for her words to register; they weren’t at all what he’d expected
to hear. Chele’s dead, he thought.
The pain clenched his heart once more. He shook his head, confused. Was the
pain all for Chele? Or was it for his squadron, coming back with a vengeance?
“The enemy forces have retreated from the
system,” she continued. “However, they may have escaped with data that is vital
to our Master’s plan.”
Maarek blinked at her. Her words were
calm, analytical. Was that all she had to say?
“What is wrong?” she asked him finally.
What’s
wrong? He wasn’t sure he could even speak. “Chele, she…” he began weakly.
She immediately interrupted him with an
upraised finger at him. “She earned much glory, and brought great honor to the
Altarin’Dakor. Is this what disturbs you? There is no shame in death, Maarek
Stele.”
“Shame?” he asked incredulously. “Of course not. I… Don’t you feel sorry she’s…”
“Do
not dishonor her memory!” she interjected. “To die in the service of my Shok’Thola is the greatest privilege I
could ever hope for. May I one day be as fortunate as she was this day.”
“Are
you crazy?” he whispered. “You actually want
to get yourself killed?”
She leveled her gaze at him then. “If you
would have me, Maarek Stele,” she said, “You must accept who I am. And you must
accept that risk. I live for my Master’s glory.”
He stared at her transfixed, feeling as if
in a stupor. What was it with Jedicon and their death wishes? Why didn’t they
value their own lives?
Stark realization hit him, the answer to
his question he’d been wondering ever since arriving here. Even before that,
really. So, he reflected, this is what it means to serve one of the
Warlords… Utter devotion, complete and passionate loyalty. Placing value on
their lives so far beyond your own that if even your death could bring them
just a bit more glory, it would all be well worth the experience.
Now he understood why the Altarin’Dakor
lived and fought with such passion and unity. They truly did believe that they
were serving a god. Next to that, what did one’s personal life matter?
She was telling him that one day she might
suffer the same fate as Chele had today. And he would lose her, too. The
thought of that was unbearable. Could he dare to live like this? Knowing that
she would welcome death, despite the happiness they shared together? Could he
open his heart again, knowing the pain that it might cause him as it had so
many times before?
“You must not dwell on the past, Maarek
Stele. We must let go of what we are afraid to lose. Let us not mourn for her,”
Alona told him. “Instead, be thankful for her sacrifice, and for what she gave
to you in this life.”
He nodded, at a loss for how to argue the
point with her. At least the competition was over, he realized. The decision
had ultimately been made for him.
That, to his surprise, was some
consolation. He had to admit that part of him was glad that it was Alona who
had survived, who hadn’t had to sacrifice herself today for the sake of a
Warlord. He knew it was wrong, even despicable, to actually be glad that Chele
had died instead of her. But it was the truth. Why should he deny it now? He
didn’t care anymore. If it had been Alona, it would have been far worse.
Perhaps he would lose her someday, too. Or
maybe during one of these missions Maarrek’s time would finally be up. But for
now, he knew that he had only one choice. Either way, at least he was with her
right now, and that was all that mattered.
“I guess I’m all yours now,” he said. Then
he leaned down and buried his face in her rich azure hair, and forgot about everything
else.
* * *
Planet Tritonia
2200
Hours
As he waited, Lasitus once again went over what he
intended to say to Akargan, playing and replaying possible conversations over
and over in his mind. He also fought against the fear that was resting deep
within his gut. He didn’t know what to expect from the Warlord this time.
The trip back to Tritonia had been full of
tension and unrest. The crew had not been happy that Lasitus had assumed
command; they’d been even less happy that they hadn’t bombarded the planet like
they’d been told they would. Perhaps they were afraid of being executed for
their failue, but their disappointment at not being able to slaughter those
innocent people had turned Lasitus’ stomach inside out.
Upon arrival, he had demanded an audience
with Akargan immediately, but had been refused. He was informed that Akargan
was visiting his harem and would not wish to be disturbed. Instead he was told
to wait in the audience chamber, which was where Lasitus now stood along with a
dozen or so of Akargan’s other top Kodonn’Dakor.
They were watching him like hawks. Of course, Akargan didn’t need any of them
to protect him, which made Lasitus wonder why they were even there.
Everything he’d seen here so far indicated
that Akargan had built a different kind of organization than what Lasitus had
experienced from other Warlords in the past. The fact that he allowed his
minions to know of his presence here, that they were allowed to persist in his
presence for any extended period to time… Even that a visitor could actually obtain
an audience with Akargan rather than be told he didn’t even exist – all these
were strange ways for a Shok’Thola to
run things. Perhaps it was Akargan’s military background. Or maybe he’d gotten
sloppy.
Lasitus could still remember serving their
old master, in whose former palace they were actually now located. Mateus had
been the kind of Shok’Thola Lasitus
has come to expect. During all his years of preparation and service, he’d only
been allowed in the Warlord’s presence once, and even then had not been
permitted to look upon his master’s face. Untold multitudes of people had been
sacrificed at temples devoted to his name, as his followers asked for blessings
they believed he could deliver.
That
was the kind of Altarin’Dakor that Lasitus was used to.
The audience chamber was massive, and
located deep within the heart of the palace. From the outside there was
virtually nothing to give it away, but the deeply hidden fortress was in fact
the size of a sprawling city. The fact that Akargan had
changed little in its décor unsettled Lasitus. Maybe it was just that
the Warlord had moved in recently, and didn’t intend to stay long. But
something told him that Shok’Thola
were far more fickle than that. They were pompous and arrogant, and loved edifying
themselves through any means available. Akargan wasn’t as vain as some others
had been, but he was still a Shok’Thola.
Suddenly, without any warning whatsoever,
a side door to the chamber burst open and Akargan strode through, dressed in
leisurely robes. His long, heavily curled hair swung freely behind him, and the
massive muscles of his chest and arms were shone like burnished metal beneath
the sleeveless garments that he wore.
Akargan didn’t even acknowledge Lasitus as
he walked in, moving over to the central dais where he relaxed onto a couch
very similar to the one when Lasitus had first arrived. There was no other
furniture in place. Above them towered massive statues of Mateus in various
forms, their aged and weathered faces nearly indistinguishable now after a
thousand generations.
Almost immediately, servants appeared
bearing wine, fruit and other savory delicacies to their Shok’Thola. Instead of speaking, Lasitus continued to wait. He
would not show that he was in any hurry to report about the mission. The sense
of anxiety in his stomach, however, refused to leave. There was no way to gauge
how Akargan would react to his report of the mission. These could be, he
realized, be his last few moments alive.
Akargan sat and ate, taking his time.
Occasionally he would speak a few words to one of his other Jedicon. Whatever
they had to report, Lasitus was unfamiliar with their missions, because he
couldn’t make sense of their cryptic conversations. After nearly an hour had
passed, Lasitus was beginning to wonder if he would even be called on. Perhaps
Akargan was showing him that he wasn’t important, after all.
“Lasitus,” Akargan finally cooed after a
while longer had passed. “Moyabi is no longer with us.”
“That’s correct.” Lasitus said, finding
his own voice after a second. He began to walk forward, not stopping until he
came within a few paces of the couch that Akargan was reclining on. He reached
out a hand, holding an Altarin’Dakor data reader into which they’d encrypted all
the data from Strife’s base on Borrose.
“Here is the list of Strife’s spies
within your fleet,” Lasitus said.
“Ah, yes.” Akargan didn’t look at the
reader. After a moment, Lasitus simply tossed it onto the couch beside him. The
Warlord’s eyes were still fixed on him, sending tremors down his spine. It was
just like when he’d met gazes with Zalaria – those eyes seemed to strip his
very soul away from him.
“Is there something else?” Lasitus asked
after a moment.
Fast as a viper, Akargan moved to his
feet, and his backhand sent Lasitus reeling off his feet. Stars exploded across
Lasitus’ vision.
A second later he felt the cold stone
floor against his cheek and realized that he’d gone down. Slowly, he pushed
himself up, his head throbbing, vision swimming in front of his eyes.
He’d taken worse before. He knew that if
the Warlord had put the Force behind it he could have taken his head clean off.
He looked up, and saw the Warlord towering over him.
“I told you to wipe out everything on the
planet! To leave no survivors!” Akargan bellowed down
at him. Spittle rained down on Lasitus. Sheer terror worked its way through his
body, but somehow he found the strength to resist it enough to speak.
Lasitus looked up at him defiantly. “I am
not going to do that!”
Akargan sneered suddenly. “Yes, I know,
Lasitus. That is why I sent the Extinction
to do it after you left. Unlike you, they actually completed their mission.”
Coldness gripped Lasitus, the Warlord’s
words sending rivulets of shock through him. It… It couldn’t be! There had been
no communiqué, no word of any other mission at Borrose! There had been millions
of innocent people down there!
He
stared at the Warlord, his blood going cold, clenching his hands into fists
beneath him as he pushed himself to his knees. Fear was suddenly gone, replaced
by cold, hard rage.
“Just so you know,” Akargan continued
arrogantly, “the data that you brought me is a fraud. Strife wanted to lure me
into a confrontation there, but I was aware of his tricks. I thought sending
you might be a good way to test your loyalty.” He smirked. “Their deaths are
all on your hands… Killer.”
“No!” Lasitus retorted.
Akargan’s smile widened. “What? Do you
want to kill me now, brother? But I thought you were here to save me!” His
laughter rang through the halls.
Lasitus couldn’t feel anything, anymore.
The man standing above him, jeering – there was nothing left but raw, unbridled
evil. “It’s too late to save you,” he whispered. He had been a fool to think
otherwise.
Akargan’s face snapped from bemusement to anger
in the span of an instant. “Get away, Lasitus!” he yelled. “You are too weak to
serve me! Don’t let me see your face in my presence again! If I do, I will destroy you.” He turned to his
retinue of Jedicon encircling the dais. “Take him out of here! Place him in the
holding cells.”
It was then Lasitus realized his plan had
backfired. Akargan was far, far beyond salvation – Lasitus had known, but
simply let himself be blinded to that fact. How could
he have expected a Shok’Thola to be
anything but ruthless and totally without conscience?
The Jedicon moved in to pull him away, and
he realized that his naivete – and his stubbornness – had just cost him his life.
* * *
Titan-class
Battleship Grand Crusader
Mizar System
1800
Hours
The New Imperium fleet had met with
little resistance when it arrived at Mizar. Sector Admiral Gaius Adonai watched
from the bridge of the Grand Crusader,
gazing down at the pristine violet-blue world spinning slowly below him.
Returning here meant revisiting painful
memories for the New Imperium. It was where they’d suffered one of the worst
defeats of the war, having charged headlong in an assault against a completely
unknown foe. They had paid dearly for their brashness. Though Gaius didn’t
believe in bad luck, he knew that many NI personnel with him would be on edge,
nonetheless. Morale was already as low as he’d ever seen it. He didn’t want to
imagine what might happen if things got ugly again.
To take his mind off that train of
thought, he studied the system’s readout once again from his command chair.
Virtually nothing had changed since the last time he’d been here. Mizar one,
Tholai, was still a sun-blasted, uninhabited rock a scant distance from the
star Mizar. The second planet, Darklon, was still a pulverized field of rocks
and debris
Mizar Three, known to the New Imperium as
Arcadia, was an azure, purple and green orb floating just within sight of the
Grand Crusader, a glittering band of gems forming the rings that encircled
around her equatorial region.
Gaius had expected to find a thriving
Altarin'Dakor population in the hundreds of millions, if not billions. He'd
been mistaken. Aside from a few military installations, Arcadia was virtually
uninhabited. It was a pristine, utopian gem of a world, hidden near the edge of
settled space, and it was devoid of any real population.
When Zalaria's forces entered the system,
she had assumed control of the bases on the surface, as well as the remaining
ships in orbit, but as before, the transition had not been bloodless. Many of
the commanding officers had been executed, both to eliminate disloyalty and to
simply make a point. It was hard for Gaius not to think of it as murder. It was
the Altarin'Dakor way.
Gaius cringed at the thought of the
bloodshed that was essentially on his hands. It was something he knew Dogar,
his predecessor, would never have been able to accept. But that was the difference
between them. Gaius came from a long line of officers, his family steeped in
generations of military service. Ever since his
great-grandfather had served in the Republic Defense Forces during the Commenor
Crisis.
Military commanders had to make hard
decisions. They sometimes had to choose the good of the many over the lives of
the few. Gaius had learned to accept that, to push it out of his mind and not
let it affect his decision-making. It was the harsh reality of the world that
had chosen him. If he was too weak to accept it and move on, then he would be
unfit to lead those who were under his care, men and women who relied upon him
and the consistency of his character. If he doubted, if he faltered, he would
be putting many more lives at risk, and pointlessly this time.
He would do whatever it took to win this
war and protect the citizens of the New Imperium.
Now, Zalaria had taken her leave,
presumably to deliver her baby after a mere three months’ gestation. It was
unbelievable. But then, most everything she did was unbelievable.
“Report,” Gaius ordered sharply. Space
around them was quiet, empty except for the New Imperium vessels. Something
wasn’t right.
“Sir, no further activity has been
reported within the system,” replied Comm officer Bizrain, a female NI officer
he’d brought over from his command. “Mizar central command remains on standby,
awaiting further commands.”
Gaius repressed the urge to snort
derisively. The Altarin’Dakor forces on Arcadia were acting cooperatively,
apparently subdued for now. They assumed that Zalaria had claimed ownership of
them – which was true, at least – and that Gaius and his fleet were her Altarin’Dakor
forces there to assume regional command. How long they could maintain the charade,
he didn’t know. But for now, at least, things were quiet.
In an ideal world, they would wait here
until another fleet came through, perhaps even led by one of the other
Warlords. They would then ambush that enemy and destroy or capture as many vessels
as they could, growing their forces further until they had a fleet large enough
to traverse the Great Rift and enter Altarin’Dakor space proper.
Of course, if an enemy Warlord did show
up, Zalaria would need to be there to face him or her. If she didn’t return in
time though, things would be bad. Very bad.
He knew that even the best-laid plans were
never certain. A battle was going to happen – he knew it as well as the enemy
did. But the Altarin’Dakor wouldn’t concede Mizar without a fight. If they
still intended to prosecute their crusade, they would have to come through here
sooner or later. The fact that they hadn’t yet done so disturbed Gaius more
than if he’d found a whole fleet here waiting for them.
Gaius was tired of this war. He was tired
of fighting, and he knew with each successive battle the odds against his
survival were mounting. But they had to fight. It was the only way the
Altarin’Dakor could be stopped. Giving up wasn’t a concept they understood.
Where were those
other blasted Warlords?
“Engage cloaks on all ships but ours,” he
ordered. At least if – no, when – the enemy arrived, they wouldn’t know how
many ships the New Imperium had. And if they could maintain the element of surprise, that might just give them a bit more chance of
survival.
He then turned his attention to the array
of New Imperial vessels that had followed them into the system – Star
Destroyers, Majestic Cruisers, and the MC-120 Darkstar. “Tell our forces to deploy formation Beta – close
proximity.” Perhaps the Grand Crusader’s mass
shadow would help hide them until it was too late for the enemy to realize they
were there. Besides, if things got hot, they would need to rely on the Titan’s
shields to protect them. In truth, those ships shouldn’t even be here.
He watched outside the bridge’s viewports
as, one by one, the hulls of the Cataclysm,
the Nimbus, and the Ascendancy rippled in space, turned
transparent, then vanished altogether. Now it would appear that only the Grand Crusader remained in the system.
Gaius still hadn’t gotten completely used
to the bridge of this ship. He had been on the bridge of the Nexus for too long, growing accustomed
to its 360-degree holographic environment. This ship’s, by contrast, felt
empty, more expansive. Controls were more spread out, making it not as easy to
keep abreast of everything. Gaius knew that it wasn’t a design flaw – this
bridge was merely meant to serve secondary functions. Normally, the Warlord
Nimrod would be inside his meditation sphere, deep within the heart of the ship,
controlling everything. Unfortunately, Gaius couldn’t access that particular
feature of the ship. He’d been kindly informed by Zalaria that he wasn’t
powerful enough in the Force.
His
thoughts were brought back to the present as he heard bootsteps coming up
behind him. A second later Walt Amason appeared at his side, joining him in
front of the viewports.
“How much longer do we intend to wait
here?” Amason asked.
“As long as it takes,” Gaius said, turning
back to the view.
After a moment, Amason spoke again. “Sitting
here only invites a trap. We could at least move further in, attack them in
their space. We’ll have to eventually.”
“Cross the Rift now?” Gaius shook his
head. “Not until Zalaria returns, at least.”
“Maybe she’s setting us up.”
“You’re not being very optimistic today,”
Gaius pointed out.
“I haven’t had much reason to be, lately.”
Gaius snorted then. “Without her we don’t
have a chance of these AD soldiers doing what we say. If she decides to betray
us, then we’re doomed anyway.”
“I see you’re not very optimistic,
either,” Amason remarked.
Gaius looked over and gave him a hard
stare. “Fleet commanders rarely have that luxury, my friend.”
He took a moment to ponder the changes
that had taken place since he’d taken this role. Though life and his career had
been pushing him towards command, it had still come sooner than he’d expected. He
might have spent more time in his Force studies if he didn’t have an entire
navy to run, now.
His thoughts were continually full of
everything that was happening, and rest had become a rare commodity indeed. The
theater of war was a constantly shifting thing. As soon as the plan to move and
take Mizar had been enacted, it was already outdated. Upon arriving Gaius had
to improvise and act on what limited intel he could
obtain, but what was going to happen next was anyone’s guess.
They had retaken most of the eastern half
of NI space, at least in theory. In truth, however, it was uncertain if the NI
would even survive once this was over. Worlds had been devastated, whole
populations killed, relocated or turned into refugees. Economies and
infrastructure had been shattered. The NI didn’t have enough credits to pay for
the restoration.
Others had refused to rejoin, most notably
Pax. However, instead of making an example of them as the Empire certainly
would have, the Diktat was simply content to leave them alone. Isolating
themselves both economically and militarily would only hurt them worse in the
end, Gaius knew. But it also hurt the NI’s chances of recovery.
The only real chance they had, according
to some, was to somehow harness the wealth and power of the Altarin’Dakor. But
to do that would mean embracing at least some aspects of the AD, which the
population would be loathe to do. Which he was loathe
to do. They could possibly pillage and plunder AD worlds, assuming they won in
the military theater, but if they did that, what difference would there be
between the NI and the AD in the first place? Gaius shook his head in
frustration.
The Comm officer spoke up again. “Sir, you
have a meeting with the other fleet commanders in fifteen minutes.”
He nodded; he was still well aware of the
time. “Send them to the War Room,” he told her.
“Aye, sir.”
In fifteen minutes he would have to listen
again to reports of exactly how much in control of their fleet the NI actually
was. The Altarin’Dakor forces – now making up the majority of this task force –
were growing more impatient by the day. Either they suspected that the NI
really was calling the shots now – and that their blessed ‘Return’ was no
longer an agenda – or they simply wanted something to attack, someone to fight.
If, for some reason, they lost control of
those AD forces, it would be all over. Zalaria had assured him it would never
happen, not with her in charge. But it was far too large a hope to be riding on
her word alone. Gaius had felt a sickening feeling in his stomach since before
this mission had even gotten under way.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” he
confessed, halfway under his breath.
“You should get some rest,” Amason said
beside him.
Gaius gave him a smirk. “You rest, Walt,”
he said mirthlessly. “Rest for both of us.”
Then he turned and began the long trek
across the bridge back to the meeting area.
* * *
Titan-class
Battleship Eternity
Ven’lar System
0800
Hours
“Maarek Stele, get up. The Master wants you.”
Maarek opened his eyes, and it took him a
moment for him to see Alona standing in his bedroom, fully dressed in her
Jedicon garb and white robes. He blinked sleepily, then
pushed himself up into a sitting position. She had let herself into his
apartment again, he realized. Of course, privacy wasn’t something he could
expect on an Altarin’Dakor vessel.
They had just returned to the Eternity the night before, and he wasn’t
fully rested yet from the previous mission. His is body still felt the fatigue
as he tried to sit up. He hadn’t slept well thanks to that blasted vertigo,
making him sick every time he tried to close his eyes. How was he going to live
with this the rest of his life?
“Get dressed and come quickly,” Alona
said, then moved back into his living quarters to
wait.
As quickly as he could, blinking away the
sleep from his eyes, Maarek got out of bed and dressed himself. It wasn’t easy
with his head swinging constantly – he stumbled over to his dresser first
thing, got out some of his meds, and swallowed them with a glass of water he’d
left there the previous night.
Fifteen minutes later, cursing himself for
everything taking so long now, he made his way into the living room where Alona
had been patiently waiting for him. Without further word she rose and led him
to the exit, where they found themselves quickly crossing though the Envirodeck
and into the ship proper.
Cane in hand, Maarek did his best to meet
her stride for stride as they walked down the corridors. He kept his eyes
switching back and forth between her back and the floor, and avoided looking
far down the corridor – beings traversed it as far as the eye could see, and
its glowing overhead lights seemed to stretch on forever. Not a good
combination to mix with his illness, for sure. Everytime he looked, the
corridor seemed to lengthen, to stretch on forever, and start bending in
strange, impossible ways.
“Do you know what he wants me for?” Maarek
asked along the way, trying not to stumble as he walked.
“It is a mission,” was all she said back.
He stared hard at her back, wondering what
was the problem with her. Was she upset that he’d
taken Chele’s death hard? After their previous discussion and the running
rivalry – nearly courtship – he’d had with both of them, he didn’t believe she
was the jealous type. It must be something else. Had Strife told her something
that had disturbed her? Was he angry that their mission had failed? Could
Maarek be walking to his doom?
Suddenly the reality of his situation sank
in – this wasn’t the New Imperium anymore. He was working for an Altarin’Dakor
Warlord, now. The rules were completely different from anything he’d known
before. Strife might not even be sane.
A lot had changed in the weeks and months
since Varnus. His whole life had been completely turned on its head, and he’d
jumped headlong into it. Wherever this new road took him, it was his own
decisions that had gotten himself here. He didn’t regret it – not yet.
Passing Jedicon and Altarin’Dakor shock
troopers in the corridors no longer disconcerted him. They had been the enemy
before, but now they were not. That was the nature of war. Things weren’t just
black and white – there were endless shades of gray. Nobody was innocent, that
much he knew from experience.
Maarek took a deep breath once they got
close to the Warlord’s chambers, and he paused before entering through the
polished metal hatchway. This would be only the second time he’d met with
Strife since coming onboard. He had no idea what to expect.
Alona led him in. As before, Strife was not
alone. At least twenty Jedicon served as retainers, all of them seeming perfect
physical specimens of their race and gender. In the center of the room, facing
a massive holographic display of what Maarek immediately recognized as Epsilon Sector, stood Strife. He was dressed in fine robes that hung
loosely over his lean form.
As the doors slid closed behind Maarek,
Strife turned to face him. His expression was… placid.
“Welcome back, Maarek Stele,” the Warlord
said, his voice sounding as sweet as dripping honey. “First, allow me to
assuade your fears. I am not angry with you, nor with
Alona. You did well on Borrose.”
Maarek had felt nothing to indicate the
Warlord had touched his mind with the Force. Either he was inferring Maarek’s
thoughts naturally, or he was good enough to completely bypass Maarek’s own
rudimentary training in the Force he’d received.
Maarek gave a respectful nod in response.
He felt slightly better, but the unease hadn’t completely gone away. He still
had no idea why he’d been summoned. “Thank you,” he offered.
A slight smile touched Strife’s lips, then he turned and gestured to the floating holomap in the
center of the room. “As you can see, I have begun an offensive front all along
Akargan’s territory here.” At least a dozen systems began to pulsate as he
indicated them. “However, in addition we will also launch a direct attack
against his home base of operations.” Another dot - the Tritonia system – became
enveloped in red brackets. “My main fleet will engage his here, just inside the
jump point for the primary planet.”
Maarek listened, taking it all in,
wondering what the Warlord wanted from him. Alona had moved to join the other
Jedicon, so Maarek stepped forward until he was beside Strife. The light from
the holograms sent multicolored hues across the Warlord’s face.
Maarek studied the map spinning slowly in
front of them both. It would be a massive engagement. It looked like Strife was
looking to finish Akargan off for good.
“So, his base is on Tritonia,” Maarek
remarked. “I wouldn’t have thought it so close to NI territory.”
“We have been closer than you realized,”
the Warlord responded.
“What do you need me to do?” Maarek asked
him. “I’m ready to help you take him down, however you plan to do it. The
Archons are ready for combat.”
“I am aware of that. And I am pleased by
the progress you all have made. However, I have a special mission for you.”
Maarek looked up at him curiously. “What
do you need me to do?”
Strife’s cold blue eyes
turned and bored into him. “All these attacks are but a ruse, Stele. The
true battle will be between Akargan and myself. We
will face each other, and only one of us will survive the encounter.”
Maarek
swallowed hard under that gaze. “You’re going to fight him, one-on-one,” he said
after a moment.
“Correct.”
For a minute there was silence as the two
of them stared at the map. Maarek wondered what exactly Strife was asking of
him. He was, after all, just a fighter pilot. Why would Strife need his help
fighting another Warlord?
“I will need you to fly me in quickly, using
the Archon,” Strife said.
Maarek blinked. It wasn’t exactly what
he’d been expecting to hear. Actually, he hadn’t known what to expect at all,
but why would he need Maarek to fly him in? If he was the great Warlord he
proclaimed himself to be, couldn’t he find an easier way to get himself into
Akargan’s base? Couldn’t he teleport or…
“Since you are wondering why I need you,
suffice it to say that Akargan will not be expecting this tactic.” At Maarek’s
look, Strife made another half-smirk. “You see my friend, unlike the so-called
Jedi Masters of your galaxy, Akargan and I really have completely mastered the
Force. He will have traps set, using the Force, that detect and attack anyone
who attempts to enter his domain directly using our powers. The only way to
feasibly enter will be for you to drop me inside of his range.”
“You’re going in alone?” Maarek blurted.
Was he crazy? He must believe himself as invincible as his minions did.
Strife waved him off. “Don’t concern
yourself for me. Akargan is the only threat to me, and I will face him
directly. When it is over I will not need you to return, so get out as quickly
as you can.”
Maarek could do little else but nod. “If you say so. But there’s only one problem. There isn’t
room for two in the Archon’s cockpit,” he reminded.
“My men have attached a special missile
pod beneath your fighter. I will be inside of it.”
Maarek stared at him. A missile pod would
give him barely enough room to fit inside. He wouldn’t even be able to move in
there. He hoped the Warlord wasn’t claustrophobic.
“You are the best fighter pilot in my
arsenal,” Strife told him. “Even better than my Jedicon
pilots.”
Suddenly aware of all the Jedicon in the
room, Maarek glanced around but saw no change in their expressions, no
acknowledgement that they even heard this conversation taking place, He didn’t
respond to the Warlord’s praise of him. Instead, he was thinking of Alona. Was
she expendable to Strife, too?
Of course she was.
“Don’t become too attached to temporal
things,” Strife’s voice broke softly through his thoughts. “Nothing is ever
permanent within the shifting seas of time.”
The Warlord’s voice had taken on his
lecturing tone Maarek was used to, again. “So you don’t care about them,”
Maarek said, aware of the accusatory tone in his own voice. “Their lives mean
nothing to you.”
“If they did, then that which I am would
be compromised,” the Warlord answered. “You understand this, deep down. In the
end both parties benefit from this scenario.”
“But I’m not like you,” Maarek countered.
“Then what have you to complain about? You
have what you desired most – your woman, and your fighter. I have given both of
them to you. Your relationship with Alona was something that I desired –
fortunately for you both, the feelings have become genuine.”
Maarek blinked, trying to process what the
Warlord was telling him in such a short time. Alona had been sent purposefully
to him – he had suspected as much. But Strife was saying he’d planned their
relationship all along? It couldn’t be; Maarek knew his feelings for her were
real, more real than anything he’d known in a long time.
“Why
do you think I sent her to bring you here?” Strife said. “As for the Archon –
it is custom-tailored to fit your own neural pathways. My scientists developed
that during our last absence from one another. You have me to thank for all of
this, Stele.”
Maarek stared down at the floor. Why was
Strife doing all this for him? Was he trying to develop Maarek into some kind
of guinea pig, a super test pilot? Deep down, he knew it was true that the
Warlord deserved his gratitude… however crazy that might sound to say.
“Have you discovered yet who your enemy
is?” Strife asked suddenly.
Maarek shook his head. He’d thought about
this question a lot since coming here. “Not yet,” he answered honestly. “I know
now that it’s not a particular group or side; that’s too naïve a view of the
universe.” He saw the Warlord watching him curiously, so he continued. “At
first I thought it was evil,” he said, “but then I realized that evil is too
hard a concept to label. Each side sees its enemy as evil.” He shrugged
finally. “I’m still not sure. But I know I have to find out for myself.”
The barest of smiles touched the edges of
Strife’s mouth. “You are getting closer,” was all he said.
* * *
Angol Moa’s World
Time
Unknown
It
was beyond anything Xar had ever seen. They were inside Angol Moa's laboratory,
a city-sized facility that allowed its owner to perform virtually any type of
scientific experiment imaginable. They were in a gigantic domed chamber, within
which rested one of the most beautiful gardens he'd ever seen, complete with
waterfalls, flying birds and other creatures. There were
what looked like colorful butterflies, with wingspans of at least half a meter.
There were lizards whose scales blended in with whatever surface they were
lounging on.
Those glowing droids of Angol Moa's were walking
around everywhere, conducting research and tasks for her that he couldn't
believe she could possibly keep track of by herself. Holographic
representations floated about the chamber, some stationary and containing data
in strange symbols and unknown numbers, while some took the form of
mythical-looking creatures, flying through the air like expressions of art.
It
had taken Xar a little while, but he had finally come to the conclusion that
they were actually in a different galaxy. It was really hard to fathom. He had
spent his entire lifetime in an environment where his home galaxy was
everything. Oh, he knew that the universe held billions of them, but since one
could ever reach them, no one gave them any special thought. For all practical
purposes, it was as if everything that existed was held within his own home galaxy.
It
wasn't until the Altarin'Dakor invasion that he'd actually seriously thought of
other galaxies and what they might contain. They had always been unknowable,
unreachable. A mysterious hyperspace barrier prevented anyone from traveling
outside their own galaxy. Then Xar had learned about the Galactic Gate,
allowing instant transport between the Altarin'Dakor galaxy and theirs. Xar
hadn't actually been there, but he knew that it was a cruel, harsh place. Every
corner of it was under the iron grip of the Altarin'Dakor.
No,
this was the first time he'd actually been in another galaxy, if indeed that
was where they were. Though he'd visited a hundred different kinds of worlds in
his own galaxy, somehow just that knowledge made this place feel strange and
exotic.
He
and Icis were seated at a table that vaguely resembled a large beetle – albeit
in abstract art. Their bags, containing their personal belongings, lay on top,
while Nico hovered nearby on his bed, eyes closed, face
tranquil. Xar wished he could have been awake to see all this.
Of course, he was seeing this too, but he still wasn't
sure if he believed it.
Presently, Angol Moa was listening to a diatribe of scientific jargon that Xar
couldn't begin to comprehend, spilled out by one of her ubiquitous droids. She
seemed to have forgotten him, Icis and Nico completely. After what seemed like
an eternity, the droid turned and began walking away without any discernible
notice. Angol Moa continued to stare ahead.
Xar
watched her for a moment, expecting her to finally address them. When he'd
waited for about a minute without any apparent acknowledgment from her, he
cleared his throat rather loudly. "I, ah, have some questions," he
said.
She continued to ignore them.
Xar watched her for another few minutes. Then,
exasperated, he turned to look at Icis. His patience was wearing thin. Ignoring
them, was she? Well, two could play this little game of hers.
"What do you think of her?" he asked Icis.
"What do you mean?" the man replied.
"I mean what I just said. What do you think about
Angol Moa?"
"Well..." Icis shrugged, as if he didn't get
Xar's meaning. "She's the Supreme Elder, Xar. I'm in awe of her, just
sitting here." Then he cleared his throat awkwardly, and his face started
to turn red.
Xar arched an eyebrow. "She seems kind of motherly
to me," he said. "When your mother gets older,
maybe. Just before senility, maybe."
"Xar!" Icis
sputtered, glancing at the woman present, still turned away from them.
"Just making an observation," he replied.
"Well that's not the effect she has on me at
all," Icis said. He adjusted the collar on his coat, and his face still
hadn't paled back to normal. What was the matter with him?
"I don't believe she's seventy-five thousand
years old," he said, shaking his head. He knew that the Travelers were
energy forms that bonded with living creatures. Their life energy endued them
with an immortality as functional as that of the
Altarin'Dakor Shok'Thola. If a Traveler was killed, he or she could simply find
a new host to join with and continue on living, indefinitely. Icis was five
thousand years old, but was considered relatively young. He'd claimed Traveler
society was seventy-five thousand years old. But could anyone still be alive
after all that time?
He glanced at her - and saw her staring straight at
him.
"I do look so good for my age!" she said,
grinning widely.
He nearly jumped out of his seat at the abruptness of
her words. Was she really insane? Zalaria's words came back to him, words about
surviving the monotony of life for twenty-five thousand years. But this woman
was at least three times that age! How had she managed it?
She
glanced at him and cocked her head to one side. He tried not to think of the
motion as insect-like.
"So, what can I do for you gentlemen?" She clasped her hands together
in front of her and took a few steps in Nico's direction first. "What's
wrong with him?" she asked.
"His mind was wiped by an Altarin'Dakor Warlord," Xar explained.
"I see." She walked over to his gurney, then moved around to stand near Nico's head. She reached out
a hand, placed it on his forehead, and closed her eyes. Before he realized it
Xar was halfway out of his chair to stop her.
“Hold on just a second…” he began.
“It’s okay Xar,” Icis said, keeping him in
check.
Xar felt a ripple in the Force as Angol
Moa delved inside Nico’s mind. "Yes," she said after a few seconds.
She released him and looked at Xar. "He's messed up pretty badly."
Xar blinked. Stating the obvious wasn’t what he’d been
expecting. "So... can you help him?" he asked.
"Of course I can," she replied, her tone
still jovial. "Now, what's wrong with you?"
Xar opened his mouth to protest at her tone of voice,
but hesitated. They were here for her help after all, he had to remind himself.
But he was a loss of what to tell her.
"He's absorbed the spirits of two dark Jedi into
his subconscious," Icis replied for him. "They're slowly driving him
insane."
"Really, now?" she asked, raising her
eyebrows at him. "Now that's quite interesting. May I?"
Xar took a deep breath. He didn't like it, but he
nodded anyway.
She walked up to him, and reached out to place a hand
on his forehead, just like with Nico. As she did, he was suddenly overwhelmed
by a feeling of belonging, and peacefulness. He felt... He almost felt like a
child again. Angol Moa closed her eyes and he felt the Force flowing into him,
yet it wasn't invading in the least. She felt... yes, quite motherly, indeed.
It was something he hadn't experienced since...
Since his own mother had died.
"Hmm." She released
him and took a few steps back. The sensation faded slightly, and he shook his
head to clear it. What kind of affect was she able to cause on him? Was it some
kind of defensive mechanism?
"Well?" he asked.
She was standing there, looking deep in thought. Birds
flew from tree to tree in the distance behind her. It was hard not to feel like
a child asking his mother. It was hard to feel angry, or annoyed. How could anyone
be hostile to someone that felt like that?
"I will need to run some more tests," she
said, crossing her arms and tapping her lips thoughtfully. "This is new
for me. I've never treated someone with your condition before. I'll probably
have to invent a new device to scan deeper into your psyche."
Then suddenly she grinned, and threw her finger into
the air. "Don't worry, though! I love a new challenge!" she laughed.
"Make yourselves at home. We'll have you fixed right up in no time!"
He gaped at her. She seemed to change moods like the
wind!
“Well? What are you staring at? Let’s get to it,
gentlemen. We have a universe to save.”
"Why do you keep saying that?" he asked her.
"I thought you were going to answer our questions!" Blast it, but he did have questions! None of this made
any sense at all!
Abruptly she blinked, then
cocked her head to the side again. "Of course.
What would you like to know?"
He stared at her some more. She was just watching him,
as though seeing what he was going to do next, like some sort of menagerie. It
was disconcerting, to say the least. Where was he supposed to begin?
"First of all," he said, "Where are we?
And who are you? Icis says you're the leader of the Travelers. Then why are you
cooped up in here like a recluse? And for that matter, what do you do here? And
what do you mean by saving the universe? What do our reasons for coming here
for have to do with that?"
Angol Moa crossed her arms in front of her. "Wow.
That's a lot of questions," she said, grinning. "And what makes you
think I can answer all of that?" Then she actually winked at him! Was she
taking this seriously?
He started to reply, but hesitated. Why was he so
focused on getting answers from her? What did make him think she knew? Was it
her age? Or was it that strange, motherly sense he got from her? A child asked
its mother questions about the world, about the universe. Wasn't he like a
child compared with her? She was seventy-five thousand years old, and he hadn't
yet even reached forty.
"Angol Moa knows more, I think, than we can ever
imagine," Icis said, speaking up next to him.
The knowing smile on Angol Moa's face held all the
confirmation than Xar needed. This woman was powerful, indeed. He'd been feeling
a premonition in the Force from the moment Angol Moa had saved them from those
Kajeat security officers.
"You've been waiting for us," he said.
She nodded.
"Not just to help with whatever it is that's
wrong with me."
"That's right."
"So." He crossed
his arms in front of him. "What is it that you want from me?"
He knew that must be it. Everyone wanted to use him for something.
“Ah, now we get to a useful question." She
grinned, then her voice took on a softer tone. Her eyes
took on a distant look.
Suddenly she seemed old. Very old.
Ancient.
"The End of Everything is coming,” she said.
The end of everything, Xar thought. That
sounded strangely familiar. “It doesn’t sound like you’re talking about the
Altarin’Dakor,” he surmised.
She nodded again.
“The Ones.”
Angol Moa smiled.
"Xar," Icis began. "I don't
think..."
Xar held up a hand, stopping him. Realization had
slowly begun to set in. He now felt that he understood what the Force was
trying to tell him.
"We stand at the cusp of history,
gentlemen," Angol Moa said. "Like I said, I've been waiting a very
long time."
She knew about the Ones. She knew about the so-called
end of the universe. The exact same things that had been told
to him by a visitor, just weeks before. Xar didn't believe in
coincidences. Now he knew what he had to ask, as ridiculous as it might sound.
It was time to take a chance.
“You know how all this ends, don’t you?” Xar asked
her. “You’ve been visited by him too. My son, Derek.”
It
wasn’t really a question, and she didn’t respond. He leaned forward. “That’s
his name, isn’t it? Derek?”
“His
name is whatever you choose it to be,” Angol Moa replied. “For all I know, it’s
changed every time the timeline gets altered.” Her quirky grin sent a shiver
down Xar’s spine.
Xar just sat there, speechless. Angol Moa had met his
son.
Then it was real. Everything his son had told him was
true.
"The... The timeline?"
Icis asked.
“I told you," she said, "that we have much
to discuss."
"When did you meet him?" Xar asked.
"Long ago," she said. Then she made a
half-grin. "And recently."
Was was that supposed to mean? "I don't care for
cryptic answers," Xar stated. "My son. He told
you about the Ones. You know they're coming. What do you know about them?"
Suddenly melancholy, Angol Moa began to pace back and forth in front of them.
“Bah.
That boy changes space-time like you might change clothes. Anyway, I suspected
that something like this would eventually happen," she said, "after
the conclusion of the Dark War. That was when the Avatar appeared… That’s your
son, by the way.” She nodded at Xar. "When he appeared, he confirmed
everything. Since then I have been waiting for events to fall into place. For the right players to appear.”
“The Avatar?” Xar asked.
“Yes. There have been many of them. Altima is one; your son is another."
"Altima?" What did
she know about him?
"Well, you might say Altima is the Entity’s
avatar, but that wouldn’t be entirely accurate…”
The
Entity! So, Angol Moa knew about everything! But then, why shouldn't she? She
was the head of all the Travelers, and they recorded all major events in
history. "But why is my son an avatar of the Force?" Xar asked.
She
shrugged. "There are theories. Almost as many schools of thought as there
are researchers."
"There are researchers?" he asked.
She ignored the question. Instead she leaned over the
table and leveled a finger directly at him. "What does the reason matter?
You both came in contact with a Celestial artifact, did you not? It is called
the Collector."
"So?" Xar blinked.
"What about it?"
She
leaned back and crossed her arms again. "It is not, as some have mistakenly
thought, the source of the Force itself. The Force is created by all life and
has no central source. However, the Collector is able to gather some amount of
latent Force energy from all across the universe and put it to use. It was the
Force's will that your son be born, and the Collector inadvertently carried out
that will."
"The Force's will?" He'd heard people say things
like that before. Though he'd seen plenty of strange things in his lifetime, he
still wasn't sure if he believed the Force had a will. "Why is that?"
he asked.
"To fix things," she replied. "To bring things
back into balance. The Entity's touch has corrupted this universe as
well as well as the one in which is resides. It has created immortal beings
here that shouldn't have existed. It created Altima, their leader. The Force is
always trying to bring things into balance. Your son has been born to right
what has gone wrong." She shrugged. “That is only one theory, of course.
Another is that a fusion of two super-powerful Force users could – again,
subject to the will of the Force – create a being with no limitations as to how
much of the Force he or she might access. But I don’t think you’re quite strong
enough for that.”
Xar shook his head. "What has gone wrong. He was still thinking about what she’s said about
that. "The Warlords. They got immortality because
of the Entity. Because of a power source outside of our
universe. They then tried to take over the galaxy. They did things that
would never have been possible without the Entity."
“The Warlords are a perversion of
life,” Angol Moa said with a derisive shake of her head. “They should have died
eons ago.” She walked over and placed a hand on the table's remaining empty
chair, glancing away. “Humans were never meant to be immortal.”
Xar
reminded himself that this woman was, in fact, very much not human.
"You mean because the Warlords' power didn't originate in this universe,
the Force itself is trying to fix it?" Icis spoke up.
"Correct," she nodded.
"Now, we have digressed far enough, I think. Can we get back to our
original topic?"
Her words surprised Xar enough that he had to think
about what she was referring to. "The Ones?" he asked.
"Actually, you first asked me what I wanted with
you," she said, holding up her index finger. "The answer is this: You
are one of the players I have been waiting for."
"Why me?"
"Why isn't important. What is,
is that the Force showed you to me. You are one - or rather, the means to find
one. I am searching for Sado."
"The Shok'Thola?" Xar asked.
"I would very much like to speak with him."
Xar gave a bewildered laugh. "I'm sorry. I can't
help you. I've never met him. And I doubt an Altarin’Dakor Warlord would be
very interested in talking to you. Torturing and
interrogating, maybe, but not talking."
Angol Moa gave him a curious look. "We'll
see," was all she said.
Xar shook his head. What was that supposed to mean?
"Who are the other players?" he asked.
"Your son is one," she said.
"My son?" Well, he
could have guessed that, he supposed.
"Quick repeating what I say,
boy. It’s annoying.”
Xar blinked.
“He'll be along shortly."
Xar felt jolt of exhilaration. "You
mean, he's coming here?"
"Of course. You didn't
think he was just going to show up once and then not see you again?" She
grinned quirkily again.
Xar took a deep breath. So, Derek was coming back to
see him. The thought made him feel giddy with anticipation. He wanted to see
him again, very much. After all, this was his son!
"All of these players have something to
contribute," Angol Moa said. "We must all sit down and find out what
each other knows. I have most of the puzzle pieces,
but not all of them."
"What do you mean by that, Supreme Elder?"
Icis asked.
She glanced at him. "You and I have spent a lot
of time together, as well. I will have to show you some things before you can
understand what I mean, though. You are another of the players, an important
piece of this puzzle."
Icis looked at her in obvious confusion.
She gave him a compassionate look, her big green eyes
practically sparkling. "What I mean, my dear, is that I only have part of
the picture. I know only part of what will - of what must - happen. Maybe ninety percent. But that is not enough. Not nearly
enough," she said, shaking her head and rustling the huge red mane of hair
behind her.
"My son said that someone named Malduke is the
key to all of this," Xar added in. "Is he one of these players,
too?"
Angol Moa turned to look at him. Across the table,
Icis seemed as though he'd seen a ghost.
"Your son is right," she said. "But
Malduke won't be meeting with us. He is beyond speaking with anyone,
actually."
"Why is that?" Xar asked.
"He is completely insane," she replied.
"Rational thought is beyond him."
Xar shook his head in confusion. This was too much to
take in. "So why is he so dangerous? Who is this Malduke?"
Icis jumped in. "Malduke was the only Kajeat to
ever rebel against our society. He believed that our powers entitled us to rule
over the other races. He raised up thousands of races
to join his cause and started a war that spanned between galaxies. He even
developed a weapon that could kill a Kajeat."
“Kill you? I thought you were all
immortal.”
“Malduke was very smart,” Angol Moa told
him. “He used to be a pupil of mine.”
"So how was he stopped?" Xar asked.
"The Kajeat joined with all the other races and
fought back,” Icis said. “His weapon was destroyed, and eventually he was
captured. Malduke was sentenced to solitary imprisonment for all time in an
isolated location."
"Actually," Angol Moa chimed in, "not
so far from your corner of the galaxy." She looked at Xar. "We built
a nebula around his prison so that no one would ever find him."
"Not the Galbagos Nebula?" Xar blurted.
"I'm afraid that your friends released the worst
criminal in intergalactic history," she chided.
Xar sat back in astonishment. He'd heard passing
mention in the report from the nebula mission that they'd found a spacer
stranded on one of the worlds deep inside. He'd been released, then come back with the troops to NI space.
A cold feeling came into his gut. He knew he'd heard
that name before. Someone named Malduke had come to Varnus,
had been inside the Royal Palace! Xar had even met the man! He knew from the
first time that he'd seen him that the man was a raving lunatic! What had he
been doing there, hanging around Draken Ar'Kell and Omega Kira? Could he still
be on Varnus, even now?
"By the Core..." he whispered.
"Relax, my boy," Angol Moa said, waving a
hand at him. "He's not on your homeworld anymore. Malduke is long gone, by
now. No one knows where he is." She pursed her lips together.
"Actually, if anyone knew where he really was, this would already be
over."
"Why is that, Supreme Elder?" Icis spoke up.
"Because if we find him first,
we can win this. But if Altima finds him, then he - and the Ones - will
win."
"Then we have to find him first," Xar said.
Angol Moa merely nodded, tapping her lips again
thoughtfully.
“But why is Malduke so important to the
outcome?” Icis asked.
She sighed before replying. “Because,” she
said, “He is the key to releasing them.”
They sat there in silence for a moment. Xar listened
to the sounds of the waterfalls in the garden in the distance. Bright beams of
sunlight shone through viewports in the ceiling.
He decided it was time to ask the most important question.
“What are the Ones?” he asked.
For a long moment she didn't speak. It was as if she
had forgotten they were there.
“I saw them,” Icis spoke up instead, “using the
Scepter of Karanishma. They are horrible, powerful. Some kind
of spirit, not physical. Almost like us, but stronger. They consume
everything in their way. An unstoppable force that will
destroy everything. As far as I can tell, they just appear out of
nowhere sometime in the future. I have no idea where they come from.”
“The Ones are the souls of dead Kajeat,” Angol Moa
said softly.
Icis’ mouth clamped shut. His eyes went wide, and he
looked as though he were going to choke. Angol Moa turned to look at him.
"They are willful energy, Icis, just like we are.
And just as any Kajeat could, conceivably, forcibly bond itself to a host body,
the Ones are able to take possession of any physical creature they come in
contact with. However, instead of bonding to form a new, sentient creature, the
possessed are rendered insane, a mindless, unstoppable killing machine
controlled only by their hive mind, and that itself by their leader - Altima.
The possession cannot be resisted, except for us Kajeat, and when bonded to a
host body they become extremely powerful, more than any of us can overcome, I'm
afraid."
“But why is Altima in control of the Ones?" Xar
asked. "I thought he was controlled by the Entity.”
“Of course. The Entity is the Ones. Or rather, the Ones are the
Entity. Their hive mind is directed by its avatar - Altima.”
“What?!” Icis
blurted.
"Then how are the Ones the souls of dead
Travelers if they're part of the Entity?” Xar asked. “How'd they get into the
Entity's dimension?"
"Because that is where we were originally
from," she replied.
Xar felt a chill wash over him. He glanced over at
Icis. The man's jaw had dropped. Angol Moa simply continued.
“In our home dimension, a device was made. It was to
absorb the latent life energy of all creatures in the universe, just enough
that no one would ever notice, yet even that tiny fraction would have been
enough to accomplish anything. However, the device was flawed. Instead of
taking just some life, it started taking it all, beginning with its
surroundings, and spreading out quickly to cover all life in the entire
universe.”
Xar listened in awe. She actually knew what the
Entity’s origins were! Moreover, it sounded just like the Collector that she
said the Celestials had built! Did that mean the Celestials built this device,
too? If so, that would mean the Celestials had gained access into other
dimensions!
“The device eventually consumed everything in our
universe,” Angol Moad said. “But before it could take us all, I invented a
device that transported us into this dimension. In the process it had to
convert us into a new form, that of living energy. Only energy was able to
cross the divide between dimensions.”
"Supreme Elder… a question… if… I may," Icis
stammered. His voice sounded unsteady. These revelations seemed to be hitting him
much harder than they were Xar. Of course, Xar was no Kajeat. What was it like
to learn the origins of your race in such a manner?
"Supreme Elder… You said that the Force itself is
trying to right the wrongs of the Entity. If that's true, then why hasn't the
Force done the same with us?" he asked. "Since we are from that same
dimension?"
She
turned to Icis. "I surmise that we were spared because we have not created
the turmoil that the Entity has. We live in symbiosis with the life forms of
this universe. Where the Entity destroys, we ourselves keep our involvement to
a minimum. We observe, but do not interfere. Now do you see why we chose the
path we've taken?"
Icis’ face looked as though he'd
just realized that for the first time. He probably just had. Xar had to admit
he seemed to be taking it well.
Xar himself struggled to absorb this information. The
Travelers were originally from the same dimension as the Entity. Then they had
fled into this dimension to escape the Entity, but anyone who had been left had
been consumed and turned into the Ones. "How many of you managed to flee
here?" Xar asked.
"Only a few thousand," Angol Moa replied.
"But that's... that's a whole universe full of
people that were lost!" Xar blurted.
She nodded, and Xar felt colder than ever.
A universe full of Ones.
"And if they come into our dimension, there are enough of them to
consume everyone in this universe, as well."
Xar's breath caught. He may never have felt so horrified in his life as he did at that moment.
“The Entity destroyed all life in our home dimension,”
Icis said, as if trying out the words for the first time.
“Yes. Ever since then we have put ourselves at great
risk to bring some of our brethren into this dimension, cleansing them in the
process. That’s how new Kajeat are born.”
Icis looked up at her. “Wh... What? You mean I was a…
a One?” he whispered. Xar had thought that the man couldn't get any paler.
“Technically yes. But you
could have no memories of life before arriving here.”
The look on Icis face held more horror than Xar could
bear to see. He looked at Angol Moa instead. Her eyes took on a soft look, and
that same motherly feeling washed over him again.
"Don't despair, child," she said, her voice full of warmth and compassion. "All
Kajeat were Ones that were redeemed, except for those few of us who were part
of the First Generation, those of us who originally came here. All of you have
been redeemed. The process of birthing a new Kajeat cleanses the insanity of
the Ones forever." She looked away, and her face fell slightly.
"Except for a Death Child, of course, but even then the process is almost
always complete, anyway."
"But I was a Death Child!" Icis said, staring
up at her. His eyes looked bloodshot. "What about me?"
"Don't worry, child. You've lasted this long,
haven't you? You haven't manifested the kind of madness that took hold of some.
Your independent streak may have been influenced somewhat by it, but I'd rather
think that you take after me in that regard." She gave him another quirky
grin.
"What's a Death Child?" Xar spoke up
"A Death Child results when one or both spouses
die during the birthing process," she said. "Depending on the stage of
the birth, the Kajeat could be perfectly normal, or could come out completely
insane." She looked down. "Those have to be locked away permanently,
I'm afraid."
"Why can't you kill them? Xar asked.
"We have no form of capital punishment," she
said, looking at him. "The only Kajeat ever to develop a weapon that could
kill another Kajeat was Malduke, and even when he was defeated, we imprisoned
him."
"And now he's back and is going to destroy the
universe," Xar said. "How brilliant. So much for not interfering. That's what your sense of
compassion has gotten you."
"Malduke was a Death Child," Icis said
suddenly.
Xar looked at him in surprise.
"He was the first one," Angol Moa agreed.
"They compared me to Malduke when I was growing
up," Icis said, shaking his head. "I was always looked down
upon."
"I'm sorry for that, child. But you have risen
above those trials. You are stronger because of it."
"I know, I..." Icis broke off, going silent.
Xar wondered what other world-shattering revelations
Angol Moa might have for them. Surely this was enough for today. It hurt to
even look at Icis. The man was usually so composed, so proud.
"I can't believe all this is so tied
together," he whispered, shaking his head. "Something that was
invented eons ago in another dimension now threatens to destroy ours, as well.
But why didn't it work? The Celestials built it, didn’t they? It sounds just
like the Collector you were talking about. Why wasn't this one
successful?"
"You are correct in your comparison," Angol
Moa told him with a nod. "They are virtually identical. Ours failed, yours
was a success." Her voice became distant again. “It was my one failure,”
she said.
Xar snapped his head up to look at her. "What was
that?"
"I have visited the Collector here, of
course," she continued on. "I now understand what went wrong. I was
too young, then. Too ambitious. I know what I did
wrong, but I will never try it again. It is the one thing I will never build
again."
Her words registered in his ears, but were dismissed
as unimportant. Xar's vision had gone red. “Wait a second,” he said. "You're
saying you... You created that
thing?!"
"The Entity was my failed creation," she
admitted. "I will not deny it. I knew this would be hardest for you to
accept."
"Hard to accept?!" he shouted, jumping to
his feet. "Are you serious?! If what you're saying is true, then you're
responsible for all of this! The Entity, the war, the
Altarin’Dakor everything!" He threw his arms wide.
"I am aware..." she began.
"All their deaths are on your hands!" Xar
yelled at her. "If you hadn’t created that thing, there never would have
been any Warlords! Everyone they’ve killed, everyone that died in the Great
War, in their galaxy, and in ours are all your
fault!"
Even
Derek’s. The thought came all of its own.
“I know that,” she said, meeting his gaze. "I
have dealt with it. I've had a long time."
Xar leveled a finger at her and shook his head. His
anger was unabated. This woman - this creature in front of him - was a monster!
“That’s right," he accused. "You knew! And you just sat there and did
nothing!”
Icis seemed as though he'd just come out of a deep
sleep. He blinked slowly, shaking his head, as if in disbelief.
“You hypocrite!” Xar snarled,
waving his hands around. "You're all hypocrites! You talk about not
interfering! But you caused the biggest interference in the history of the
galaxy!”
“Xar, hold on…” Icis began.
“I don’t want to hear it!” he shouted. “I don’t need
any help from her!” He stared hatred at her. “I don’t want your help!”
He turned and stalked away. His footsteps echoed
loudly on the polished floor beneath him. He made it to a railing that overlooked
more of the gardens below and grabbed the rail, gripping it with all his might.
Righteous anger exploded within him. Xar had fought all his life to stop the
evils in the galaxy! And all this time, beings this old and this powerful had
sat idly by, letting things take their course. Letting evil prevail! Just
watching!
“You know, your son is a fine young man,” Angol Moa
said, suddenly behind him.
He turned to look back at her darkly. “Kriff you.”
"Xar!" Icis shouted.
If his words perturbed her, she didn't show it in the
slightest. She took several steps toward him, though Icis looked as though he
might try and stop her. "Supreme Elder," he said. "He is not
himself, recently. It may not be wise..."
She cut him off, still addressing Xar. “He has visited
me a number of times throughout my life, you know. We first met just after the
conclusion of the Dark War, more than fifty thousand years ago. Since then, he
pops in every few thousand years. He often asks for my advice. We've talked
extensively about you,” she said. She seemed to hesitate. "He loves you,
even though he's never met you."
Xar stared at her. Was she telling the truth? He had
no reason to believe anything she'd said so far.
"I know this is hard for you both to accept, but
know that there were necessary reasons for what I have done. If I could, I
would have done something."
She paused for a moment. Xar continued to watch her.
Behind her, Icis stood up slowly, as well.
“I... I didn’t know,” he said.
“Only the Supreme Council of Elders knows,” she said,
looking back at him. “Only those of the First Generation, who came to this
dimension, like myself.”
“But why?”
“You are capable of handling this information,” she
told Icis. “That's because you’ve already believe that we should interfere.
You’ve broken the Traveler code already. But to others, this information would
be too volatile. It would tear our society apart. But the time is coming soon
when all Kajeat must know.”
“You’re all fools,” Xar shook his head in derision. He
didn't care what reasons she felt justified her actions. It was too late, now.
How could she ever atone for what she'd done? “Why didn’t you do this
before?" he accused. "You had plenty of chances. You let thousands of years slip by! You could
have stopped the Altarin'Dakor when it all started!”
She held up one finger. “First of all, I could not
have stopped it, because even I cannot defeat Altima. All of the Kajeat
together could never have stopped him." She raised a second finger. "Secondly,
the timing was not right. Things have to fall into place. I know this,
partially, because of your son. I am operating on information that he has given
to me. It is he that we are waiting on to move next.”
"So you're using the Force to justify your
actions, is that it? Let prophecy take the blame."
"When was the last time you focused on anything
other than gaining strength in the Force?" she asked. She still had not
raised her voice back at him. "When was the last time, Xar Kerensky, that you felt the Force speaking to you? That you
saw a vision of what was to come?"
He
had no answer to her question, and it didn't matter. Xar had made his choice.
This was war, and strength was what was needed. He didn't have the luxury of
focusing on the Force's finer flows. "Do you know how many people have
died because of your decision?" he asked her.
"I assure you that you have no idea," Angol Moa said calmly.
He
stared at her blankly.
"My dear, every living creature in my entire dimension was consumed,"
she said softly. "Do you know how many beings live in an entire
universe?"
He shook his head.
She remained silent for a moment. Xar - reluctantly -
tried to think about how many beings there might be in a universe. He couldn't
even begin to imagine it. It was impossible.
Suddenly, the anger fell out of him in a rush. He felt
bone-weary.
The sheer sadness of it all was overwhelming. More
people had died in her universe than he could ever fathom. All
because of an accident. “You’ll be brought to justice for your actions
one day,” he said.
“You
think that I haven’t paid a high enough price already?” Angol Moa looked at him
sadly. "The Supreme Council has been reluctant to take action to rectify
the situation. They hold firmly to the beliefs that our society is built upon,
especially the belief that we should never interfere, no matter what happens.
They believe that enough damage has been caused, and to continue to interfere
would simply cause more problems."
Her voice took on a hard edge. "But soon the time
will come, and the Council will understand that this fight is necessary. The
Kajeat must take responsibility for what we've done. Even if
it means interfering one last time."
Icis nodded slowly, considering her words. Xar turned
back to the railing, staring into the foliage. For a long time, no one spoke.
"Do you have any more questions for me?"
Angol Moa said after a while.
Xar said nothing. This had been enough for one day. He
hadn't imagined there could have been so much already.
"Then you should settle into your quarters,"
she said. "We have a lot of work to do while we're here."
As he looked back, Xar saw one of Angol Moa's droids
walk up out of an alcove. The droid took hold of Nico's bed and began guiding
it away.
Angol Moa stood next to Icis, looking up at him. She
barely came up to his shoulders.
“You should go speak with your father,” she told him.
“My father?” Icis asked.
“There are things that need settling. Now is the best
time to do that. I will work with these two in the meantime.”
"Supreme Elder, are you sure that I should leave
you with..." he began.
"Trust me," she said, reaching up and laying
a hand on his chest. Icis gave a visible shudder.
"How... how do I get to him?" he asked.
"Don't worry - I have teleporters throughout the
laboratory here, so you don't have to go back outside. There's one down the
hall. It will take you wherever you tell it to."
"I... see." Icis looked uncomfortable at the
idea, but he nodded respectfully, nevertheless.
Then Angol Moa looked at Xar. "You should get
some rest too," she said, giving him another wink. "Tomorrow I will
be doing a lot of experiments on you."
With that she turned and started following her droid
assistant, the one leading Nico's gurney away. Another droid appeared to Xar's
right and gestured to him and Icis. "This way, sirs," chimed its
voice.
Xar shared a glance with Icis. Then he shook his head,
retrieved his travel bag from the table, and followed the machine as it led him
further into the depths of Angol Moa's laboratory.
* * *
/
Titan-class
Battleship Dark Sun
Mizar
System, Epsilon Sector
1600
Hours
Asellus stood on the bridge of her flagship Dark Sun and watched the chaotic red sky
of Ultraspace swirling all around them. Her cold blue eyes seemed to penetrate
the curtain like a fog, fathoming the secrets it held within its depths. Her
golden hair hung extended down nearly to her shoulders, straight as laser beams,
framing a face that was nearly as beautiful as Zalaria’s.
Today she wore an outfit of burnished gold
and purple fabrics, with an elaborate angled-winged cape and crown to top it
off. Holographic projections surrounded her, adding floating wings behind her
as she walked, and generating curious creatures that seemed to attend to her
every move. It was a lavish display that suited her perfectly. In fact, the
whole ship was custom-made to suit Asellus’ purposes and her character. It was elegant
and foreboding – a massive behemoth of war – yet darkly beautiful as well, with
giant black wings stretching out in different directions in relation to the
ship’s main body. And it was only one of three Titans Asellus currently had
here. The others, the Nightlord and
the Vertigo, were equally
intimidating warships.
Behind her, Calvernic kept careful watch,
his dark eyes reduced to slits as he held the other three Shok’Thola in view. He sat in one of the bridge’s empty,
ultra-luxurious seats, the only one visible in the holographic chamber in which
they currently rested. There were no entrances or exits, ceilings or floors –
only Ultraspace. The chamber was otherwise completely empty except for the four
of them. Asellus had kindly offered her hospitality to them, as well as her
flagship as a meeting point, but Calvernic knew it was merely meant to flaunt
her power. He leaned back in his chair, touching the fingertips of each hand
against the other, waiting patiently as he watched the others.
Standing nearby was Kronos. His shock of
blonde hair took on the lights of Ultraspace raging around them, while his
mismatched eyes cast to and fro, as if looking for something to destroy. Kronos
had come bearing only his own flagship, the Death
Wing. It was one of the few he’d retained after losing a proxy war with
Nimrod, but it was all he usually needed – a nearly sixty-kilometer monstrosity
with enough firepower to level whole fleets. Kronos was itching for revenge,
Calvernic knew. The New Imperium had stopped his initial advance – and
subsequently stripped him of his status as Spearhead. Kronos – self-proclaimed god
of Time – sought vengeance.
The final member of their party was
standing somewhat aloof on the other side of the bridge, with only swirling
chaos lying behind them, but Calvernic hoped that he would stay there. Velius
was as unpredictable as he was strong in the Power. He was currently dragging a
dead body around with him wherever he went, lugging it around by one of its
ankles while the rest of the corpse lay with its limbs spread out. Rigamortis
had long-since caused the cadaver to stiffen out like a board, and judging by
the look of it, Calvernic estimated the creature had been dead for a week at
least. Why was Velius still carrying it around like a child’s plaything?
Velius currently looked a lot like a
corpse, himself. Today he had skin as white as bleached paper, and a shock of
red hair that stood straight up in spikes above his head. When he smiled,
Calvernic could see a row of sharp-filed teeth that glowed a neon
blue. How or why the man chose the way he looked was beyond Calvernic. In fact,
practically everything Velius did was a mystery. The only thing he knew for
sure was that Velius was insane – and not someone to be trifled with.
Velius had brought three Titans with him
as well, a sizeable portion of his active fleet. The Violator, the Defiler and
the Tormentor were as wickedly-shaped
and terrifying as their names implied. In Altarin’Dakor space, merely seeing
one of those ships enter a battle was cause for despair. Not only for what
firepower it contained, but also for what it represented: it meant that Velius,
most powerful of the Shok’Thola, had
come to play.
He pushed down the sense of unease that
arose as Velius began walking towards them across the bridge, his prize in tow.
Unlike most of the others, Calvernic didn’t have a morbid fascination with
death. But then again, he’d only been alive for around five thousand years, a
mere fifth of the time that most of the others had. He remembered most of what
had happened in his life, even before he’d become a Shok’Thola. Calvernic hadn’t yet experienced the profound sense of
boredom, the monotony of life that the others called the Hunger. Would he go
insane, too, as others had – as Velius clearly had? Or would he commit suicide,
and sacrifice himself to the very creature that had granted him Immortality to
begin with, all those centuries ago? He could not yet say. He intended to live
long enough to find out.
“He isn’t coming,” Velius growled as he
neared, his voice sounding like sandpaper rubbing against itself. “It’s been
too long.”
“Akargan should have joined us,” Asellus
said after a while. “It would have been in his best interests. Surely he cannot
hope to win this war all by himself.”
Calvernic nodded his agreement. It was
unfortunate that Akargan had declined their alliance, but not unexpected. He’d
always preferred to go it alone, thinking himself invincible. And Calvernic’s
sources told him that Akargan was currently feuding with Strife, as the two
often did. Perhaps one of them would finally end the fued once and for all.
“Asellus,” Calvernic began, “I believe
that Akargan…”
“You will address me as Great Mistress!”
she snapped at him, causing him to jump. “The time has come for you to know
your place. If I desire your opinion, I shall ask you directly.”
Calvernic bit off the curt reply he’d intended in return. He did not try
to deny the fact that his current position was… altered… from what it had been
a few months ago.
The Altarin’Dakor galaxy had erupted into
civil war, or so all reports said. Those Shok’Thola
left in the home galaxy were all feuding with each other. Calvernic wasn’t
nearly as old or as strong as even some of those, and he was actually here
among some of the most powerful of them all. In order to survive, he had to
accept himself as having a lower status than the others. He was younger,
weaker, and had a smaller fleet. He’d only brought along his flagship, the Invasion of Light. If he didn’t attach
himself to the most powerful, he knew he’d be gobbled up with the rest once the
civil war reached its end.
He tried to hide his sense of unease as
best he could. He was, after all, in this chamber with three of the oldest and
most powerful beings in the universe, worshipped as gods within their own
empires. Their egos had stretched beyond the realm of normal beings. Kronos
alone would have been bad enough. But Asellus had long fought with Zalaria over
who was termed goddess of beauty. And Velius – well, Calvernic guessed that god
of Death was probably the most suitable title.
But Calvernic knew they were not gods, nor
did he purport himself to be one. They were merely powerful – no, extremely powerful – users of the Power.
But they’d had a thousand generations to believe their own lies about
themselves, and he knew that each one of them saw the universe completely
differently, something that made posturing with them exceedingly difficult.
Calvernic knew that any one of them could kill him at any moment, on a whim.
That would not be beneficial for his own plans of
conquest in this galaxy.
Calvernic looked out at the starfield
before them, wondering what might be lying in wait for them out there. They
couldn’t be entirely sure who they were playing against, here. This new enemy,
calling itself the New Imperium, had been completely unexpected. That they
could delay the Return itself for the past two years was nearly unthinkable –
yet somehow, it had happened.
Kronos’ defeat at first could be explained
away readily enough. After all, the man was overconfident, and a narcissist in
the extreme. The Outlanders had simply gotten lucky, getting caught up in one
of Zalaria’s schemes to overthrow him. It was obvious that had been Zalaria’s
plan all along.
Understandably, Kronos hadn’t been
forthcoming with any further information. Wounded pride was a hard thing to suffer.
He stood now with his arms folded, watching.
The events of the next phase of the war
were not so easily accounted for. When Nimrod had announced his plan to lead
the way in and reclaim the galaxy, Calvernic and the others had despaired. It
had seemed inevitable that Nimrod would achieve his goals – after all, no one
could have matched strategies against the greatest military genius in history.
When news had come of Nimrod’s death, it had shaken the Altarin’Dakor to its
core. The home galaxy was now in a state of chaos and uproar, and the Shok’Thola – well, they were left with merely
unanswered questions. Unlike Kronos, Nimrod had not come back yet.
Had Nimrod truly been killed? The only
explanation was, again, Zalaria. Could it be that the only person Nimrod had
ever underestimated was his own sister? Surely he hadn’t expected her betrayal,
as none of them had. Could she have outsmarted him? If so, then that meant she
was far more dangerous than even Calvernic knew. Rumors abounded that she had
even somehow survived a direct assault by Velius, something which was utterly
impossible, and that Velius himself refused to either confirm or deny.
Calvernic didn’t believe for a second that
it had happened like he’d heard. Stories regarding Shok’Thola became easily exaggerated, even amongst the most trusted
couriers. Zalaria had trained Calvernic and even sponsored him to become a Shok’Thola. No one knew her better than
he, except perhaps Nimrod, and now he was no more – supposedly, at least. But
he felt confident that he hadn’t underestimated her by that much.
At any rate, almost certainly their
opponent on this battlefield was Zalaria, once again. But this time, there were
four Shok’Thola against one. Between
himself, Asellus, Kronos and Velius, she didn’t stand a chance. The four of
them were powerful enough to destroy stars, and turn whole planets into mere
interstellar dust. They could easily take over this entire galaxy by
themselves.
But what if there were other, unknown
factors? How much of Nimrod’s former fleet was in
Zalaria’s hands? They had seen to it that no other forces were allowed through
the Gate, but Nimrod already had many Titans on this side before the blockade
had been placed. And Zalaria’s forces were currently unknown. Finally, what of
these Outlanders? Could they had some secret weapon
that hadn’t been accounted for? Had they discovered some long-lost technology,
perhaps even another version of the Infinity?
The thought of being obliterated within the blink of an eye was an intimidating
thought.
But, like all Shok’Thola, Calvernic did not fear the destruction of his physical
body. He had ample clone bodies to transfer his essence to, which he could then
reshape into his own preferred, individual form. There was only one person in
the universe that could take away their Immortality, and as long as they were doing
his bidding, they had nothing to fear. Besides, Altima was currently still in
the Altarin’Dakor galaxy.
A robed servant appeared out of the
darkness, cowl pulled low over his head, and dropped to his knees in front of
Asellus. “Our scouts have entered Mizar, Great Mistress Onrai,” he chimed out.
Calvernic resisted the urge to laugh
derisively. After all these years, eons after being ousted from power on
Coruscant, Asellus still held on to her claim as the mother-goddess of all
humankind. Though most Shok’Thola
were worshipped as deities inside of their own territories, Asellus wanted
herself reinstated in this galaxy into a position above that of all the others
– one that they had never agreed to allow her in the first place.
He watched to see if she would execute the
messenger, as she often did for sport, but this time she did not. Calvernic was
only slightly disappointed. It could be amusing to watch her tantrums
sometimes, as long as they were directed at someone other than himself. She was
in an unusually good mood for some reason, this day.
An image was displayed in front of them,
showing the third planet of the Mizar System – Arcadia, Calvernic remembered.
There was only one ship visible in orbit. Calvernic’s eyes widened when he saw
what it was – the massive bulk of the Grand
Crusader.
“That is Nimrod’s flagship,” Asellus said.
“What is it doing there?”
Calvernic did not attempt to offer his
opinion without being asked. Instead he watched as Kronos pursed his lips, watching
the holographic displays encasing the room around them all. “Zalaria must have
taken control of it. Hard to believe. That brazzna. My
scouts reported that the Mizar system is currently under Zalaria’s authority,”
he said, pausing. “Or… Could the New Imperium have actually captured such a
vessel?”
“Impossible!” Asellus snapped. “Don’t be a
fool. You’re afraid of them, Kronos, because one of them killed you.”
Calvernic thought Kronos’ face was going to
bleed, as red as it became. “Watch your tongue!” he snapped, “or I will remove
it from you! I fear nothing, least of all you!
And I do not underestimate anyone!”
“Bah,” she spat, “They would have been
wiped out long ago if not for Zalaria’s assistance. It is our own number
turning against us that’s caused us such delays. The denizens of this galaxy
are less than insects to be trampled underfoot.”
“Maybe Nimrod is still alive.”
All eyes turned to Velius, who held a
half-smile on his face as he stood nearby. His voice sounded like creaking
metal when he spoke.
“You’re saying this is a ruse?” Asellus
asked.
“It would be like him,” Kronos added
thoughtfully, causing Asellus to blink as if surprised they had agreed.
“They’ve teamed up against us,” Velius
added with a grin. He looked giddy, as though excited at the prospect of facing
both Zalaria and Nimrod. “I always wanted to fight him. But don’t worry; the
odds are still in our favor.”
“That the odds are in our favor goes
without saying,” Asellus said adamantly. “However, I am interested to know why
– and how – they have joined forces. That such a thing could even occur concerns me a great deal. How
could Altima even allow such a thing? It threatens to disrupt the entire
Return!”
Calvernic hid well the sense of unease
that such a thought put into him. Altima had been strangely silent for far too
long, even as the Shok’Thola broke
from the Return into petty feuds and Altarin’Dakor space grew more and more
embroiled into civil war. What was Altima’s purpose in allowing all of them
free reign like this? Not knowing made him far too nervous.
He was also displeased that Asellus
continued to feud with Zalaria. He knew the woman was bent on killing her
rival, and she had right to assume that if Zalaria had joined forces with her
brother, then she would be that much more difficult to exact vengeance upon.
Velius, however, seemed to absolutely love the idea. Perhaps he considered the
two of them combined would actually be a challenge for him. Many Shok’Thola craved feelings of
nervousness or fear, because they had become so foreign to beings who were functionally Immortal. Not Calvernic, though.
Calvernic had to admit it was a logical
conclusion that Nimrod could be alive. Misinformation was a powerful tool of
war. The siblings united would be a powerful force to be reckoned with. Perhaps
they thought they could slay all the other Shok’Thola
and take the entire galaxy for themselves. They might even have a chance, as
fragmented as the Altarin’Dakor had become.
“So, we are all in agreement that it is
possible it is Nimrod we are up against,” Kronos said. “We face two options.
Either Zalaria has convinced yet another Shok’Thola
to mutiny, or else he defeated her and has brought her back onto his side.”
“If Zalaria joined with her brother, then
why would they be at Mizar?” Asellus asked. “Why wouldn’t they have conquered
all of Epsilon Sector by now?”
Three sets of eyes turned towards
Calvernic. “You,” Kronos said, his voice dripping venom. “You are her lackey.
Tell us what Zalaria is doing here.”
Calvernic ignored the derogatory words the
man used against him. “It must be true,” he surmised, shaking his head. “As
impossible as it seems, the only reason Nimrod would return here is to face us.
He intends to defeat us all before he continues taking the rest of the galaxy.”
His words caused a grin to split Velius’
ugly face. “There is no way he only has one ship,” he said. “Either his other
ships are cloaked, or are elsewhere.”
“Cloaked, most likely,” Kronos surmised,
inclining his head toward Velius. “You are being remarkably astute this day.
This concerns me, my friend.”
Velius merely grinned wider, wagging his
tongue out at the other man.
“The question is, how many?” Calvernic
asked.
“What does it matter?” Asellus said. “We
have nine cloaked Titans. Nothing can stand against us – not even Nimrod.”
Calvernic nodded his agreement. Whether
Nimrod was alive or not – and whether Zalaria was with him or not – nothing
could stop four Shok’Thola working
together. That was the purpose of this alliance. Singularly, they might
conceivably be defeated. But Calvernic had seen the wisdom in this alliance.
Asellus had forged it first with Kronos, and the two of them had drawn in
Calvernic, a logical choice among the rest of them. Velius’ joining had been
unexpected. It had thrown things out of balance, but they weren’t about to send
him away. His addition had ensured that this alliance would be unstoppable.
There wasn’t a force in the universe powerful enough to stop them, save for
Altima himself. Even if Zalaria and Nimrod were working together, it simply
wouldn’t be enough.
“Don’t undersestimate Nimrod’s genius,”
Kronos countered sharply. “Many are the Shok’Thola
who have, and are fallen now. We need more information before we move forward.”
“We will enter the system and speak with
him,” Velius said suddenly.
Calvernic turned to look at him, as did
the others.
“Do you have any objections to that plan?”
Velius asked.
“I do not,” Kronos said. His face twisted
into a sneer. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing Kerensky again.”
“Shouldn’t we be cautious?” Calvernic
said, unable to keep silent. He wasn’t sure Asellus would approve or not, but
if the two of them disagreed, perhaps they could stalemate the decision.. “As you said, we don’t know what we’re facing yet.”
“Don’t
be a coward,” Asellus said, leaving little room for doubt as to her opinion.
“Nimrod cannot challenge us directly. As much as I despise your obsession with
that man, Kronos, I do not object, either.” She smiled suddenly. “Perhaps I
will play with him, as well. I will enjoy seeing Zalaria’s face as she watches
her plaything beg to be mine instead of hers.”
“If
there is anything left of him once I’m finished,” Kronos put in.
Instead of responding, Asellus began
barking out orders into the void surrounding them. “Bring us into the Mizar
System realspace. All ships save for my flagship shall remain cloaked. We will
hail them, then we shall see what kind of game our
opponent is playing. Perhaps diplomacy will suffice for this engagement.”
From the looks on their faces, Calvernic
was willing to bet the three other Shok’Thola
were hoping that wouldn’t be the case.
* * *
In
Orbit
Tritonia
System
2100
Hours
Deep within the Archon System, Maarek Stele felt only a
strong sense of purpose as he entered the atmosphere of the planet Tritonia.
The view around him – the cold, dark world below and the glittering stars at
his back – was all that he could see save for the status displays that stayed
in his sight wherever he looked. The pinpricks of light that were Akargan’s
fleet had passed out of view beyond the event horizon – they were approaching
the enemy’s base from far off, so as to get under the planetary shields and get
in undetected. He wasn’t quite sure what would happen once they made it,
though.
Somewhere below his fighter, nestled into
a coffin-sized pod attached to the underside of his fuselage, was an
Altarin’Dakor Warlord. That fact still felt very surreal. How had he been
selected for a duty like this? Why Maarek? And more importantly, what if Maarek
got randomly shot down? Would his passenger protect him – or die along with him?
Rhetorical questions, perhaps – but many things went through Maarek’s mind as
they flew down into the atmosphere.
A few months ago Maarek never would have
believed he was doing this. A lot had happened since then.
The Archon entered the cloud layer, and a
simulated image from the Archon’s computers pierced the obscurity, revealing an
endless array of buildings covering every square meter of the planet below.
Maarek watching in awe – it was like Coruscant down there, only without a
single visible sign of life.
They flew on, cloaked, moving at
hypersonic speed toward their destination. Lightning flashed around them,
illuminating the darkness for split seconds before surrending it once more. On
the comm, Maarek listened to the reports of the unfolding battle as it began.
The chatter was unlike anything he was used to. The comm lines were almost
completely silent except for cold, hard movement reports. Strife’s fleet was
just beginning to reveal itself, and Akargan’s was moving forward to engage,
almost too fast a response for the attack to have been a surprise. Could this
be a trap?
He immediately worried about Alona. She
was flying out there, leading the wing of Archon fighters. She had to make it. He couldn’t lose her and Chele in the same week. He had to
trust that she’d make it.
“Keep your mind focused on our mission,” Strife’s
voice came over his private channel.
Surpise jolted through Maarek – but he immediately
realized that the Warlord was reading his thoughts. It was the only way he
could have been so dead-on at that exact moment. Maybe he really was as
powerful as everyone proclaimed he was. Maarek tried to steel his nerves. “Yes, sir.”
“When
we arrive, you must leave the atmosphere as quickly as possible. Rejoin the
battle and wait until the surrender is announced from Akargan’s forces.”
Pretty
self-confident of winning, aren’t we? Maarek thought.
“I
am.”
Maarek would have swallowed hard if he
could have felt his body through the Archon System. Instead – he was the fighter, after all – it simply
made him feel even more exposed. “Understood,” he replied.
They began to pierce through openings in
the clouds. Dusk had settled into night, and the sky was blue-black overhead. There
were no lights from the cities below. How many people had lived here, once?
From the comm traffic, it became clear
that the two forces had engaged each other. Fighters were being shot down by
the dozens already, and the Titans had directly engaged one another with their
beam weapons. It would be an incredible thing to see. Maarek just hoped he
survived to make it back up there.
A bracketed object appeared overhead. They
were now less than five hundred klicks from their target.
“Prepare
to release,” Strife ordered. “Then
get out as fast as you can.”
“Can
I ask you one thing?” Maarek said. He knew this was the best time to have the
Warlord’s full attention.
“What
is it?”
A hundred questions were racing through
Maarek’s mind, things he wanted to ask of a Warlord. Was he really immortal, and
a thousand generations old? What would happen after this – would he continue on
take over the galaxy? If so, did he plan to spare the New Imperium? Perhaps
even more pressingly, had he actually orchestrated Chele’s death in order that
Maarek would draw closer to Alona? Many questions floated in his thoughts. Most
of them were not appropriate to ask in this situation.
Instead, there was one thing that he did
want to know more urgently than anything. And he didn’t care if it was
appropriate or not.
“Alona,” he said. “Does she really love me?”
A pause. “I told you to focus on the mission,” Strife
said.
“I know. But I have to know this. If we don’t survive… Well, if you can read my thoughts, then
you must be able to read hers as well,” he said. He already knew that Strife
had planned for them to be together. Had he planned for them to become this
close, though? He didn’t care one way or the other that Strife had been pulling
the strings all along. Just as long as he knew whether her
feelings were genuine or not.
“I
know my Jedicon better than they know themselves,” Strife answered. “Alona would fight alongside you. She would
die alongside you. She would even wed you if you asked. Yes, as you count it,
she loves you.”
Maarek suddenly felt like a burden had
been lifted from his shoulders. He didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t expected
the Warlord to answer him, to tell the truth.
“Begin
our descent,” Strife ordered.
Snapping back to reality, Maarek obeyed,
edging the Archon downwards. They had already slowed to begin their descent.
Now they fell below cloud level, and soon they were beneath the tops of the
towers that rose up like skeletal fingers piercing the night, some even
piercing the clouds at points. Maarek found the appropriate thoroughfare that
they’d mapped out, a wide avenue lined with skyscrapers on either side, and he
brought them down to within a hundred meters of the ground.
Then suddenly, as the wall of buildings
rose on either side, a sense of panic gripped him. The street below, the
buildings around, and the sense of it stretching on forever in front of him –
it was too familiar, still too raw after Varnus. He could almost see Thansil’s
fighter ahead of him, about to blast him out of the sky and send him rocketing
out of his fighter to a certain death. He could almost see Rann’s and Tanya’s
fighters plunging to their destruction on the streets below.
Then, just as abruptly as the attack came,
it faded, leaving only a sense of peace. He felt… something… within himself,
calmly assuring him that it would be all right, that he had nothing to fear.
He knew it was Strife, controlling his
emotional state. But for once he didn’t resent it.
Strife’s voice came into his ears. “Now I have a question for you, Maarek
Stele. Your galaxy is already controlled by unseen forces, powers hidden in the
darkness. What difference does it make if a new power conquers it and assumes
control?”
Maarek thought for a moment, pondering
what the Warlord meant. Was he saying it didn’t matter if the Altarin’Dakor
took over the galaxy? True, the New Republic currently held power, and it was
plagued by problems. The Empire before that had been ruled by an evil tyrant –
he’d come to accept that fact, now. Before that it had been a corrupt system
controlled by bureaucrats and powerful corporations. What difference did it
really make? It was always the same, but with different faces and names
attached to the banners on Coruscant.
Yet each time that happened, each time
power exchanged hands, it was the result of wars, assassinations, genocides.
Millions, sometimes billions died simply so that a new government could assume
command. Change always brought with it destruction. But the cycle itself never
really ended.
“Because many people die,” he answered
finally, choosing his words carefully. “And a lot of those are innocent people
who don’t deserve to.”
There was a long pause before the Strife
answered, and Maarek began to wonder if his words had been audible or not.
Finally, the Warlord spoke. “That is a good answer. Now, release me.”
Startled, Maarek realized they were within
ten klicks of their destination. Mentally issuing the command, he released the
clamps that held the pod beneath his fighter. He felt it drop away, lightening
his load, and saw the coffin-shaped device fall down toward the streets below.
Suddenly, Maarek was alone again.
He knew there was no time to reminisce.
Akargan’s base had guns that might be able to track him if he got too close,
and had a firing range of many kilometers. Maarek pulled his fighter into a
sharp climb, rising above the buildings, and turned away to head out on another
heading.
He’d only been pulling away for a few
seconds when he noticed fighters heading towards him.
There were three of them, turning away
from their patrol to head towards him, soaring over the tops of the
skyscrapers. They were small and compact, with four short wings surrounding a
central ball-shaped cockpit.
Maarek felt a chill as he recognized what
they were. Widowmakers. Jedicon
fighters.
I’m
not ready, he thought desperately. But the thought quickly faded. No, he was ready. He had trained for this. He
knew what to expect. These Jedicon pilots, however, would not.
Was
it the Archon System again, making him feel invincible? He couldn’t tell
anymore. It didn’t matter, anyway. He turned into the attack, going
head-to-head with the three enemy fighters. Then, calling on the Force as he’d
been taught, he put on a mental shield around his thoughts.
Within seconds he felt the attack hit his
mind. It wasn’t concerted; if it was, he might not have been able to block it.
He only felt one Jedicon mind – and it wasn’t as strong as Chele’s – assaulting
his consciousness. The enemy had been overconfident. They hadn’t been expecting
to find resistance.
To Maarek’s relief, his barrier held, the
attack sliding off just as he’d been had in a thousand practices. He
immediately felt shock emanating from the pilots of all three approaching
fighters that their sure-fire tactic had failed. Undoubtedly they realized
they’d made a fatal judgement error. Maarek didn’t give them a chance to
rectify it.
He opened fire on all three
simultaneously. Bright blue beams pierced the air, slicing the leftmost of the
Widowmakers in half crossways and detonating it in a massive fireball. His rail
cannons spat out death at hypersonic speed, taking the center fighter dead in
the heart and shearing through it like flimsiplast. The fighter exploded,
raining pieces downward.
The one of the right tried to dodge, but
he wasn’t fast enough. Maarek’s remaining beam weapons found their mark,
slicing away two of the fighter’s four winglike projections. Bleeding fire from
the gaping wound it had sustained, the fighter plunged toward the ground,
doomed.
Maarek goosed the throttle and pointed the
Archon’s nose at the sky. He’d gotten lucky, but the element of surprise would
work only once. He wasn’t about to stick around for more. The next batch surely
wouldn’t make the same mistake their predecessors had.
The
clouds enveloped him once more, and soon even they gave way to the starlit sky
of space above – and the intense battle raging overhead. Already he could see
bright beams of light piercing the darkness of space. Hundreds, thousands of
fighters milled in orbit above.
He
might be leaving one deathtrap behind, but there was another one waiting just
in front of him. But by this point, he was used to it. His Archon wouldn’t let
him down. Wishing Strife success below, he rose to find his next challenge.
The pod descended as it sped towards its destination, its
built-in repulsors keeping it along just above the surface of the long street
it was barreling down at breakneck speed.
Inside, Strife prepared himself for the
crash, and the inevitable death that would follow. He knew that Akargan’s
fortress was warded against use of the Power.If anyone tried to use it to
penetrate its walls, powerful defensive mechanisms would activate,
well-prepared defenses that could not be nullified. The attack would have to
put him inside completely on its own.
However, once inside, it would be a
different situation.
It took only seconds more. The pod sped
down the street, headed straight for one of the palace’s side walls, its
stained-glass windows boarded up to keep any light escaping from within.
Then the pod hit the wall, punching a hole straight through with its reinforced tip and front end.
Debris blasted everywhere as the pod penetrated through the wall into the
interior of the fortress before coming to a crashing halt inside.
The initial impact hadn’t destroyed the
pod completely. It lay on its side in a large, empty room, half-buried in one
of the interior walls. Its occupant, however, had been killed instantly.
For Strife, everything had gone black. But only for seconds.
Within what seemed like an instant, he was
back. His body, of course, writhed in agonizing pain as it healed, mending
bones that had been shattered and organs that had been liquified from the
impact. He hated it every time he experienced this. But despite the torturous
pain, he held his tongue, waiting the healing process out.
Within moments Strife was completely
self-aware again. Seconds after that he could move his body
once more.
He called upon the Power now in earnest.
The pod ripped open, pieces flying out in
all directions. Strife stood up and took in his surroundings in a glance before
moving forward. Then he ducked down a dark corridor nearby, in search of his
target.
Akargan would be aware of his presence by
now. Unfortunately there was nothing he could do about it now that Strife was
inside his fortress, nothing save confronting him directly. Strife smiled as he
called on the power to increase his momentum, moving him down the hallways at
blinding speed. So be it.
He wore all black, a one piece padded
jumpsuit that wouldn’t restrict his movements or tear if he moved at supersonic
speed. He brought no equipment, save for his hypersaber, Nakti. Its half-meter, bone-white shaft of a handle was strapped to
his back, already repairing the minor scuffs and scratches it had received from
the crash.
Strife reached an intersection and paused,
his straight, stark white hair – cut to mid-neck level, now – swaying back and
forth as he looked down each path, then chose the one that felt right. The one with the group of Jedicon at the end.
They never knew what hit them. He sent out
a thought towards them, and the six warriors fell upon each other, their blades
igniting in their hands and slicing through one another as Strife flew past
them in a flash. Alarms began blaring in the distance.
He touched the doors beyond and they
collapsed before him, not breaking his stride. The room beyond was a massive
stairwell, and he vaulted over the railing and dropped the ten stories or so
down to the bottom. He dropped into another room with at least ten Jedicon
inside of it, this group more prepared than the last. They had their
lightsabers out as he landed on the floor in the midst of them, raising their
blades and rushing towards him with mouths open, roaring wordlessly.
To Strife, it was as if they moved in slow
motion. Pulling out Nakti from his
back, he set the blade for whip with a thought and spun it around in a circle
in the blink of an eye, its four-meter blade slicing through bodies, arms, and
handles all in one fell stroke. He was on the move again even before they
realized they were dead, their bodies falling in pieces on the floor behind
him.
Another group stood before him, guarding a
set of ten-meter-high sealed doors with markings scrawled across them. He
gathered the power, thrust out a hand, and the whole lot of them disintegrated
before he ever reached them, not having time to even scream as their bodies exploded
into fragments of skin, bone and blood. The blast hit the doors next, and they
flew off their hinges, spinning into the hallway beyond.
A troupe of would-be assassins awaited
him. Crossing his arms in front of him, fingers extended, he sent out tendrils
of energy from each of them throughout the hall ahead. Soldiers and Jedicon
fell, sliced into pieces. A few survived and sent blasts of energy his way, but
he merely ignored them as they hit – none were powerful enough to cause damage
to him anyway.
The doors at the end exploded before he
reached them, and he slid into another large chamber. At the far end were a
series of columns leading into an even larger room, undoubtably the throne room
he was seeking. A dozen warriors jumped up from their positions around a group
of tables, raising the alarm as they saw him. Running forward, he waved his
hand across the lot of them, using the Power to touch each of their minds with
enough force to scramble their brain matter, killing them instantly.
He pierced the far wall, passing through
the columns decorated with friezes of various Shok’Thola – including himself – and
leapt over the railing into the chamber beyond.
Lasitus had been in the dark for three days. He’d been
given little food or water, and was sure each day that Akargan was going to
come in and kill him. But so far, he hadn’t. Why the delay? Was he going to let
him rot down here? His cell was featureless – one of the deepest in the ancient
palace, meant to demoralize whatever prisoners were
placed inside of it.
Lasitus realized his mistake, now. He
never should have believed Akargan would value their former friendship. That
relationship meant nothing to him, now. For Lasitus it still seemed like it
could have been yesterday, but for Akargan twenty-five thousand years had
caused it to fade far from memory.
He hadn’t really expected to turn Akargan.
Truth be told, he hadn’t known exactly why he had come here. Torn by grief at
Dereks’ death, faced with the reality of the killer that he really was, he’d been pushed beyond the breaking point. He hadn’t
really known what to live for, anymore.
Suddenly he heard a commotion outside of
his cell. He took a deep breath, expecting to see Akargan enter at any moment.
The metal door slid aside, and a figure
was sillouetted there. Lasitus blinked at the sudden light, but he knew that
the outline wasn’t Akargan’s. He didn’t know who it was.
“Don’t stand there! Get out!” a voice
growled harshly in Altarin’Dakor. “We are under attack! Get up and help us!”
As soon as he’d appeared, the figure was
gone, leaving a door of light in his wake. Tentatively, Lasitus moved forward,
unsure what was going on. He had no idea what the man was talking about. Why
had he let him go?
Inside the cell he’d been within the field
of a Null Sphere. But as soon as he exited, he felt its presence fall away, and
suddenly he felt the Force again.
And felt the death all around him. There
was an intruder in the palace. Someone very, very powerful.
A Shok’Thola.
It
must be Strife, Lasitus realized. How had he found them, and why come so
soon? Was it because of the data that Lasitus had taken from Borrose? But
Akargan had said it was all a fake!
It didn’t matter; this was real. He could
feel a battle going on far overhead, as well – in orbit, no doubt. He glanced
down the hallways, where jailkeepers and Jedicon in the area were already
disappearing through the exits. Feeling disoriented after so long in the dark,
Lasitus moved to follow them, wondering what he should do next.
Should he help, as he’d been ordered? Or
should he try and escape? Obviously he was not working for Akargan anymore –
he’d been branded a traitor and jailed. He knew he should flee, but what would
happen if the two Shok’Thola fought?
Would Akargan win, or would Strife? Which outcome should he want to see? Which
would be better for the New Imperium and the galaxy as a whole? Lasitus didn’t
know. Perhaps he should help Strife, but maybe he should assist Akargan despite
everything, if he would be easier to deal with.
He found himself moving upwards, taking
the stairwells toward the main chamber once more. He knew this was probably a
bad idea – on that might even get him killed – but something drove him; he had
to know how this battle would turn out. A fight between Shok’Thola was a rare thing, and it would have consequences that
would affect billions, even trillions in the Altarin’Dakor galaxy. And it could
determine the entire fate of this one, as well.
Calling on the Force to restore his weary
muscles, he kept heading up.
The Extinction had been blown to bits by the
time Maarek got back into orbit. Pieces of it, still kilometers wide, were
spreading out into the void, gravity pulling them inexorably down towards the
surface, where they would eventually enter the atmosphere and crash into the
endless cityscape of the ecumenopolis.
It was now three on four, with Strife's warships still
holding strong despite suffering some damage of their own. The front side of
the Oblivion glowed in places, leaking smoke and atmosphere, but the Abyss,
Maelstrom and the Eternity were still relatively unscathed. They continued to
pour fire into the enemy formation, Akargan's remaining Titans Exterminator, Warhawk, and his flagship, the Overlord.
Beams of energy crisscrossed the space above him, and
thousands of small, shiny objects flew amongst the larger warships - dogfights
involving the fighters of both sides. Fusion beams, neutron cannon blasts and
even mauler weapons blasted out between the Titans, taking any smaller ships
that might be unfortunate enough to be in the way. It was unreal to witness -
if it had been the NI fighting here, they would have been wiped out almost
immediately.
As he rose into the fray, he immediately tracked down
Alona's Archon signature, leading the wing of Strife's elite forces as they
weaved back and forth between larger ships, picking Akargan's fighters out of
the sky like flies. He felt a blossom of relief as he found her; not only was
she still alive, but she appeared to be dominating the skies. He rushed to join
her.
"Alona, I'm here," he sent over the wing's
comm line. "Where do you need me?"
"Form on
me, Maarek Stele," he felt her say, sending elation into him with her
words. "Help us wipe the scourge of
our enemies from the skies."
"With pleasure," he sent back. They were
the words he'd been wanting to hear, the chance to
actually fly on her wing into real combat. Eagerly he pulled his fighter around
and fell into the cloud of silvery Archons that were just regrouping beneath
the Maelstrom.
Almost immediately he noticed two Punisher-class
heavies coming towards him from around two o'clock low. An alert appeared in his
vision as four missiles streaked out from the fighters, heading his way.
Feeling their incoming trajectories with the Force, he fired his beam cannons,
aiming each one at a separate warhead. One by one the beams found their mark,
detonating the missiles prematurely in flashes of light.
The Punishers opened up with beam weapons next. Maarek
pulled up and snap-rolled, watching the beams pass beneath him harmlessly. He
goosed the throttle, moving to slide past the fighters on their starboard side.
At the same time, he angled his rail cannons along their fight path and opened
up on the one on the right. The high-velocity slugs pierced the fighter's
shields and punched through its armored fuselage. The cockpit shattered first,
then the fighter flipped over and Maarek's projectiles ripped through the
fighter's underside, piercing the engine housing and causing the fighter to
explode brilliantly.
The other fighter flashed past to the right and began
a tight turn to get on Maarek's six. Straightening his own turn, he went
vertical instead, pulling g's that he could never have sustained without the
Archon System. He came around, inverted, and came in above the enemy fighter on
a head-to-head. Spitting the fighter in his sights, he fired with two of his beams,
the blasts meeting just as they reached the enemy's fuselage and slicing the
ship cleanly in two.
He turned again without waiting to see the inevitable
explosion, already searching for his next fight. In a TIE Avatar, he knew those
Punishers would probably have done him in. But the Archon made enemies like
that no more than child's play. Not only could they not match his fighter's
agility, but with the Archon's ability to give him uncanny accuracy he had
unrivaled dominance over the skies.
Ahead, he could see the gigantic, ethereal mass of the
Eternity beginning to square off
directly opposite Akargan's flagship Overlord,
a massive oblong-shaped gargantuan bristling with cannons all across its bow.
Thick beams of energy began to fill the space between the two, catching any
unlucky fighters that got in their way and vaporizing them instantly. The
shields of the two ships were lighting up, walls of bluish energy kilometers
wide. Maarek definitely wasn't going to find himself
getting in between those leviathans.
Despite their seeming advantage, Maarek knew that this
fight was far from over. The battle could still go either way, and he knew that
the fight between the two flagships mirrored what was unfolding on the surface.
That was the duel that would likely determine the outcome of this day. All they
could do was hold out the best they could, and hope
that it was Strife who emerged the victor.
Looping around again, he rejoined his comrades - his
siblings among a family of superfighters - and moved to take the fight to the
enemy once more.
Strife
dropped down into the chamber, landing nimbly, and stood to his full height.
There – standing in the center of the room, waiting for him – was Akargan.
He was ready – but that much had been expected. The
chamber had been emptied, the furniture moved to the walls. Akargan stood on a
dais beneath the gaze of his former master’s statues, with three massive
fireplaces behind him lit with orange fire. A cloak of animals’ pelts hung from
his shoulders, and his curled black hair was tied behind his head. A smirk
decorated his face.
“So, the time has finally come,” Akargan said, licking
his lips. “I knew this day would arrive, Strife. I’ve been waiting for this.”
“Twenty-five thousand years is a long time,” Strife
said, putting on a cordial smile. “It was always destined to be this way. Only
one of us will emerge alive.”
“Agreed,” Akargan replied eagerly. “How shall we do
it?”
Strife gave a smirk he knew would anger the other man.
“You’ve always wanted to prove you were better than me with a blade.” He held
his hypersaber’s handle up in the palm of his hand,
gave it a toss. “Weapons only.”
“Perfect.” Akargan’s expression betrayed no emotion. “And the Power?”
“Enhance speed and strength only,” Strife replied.
“Accepted.”
Akargan appeared eager, but there was uncertainty
lurking within his eyes. Strife knew that despite his words, Akargan hadn’t
been eager to see this confrontation through to the end. It was he who had put
this off for so long, delaying direct duel between the two of them until
millennia had passed by.
They had faced each other before, but not
in thousands of years. The last time, Strife had bested him also. Perhaps
Akargan merely thought this was yet another confrontation in an endless war
between the two of them. But Strife had other intentions – this would be the
last day. Altima had given him the tools before, when he’d been sent after
Mordachus.
Akargan might not keep his word. He might truly wish
to prove that he was the superior swordsman, but if things became dire he might
regress and unveil his full power. Strife intended not to give him that chance.
He preferred the elegance of a real duel to the messiness of destroying whole
cities with the Power.
“For far too long you’ve thought you were the god of
War,” Akargan said gruffly. “That title belongs to me. And today I am going to
take it. Today we find out who is truly the strongest.”
Strife put on a mocking smile. “After all this time,
you still don’t understand. Titles mean nothing to me, Akargan. Strength means
nothing. I have a far greater power. I am of the true blood. I was old before
the Altarin’Dakor were born. I have nothing to prove.
A Jedicon’s marks have never touched my face,” he said.
Akargan’s face twisted into a sneer, but he didn’t
fall into the trap. He did not devolve into a fit of rage. He was keeping his
head for this battle. “Your words border on treason, Strife,” he taunted.
“Altima has granted me special knowledge. There will be only one Shok’Thola in
the end. And that will be me.”
Strife paused, but dismissed the man’s words as
bravado. He wasn’t going to be taken in, either. It didn’t matter what Altima
said. Strife had chosen his path. No Shok’Thola
had any hope of a future as long as Altima still reigned.
And he’d just discovered the way to defeating Akargan
before he ever drew his blade. “Thank you for passing on that information,” he
said. “Quite interesting, since Altima has ordered me to eliminate you next.
Just like he did with Mordachus,” he lied.
He watched as Akargan’s eyes widened, then took on a
wild look. This was it. The battle rage that the man relied on when fighting.
It gave him incredible strength, but poor judgement. In response, Strife called
upon the immense reserves of power within that always lurked just beneath the
surface. He reached through that barrier, like reaching through the oily
surface of a pond, tapping into the vast well below, yet feeling its taint –
the unnatural touch of the Entity upon his soul, the thing that he’d called
master for a thousand generations.
“You are a fool, Strife!” Akargan barked. “And now I
will end the universe of your existence once and for all!”
“Then come, and die!” Strife shouted.
With a growl emanating from his throat, Akargan pulled
out his own hypersaber. Sha’kira
ignited with the sound of a thunderclap, its blinding two-meter white blade
snapping to life and banishing shadows from the room. Four smaller blades shot
out from around the emitter nozzle, forming a guard of energy. Strife could
feel Akargan powering up to his full strength, like a giant mountain of the
Power welling up in front of him. Akargan’s furred cloak ripped itself free
from the man, revealing a massive chest and arms that rippled with muscles. The
air rippled out from around him in visible waves.
Strife raised Nakti
as well, igniting the blade with a hiss. Three meters of purple-white energy
shot out of one end as though the blade itself was anticipating this battle.
Strife drew in all of his power, allowing it to fortify his body, to increase
his speed to the point that the flames in the fireplace appeared to stand
completely still.
Together they could have certainly
destroyed the entire planet. Yet contained, they focused on each other,
enhancing their speed and strength, in the controlled chaos of the Power
preparing to engage in the ultimate duel between two warriors.
Then Akargan barreled towards him, and Strife rushed
forward to engage.
Raising his blade high with a scream,
Akargan struck like lightning. Strife’s blade snapped out and the two blades
met with the sound of a thunderclap. They clashed and held for a nanosecond,
then were on the move again before the sound even had begun to spread through
the air. Akargan brought his blade around low and to the side, and Strife
dipped his blade down to parry. The force of the blow was like a mountain
crashing against him, but their strength did not depend on muscles. Strife’s
power was at least equal to Akargan’s – in truth, it was greater – only the
perfect combination of strength, speed and skill would proclaim the victor this
day.
Strife fell back before the furious
onslaught, as Akargan struck in a maddened rage. Letting the Power guide him,
Strife blocked twenty different attacks in the span of a single second’s time.
His hair whipped around as if moving through water instead of air, and the flames of the hearth creeped upwards at a
snail’s pace. Booms filled the air as their arms broke the sound barrier
repeatedly.
As his foot struck the floor again, he
pivoted, ducking beneath another blow, then bringing Nakti around in a strike. Akargan caught
the attack on his guard and forced Strife’s own blade around and down. Then he
disengaged and swept upwards at supersonic velocity. Strife leaned back at the
last nanosecond, allowing the blade to merely scrape the surface of his suit
with millimeters to spare from breaking his skin. Then he spun, sweeping his
blade overhead to block devastating downward blows from the larger Warlord.
With each successful block, he attacked, but Akargan’s blade met his blow for
blow.
He was enjoying this.
Stepping back, he commanded Nakti with a thought. He released the
shaft and it flew back to settle on his forearm in a split second. As Akargan’s
strikes came in again, he used his whole arm to direct his motions, blocking
his opponent high, then low, then stabbing back in with lightning speed.
Akargan dodged, his body writhing like a viper’s. Strife struck at his head
again and again, but the other Warlord rolled his head left, then right, then sweeping his blade up to bat Strife’s away with
ferocious force.
Spinning with the blow, Strife released Nakti and let it hover over his arm for
a moment. Responding to his direction, it changed once more, its blade
contracting, forming a protective shield above
his arm. Stepping forward, Akargan attacked again, swinging with massive blows.
Strife moved his arm to block, the blade crashing against his shield of light
repeatedly. With a yell, Akargan swung rapidly, hammering the shield dozens of times
in the span of seconds, but the barrier held.
Feeling a smile touch his lips, Strife
sidestepped again, releasing the shield, gripped Nakti’s shaft once again, and set the blade for whip. Flicking the
handle, he sent the energy cracking through the air, then whipped it around and
swung. Akargan’s eyes went wide and he stepped back, blocking with Sha’Kira, and Strife’s blade struck his,
wrapping partway around the other’s blade before he could fully arrest its
motion.
Strife launched into the offensive,
striking out with Nakti in a fury.
Akargan fell back, each time careful to block the light whip near the end to
avoid being sliced from the blade’s wrap-around. Strife cracked his blade again
and again, and Akargan dodged in a blur, the blade slicing into the floor over
and over again, sending chunks of stone blasting into the air. He spun,
bringing the whip down in a complex arc, and passed Akargan’s guard to cleave
away a few centimeters of hair tied behind his head.
Akargan slid back out of range, spinning Sha’Kira in his palms. Pausing, Strife
set Nakti back into blade mode and
smiled again. His opponent stared at him in malevolent hate. They stood there
for several seconds, long enough for sweat to begin to bead on their foreheads.
“You have improved your skills since our
last encounter,” Strife offered. Then he narrowed his eyes, smiling harder.
“But you see I’ve saved a few special techniques for this particular fight.”
“You’re no match for me,” Akargan sneered.
“I’ve merely been toying with you, Strife. Perhaps it is time to unveil our
true power.”
“Agreed,” Strife said. Then he took a
breath, and the stones at his feet split as he launched himself forward.
Lasitus
ran back into the audience chamber and skid to a halt. He could barely believe
what was unfolding before his eyes.
He froze, unable to take his eyes away. The Below him, on
the main floor, the two Warlords moved like lightning. Even fully powered up,
Lasitus could barely even see their movements as they fought. two Shok’Thola
glowed like stars with the power. He could feel it, right down to his very
soul. It made him want to fall on the ground and weep.
He’d never felt anything like this before.
Two Shok’Thola,
fully powered up and engaged in combat with one another. Even during the Great
War nothing like this had happened in his memory. The strength of the two men
down there – it was incredible! Strife he could understand; after all, he’d
been a legend long before Lasitus had been born. But Akargan – Lasitus
remembered fighting alongside his former comrade as though it was yesterday.
That man was not the same being as the one who now fought below him. He had…
changed, utterly and completely, into something far beyond what mortal men
could be.
Somewhere, among the maelstrom of emotions
and thoughts running through him, a new thought emerged. I could have had that, he realized. If he’d somehow escaped
imprisonment, it might be him down there instead of Akargan. Even after that,
if he’d served Akargan well, then perhaps he might have become a Shok’Thola, too. He could have been
Immortal, invincible.
The thought disgusted him, yet at the same
time he couldn’t deny its reality. Lasitus was still the man that he’d been
before the long sleep, before amnesia had turned his former life into a hazy
mist. But that could have been me, he
thought, and the sense of longing nearly drove him mad.
In a flash the sense of reality
returned. His eyes were transfixed on the Warlords below. And what he saw took
his breath away.
The two Shok’Thola twirled in a dance of light, their blades moving so fast
around their bodies they seemed continuous streaks of light surrounding them. They
moved across the floor as they fought, their motions a blur.
Akargan struck with furious aggression,
his face a mask of rage, his muscles rippling like wild, living creatures
inside his body. Strife countered him, his lean form by contrast somehow able
to parry blows that sent shockwaves through the air. His face remained calm,
composed, his eyes glowing like blue fire. He jumped, ducked and spun away from
the massive Warlord’s attacks, dumbfounding Lasitus with each successive move.
He stepped back, and somehow his blade became livid, snakelike, blocking and
whipping around to strike Akargan from the side, from above – every conceivable
angle. But Akargan’s speed kept him from taking hits, and he came in all the
harder. The palace was shaking under the force of their movements.
Akargan stabbed straight him then, his
blade guards pinwheeling as his pommel spun in his hands. Strife parried and
turned, spinning his body, swinging his hypersaber around to strike at his
opponent’s back. Akargan rolled foreward and turned, then brought his blade up
to parry the violet-white blade as it extended at least five meters to strike
out at him. Then Akargan launched forward in a blur, forcing Strife back once
more, but the man’s lithe body slid out of the way, twisting his blade and
swinging as he moved. His blade passed underneath Akargan’s guard and split a
gash across the man’s side as he passed.
By the time Lasitus realized what had
happened, Akargan had already spun back around and the two were facing each
other once more. Vaporized flesh and blood formed a small cloud that wafted
away from his body. His face betrayed no pain – only surprise, visible in his
widened eyes that had become almost pure white.
Before
he realized it, Lasitus had leapt over the railing and dropped to the floor
with a thud. The two Warlords continued to face off against one another,
oblivious to their intruder’s presence.
“Akargan!” Lasitus yelled,
staring across the floor at the Warlord.
The Warlord spared him a brief glance, no more. There
was no sense of hostility there, yet neither was there a feeling of
camaraderie. There was no request for help in that gaze. Lasitus was just an
observer, a complete stranger.
Strife
attacked.
If
he’d appeared as a blur before, he seemed twice as fast, now. Akargan fell back
across the floor of the massive chamber, meeting him stroke for stroke. The
sound of their clashes tore through the air, falling far behind the movements
of their blades as their movements barely became visible. The two Warlords
moved as though locked in an elaborate, beautiful dance, their blades wrapped
in a continual clash of expertly-executed strikes, blocks and parries. Strife
stuck, then fell back under a counterattack from Akargan, parried and went
offensive again. Lasitus watched, unable to move, paralyzed with terror. If
they even came near him, he’d be killed by a stray swing he might not even see.
The
two Shok’Thola clashed again, held
against each other for a split instant, then pushed
away from each other again. Once more each measured the other,
Akargan’s face a strained turmoil, Strife’s a mask of smiling confidence.
“DIE!” Akargan’s voice boomed throughout the
chamber as he came in, striking horizontally with Sha’Kira, the blade glowing like the sun.
Strife blocked, but the force of the blow
threw him back. He spun with the motion, allowing Akargan to pursue him, his
blade suddenly changing back into its whip-setting again. He snapped the blade
up, slapping Akargan’s next attack away, then slipped
past his opponent again.
The two faced off once more. Then Strife moved
forward in a blinding assault, his light-whip cracking through the air. He
lashed out, striking Akargan’s blade on one side, then the other in the blink
of an eye. Akargan parried, but the other’s blade was too fast, too mobile. His
motions became just a nanosecond too slow. Strife’s blade bounced off his
light-guard, striking twice on the left, then on the right. The unanticipated
move succeeded; the glowing violet blade touched on one side, and something
flashed, then the blade hit the other side and sparks flew out from Sha’Kira’s handle. Akargan ducked a wide
horizontal blow and stepped back.
Two of his light guards had gone out already.
As Lasitus watched, a second later a third light guard flickered and went out.
Only one remained. Wisps of smoke rose through the air as if in slow motion. Akargan
glanced from his blade back to his opponent. Strife’s face was composed,
deadly.
No
words were exchanged. With a scream, Akargan ran forward, his veins near
bursting, his eyes solid white. He glowed like the sun
in the Power, now. Sha’Kira stabbed
forward too fast to follow. Somehow, Strife moved out of the way. He slapped
down Sha’Kira again and again,
driving Akargan back as he spun one way, then the other. Akargan countered,
Strife parried Akargan’s blade, then spun in close once more. His blade slashed
upwards in a return stroke, and the violet-white blade severed Akargan’s right
arm at the elbow.
Vaporized blood shot through the air. The
blade and the arm holding it flew away. Akargan turned,
his face a mask of shock. He did not cry out.
Like lightning, Strife struck out again,
cleaving Akargan’s right leg off just above the knee.
Akargan pitched forward, catching himself
with his remaining left hand. He fell to his remaining knee, his right leg a
stump touching the floor. He grunted, then looked up
at Strife, his face a mask of hatred. Strife stood above him, looking down
dispassionately. Lasitus stood transfixed in shock, unable to look away. No... he
thought…
…something… happened in that moment.
Lasitus felt Strife reach out with the Force and touch Akargan in a way that
he’d never felt before. Akargan’s eyes went wide. Even from this far away, he
could clearly see as the Warlord’s gaze went from one of chagrined defeat to one
pure terror in an instant, and he gasped, lurching forward as if in sudden
agony.
Strife raised his blade. Akargan raised
his head, struggling, as if feeling pain for the first time. He finally meet his opponent’s eyes.
“…Kigiras?” Akargan whispered. “What…”
Strife swung his blade in a final,
horizontal strike, his massive blade cleaving Akargan’s head clean away from
his shoulders. The head hit the floor and bounced, rolling away. The headless
torso slumped to the ground.
Lasitus could only stare. It was over.
Then he felt it – a scream so visceral it
sent shivers across his whole body. It wasn’t audible, it was felt, filling the Power within him and
reverberating within his mind until he felt he would go mad. And it was made
all the worse because he recognized the voice of that scream. Akargan’s voice.
Something terrible had just happened. And
whatever it was, somehow Lasitus knew that Akargan was far worse than simply
dead. It was as if he’d just heard a soul falling into hell itself.
He stood there, paralyzed, as Strife
turned slowly away from his fallen opponent, surveying the room. Lasitus knew
he would be seen; there was no escaping now.
The Warlord's eyes shifted to take in Lasitus, and sheer
terror ran through him.
“So... Do you wish to try your luck?” Strife asked
simply. The words, softly spoken, punched through the silence like a
thunderclap.
Lasitus stared at him wordlessly,
unable to speak even if he’d known what to say. If the Shok’Thola decided to kill him, then he wouldn’t have a chance. He
didn’t want to die here, today.
“I know you,” Strife said then, arching an
eyebrow. "Isn't that yours?"
He glanced down at the floor. Lasitus followed his gaze, and saw what the
Warlord was gesturing at. Sha’Kira.
Lasitus tried to swallow hard, but his
mouth was too dry. Strife had recognized him. But what did he want from
Lasitus? Was he going to let him live? He dared not hold out hope. As long as
he didn’t suffer the same fate that Akargan had, whatever it was…
“Take it,” Strife ordered, jolting him
once more.
Obediently, Lasitus reached out with the
Power. His onetime hypersaber lifted up off the floor and soared through the
air to land in his hand. As his fingers fell around the hilt, feeling its worn,
weathered pommel, a deluge of memories assaulted him. It had been a long time.
“You should return to your New Imperium,”
Strife said, breaking through his memories. Lasitus looked up at the Warlord in
shock.
“Tell your friends they are walking into a
trap at Mizar,” the Warlord continued. “I will be there personally within days.
I must first consolidate Akargan’s fleet.”
Lasitus blinked in dumbfounded shock. What
was the Warlord talking about? Why was he telling him this? He wanted to ask a
question, to discover what he meant, but the words wouldn’t come out.
Strife’s gaze rose to the massive domed
chamber around them, and when he looked back down, his expression became deadly
serious.
“Akargan has many Jedicon in this place,”
he said. “They must be neutralized. You have thirty seconds to be at least ten
kilometers away from this facility before I completely obliterate it. Get as
far away as you can. For someone of your level it shouldn’t be difficult.”
Lasitus felt his jaw drop. He gaped at the
Warlord in shock.
“Go!” Strife shouted at him. He raised a
hand at the ceiling, and Lasitus felt a blast of the Power unlike anything he
could hope to equal. The domed roof caved in, creating a tunnel that rose
steadily higher above him. Then the Warlord held out his other hand to the side,
and a ball of pulsating energy began to grow within his palm.
There was no longer time to think.
Gathering the Power within him, Lasitus jumped, using his strength to catch
himself in the air and propel him upwards. The tunnel Strife had made streaked
past him as he flew, then suddenly the walls ahead gave way to open air.
He burst out of the palace, calling on the
Power to give him speed like he’d never known before. The air ripped at him as
he flew away, its fury abated only by the shield he managed to erect around
himself.
Lasitus flew away as far and as fast as he
could, unable to comprehend what was happening. Why had Strife let him live?
Why had he warned him about Mizar? How was he going to get back to Varnus and
warn them?
His thoughts were dashed away as a
brilliant light began to fill the air behind him. He spared a single glance
backwards, just long enough to see the explosion reach up and fill the sky,
turning the cityscape behind him into motes of light as the shockwave blasted
out towards him.
Throwing every last ounce of energy into
speed, Lasitus flew hard and fast. And he screamed, a
wordless, thoughtless roar. And as the light reached out and enveloped him, he
realized that he really didn’t understand anything about the universe at all.
* * *
Angol Moa’s
Laboratory
Location
Unknown
Time
Unknown
In
the past few days, Xar had been poked, prodded,
scanned, and numbed so many times that he really did feel like someone's guinea
pig. And his patience was beginning to wear thin.
Now he was sitting in a golden chamber
surrounded by equipment whose function he could not begin to guess. Angol Moa
sat above him in an extended chair, her floating holoscreen in front of him.
Her fingers danced lightly across its glowing surface.
After what seemed like hours, he decided
to break the silence.
“What happened to the Celestials?”
At first, she said nothing, the light
reflecting off her face as she stared at her screen in concentration.
“You do know, don’t you?” he said again
after a while.
Her eyes glanced over at him, and for a
second he thought they flared in annoyance. “Of course I do. It’s my position
to know. There isn’t a scientific mystery in the known universe I haven’t
already figured out. Except for one,” she added, tapping her cheek
thoughtfully.
“What would that be?”
“It’s those little flakes that get stuck
in your teeth when you eat gooji chips… I just can’t figure out how to stop
them,” she said, grinning oddly again.
He grunted and looked away. “You’re making
fun of me again,” he said.
“Maybe you need it,” she replied, suddenly
cool again. “There’s far too little humor in you, my boy.”
“Thanks for the advice,” he put back. “I’ll
put that on the list somewhere after I’ve killed the last Altarin’Dakor.”
“You need to let go of your hate.”
“Just answer my question,” Xar said
flatly.
She frowned, then
shook her head. “I can’t. This is not the time to discuss that. If we did, it
might distract you from our mission.”
“What mission?” he asked.
“The only thing we need to worry about is
how to stop Altima from finding Malduke,” she responded. “That is our only
objective.”
“That’d be a lot easier if you were a
little more forthcoming with information,” he told her.
“I’ve told you what I know about him,” she
replied.
He waited again while she kept doing
whatever it was she was doing. He took a deep breath, impatient. He remembered
once being far more calm and reserved than this. Once, he could have waited for
hours to get the information he needed. He’d been composed, collected. Was this
Krun’s influence again, or Runis’? It seemed more like Krun, to him. Runis had
been patient.
The shook his head.
This line of thinking was too disturbing to think about. It felt like… Like
giving it legitimacy gave it power It was almost like he was considering
those two ruthless killers in his head comrades, now.
“I saw him on Varnus,” Xar said, turning
his thoughts elsewhere. “Malduke was there, at least a couple of years ago.”
“Humph. He could be on the other side of
the galaxy by now,” she replied idly.
“We’ll put everything we have into finding
him,” Xar said. “Everyone leaves a trail. If he did leave NI space, we’ll find
him sooner or later.”
“You’ll have to do better than that if you
want to find him before Altima does,” she said. “He has resources far beyond
anything you might have.”
“Don’t any of the other Warlords know?” he
asked suddenly.
She glanced at him. “Know what?”
“About Altima’s true
objective. The whole Altarin’Dakor, the Return itself.
It’s just a farce, isn’t it? Altima doesn’t care if they succeed at all. He
just wants Malduke. The Shok’Thola
have been completely duped.”
“People come up with their own reasons for
doing what others want,” she said softly. “Wouldn’t you want to give some
purpose to your life if you had lived for a thousand generations?”
He considered that, thinking of everything
she had done, of all the inventions she’d created, and of this entire world
devoted to her work. This was what kept her going, he realized. “The Shok’Thola want
to take over our galaxy,” he said to her. “And not just ours.
They want to conquer them all. They’ll come after you eventually, too.”
He looked up as she gave a snort.
“Bah,” she said. “The Altarin’Dakor
wouldn’t have a chance if they attacked Kajarn. Much less the
other races of the intergalactic community.”
“The technological difference is that
great?” he asked.
“Of course.”
He looked around the room. “You use
nanotechnology,” he remarked. It was the only way they could do things like
this, to cause matter to change so quickly and inexplicably. “So do the
Altarin’Dakor. It’s called Shadowtech. Intelligent machines.”
“It is quite primitive, I assure you,” she
said. “A pale comparison to ours. It’s actually
flawed, which gives rise to the large rate of anomalies and malfunctions
they’ve experienced. In the grand scheme of things, the Altarin’Dakor are mere cosmic adolescents,” she told him. ”The races of
the intergalactic community are much older, and far more advanced. Your
Altarin’Dakor foes wouldn’t get very far should they venture into a properly
settled galaxy.”
“But what if Altima was with them?”
She fell silent at that, the only sound in
the room the beeping of her monitors. It was enough answer for him.
“Tell me,” he said. “If you’re supposed to
be the greatest scientific genius the universe has ever seen, then why haven’t
you been able to duplicate what the Celestials did?”
“What is it with you?” she sighed, shaking
her head. “Are you trying to make me slip? Always asking about the Celestials...
Always wanting to know secrets…. When will you learn?”
“Learn what?”
“That some things are best left alone.”
Xar snorted. It was just a simple question.
She didn’t have to take it so personally. Xar had always had an insatiable
thirst to know more about the universe, especially its ancient secrets. What
was so wrong with that? “Sorry to bruise your ego,” he said. “We all have our
limitations.”
She glanced sideways at him. “Who says I
haven’t duplicated it, boy?” She gave a loud sniff. “Actually, I copied
Celestial technology millennia ago. In my own way, of course.
What they did wasn’t quite so impressive as you
imagine, I’d wager. If you knew half of what the members of the intergalactic
community are capable of, you’d probably wet your pants. Manufacturing planets,
terraforming, stellar gateways, transplanted star
systems – even virtual immortality. These things are readily available. There’s
nothing the Celestials built that I haven’t already duplicated – or could
surpass, if I chose to.”
She broke off then, and turned back to her
screen. “Some things, however, are just too dangerous to play with.”
He thought on that for a moment. “The
Collector?” he asked finally.
For a moment all he heard was the sound of
her computer, beeping at her in a code that he supposed only she understood.
“It’s the one thing I swore I would never
build again,” she said after a while. “Now, are you ready to begin?”
“I’m ready whenever you are. What are you
going to do?”
She glanced down at him. “I’m going to put
you to sleep for a while. Then I’ll find out some more.”
* * *
Titan-Class
Battleship Eternity
In Orbit, Planet
Tritonia
1900
Hours
Maarek no longer doubted the stories that he’d heard
about Strife. They had to be true. He had seen enough by now, and with his own
two eyes to prove it to him. Compared to that, the stories he’d heard before
weren’t far-fetched at all. And at this point he’d probably believe anything
about the Warlord.
Strife had already been onboard the Eternity when Maarek landed. Somehow,
he’d gotten offworld and returned without a single shuttle or ship of any kind
returning from the planet. And after the explosion that had lit up the
atmosphere, clearly visible even from space, Maarek hadn’t thought there was
any chance the man had survived at all. In fact, he’d thought that they’d lost,
at first.
He had been wrong. No normal person – in
fact, not even the strongest Jedi Maarek had ever heard of – could have
survived a blast like that. But now that Maarek himself had learned enough
about the Force to feel it when it was used around him, he knew that the truth
was far more stunning – Strife had caused that blast. The sense of power just
before it happened had been unmistakable. Maarek had never felt anything like
it before.
Now,
as the Warlord stood in front of him, he couldn’t help but acknowledge that the
rumors had to be true. Strife was a god.
“You performed excellently,” the Warlord
said, standing at ease in silken robes, his hair falling like a straight
waterfall around his face. “Well worthy of reward, in fact.”
Maarek had freshened up and had dressed
himself into a ceremonial uniform to meet the Warlord. It was stylish and
black, and Strife’s insignia was emblazoned on the shoulders. An immense
feeling of pride swelled up in his chest at the Warlord’s words. “I have all I
want,” he heard himself say. “You’ve already given it to me.”
There, he’d said it. He knew it was true;
there was no denying it. He felt more at home here than he’d ever had anywhere
else. Here, he finally belonged.
He watched as Strife grinned at him,
splitting his beautiful face and revealing perfect white teeth. His cold blue
eyes sparkled. “Indeed, Maarek,” he said. “You have proven your loyalty to me
with certainty, now. I know this not because of your performance, but because I
know your innermost thoughts. I know that you serve me faithfully. Therefore, for
your service I will give you a new title, a new name for you to bear. From this
day forward you will be known as Seitann
Maarek Stele. In Altarin’Dakor, the meaning of Seitann is that of an emissary. From now on you are one of my
emissaries, Maarek Stele.”
“Thank you,” Maarek said, unsure of what
else to say. The sense of pride within swelled like a glowing sun. A title – given by Strife himself? It would have been the
last thing he’d expected to receive, but it felt… right. He could almost feel
it falling and resting upon him, like a mantle.
The Warlord’s face suddenly became more
serious. “And now that you have proven your loyalty, I would like to address
the second thing I require of you, Maarek Stele.”
Strife’s eyes pierced through him. It took
a second for Maarek to realize what the Warlord was referencing. Then he
remembered their original conversation, months ago now. “And that would be?” he
asked.
“Clones.”
Maarek blinked. Clones? “What kind?”
“Clones of you, Maarek Stele,” Strife
replied. “Now that I know you are able to master the Archon in every way, I will
build an entire navy’s worth of Maarek Steles piloting my Archons. They will be
more than enough to stop any military opponent that comes against me.”
Maarek felt a chill wash over him, and he stood
in silent shock. Clones of him? He’d
never thought anyone would want to do something like that. Was that kind of
thing even possible? “That… sound like quite an undertaking,” he said. “How
long will it take to do?”
“It is already done,” Strife replied. “I
merely required your DNA, Maarek, and full scans of your brainwaves and
patterns, which we have already obtained. I am telling you because I wanted you
to be aware,” he said, “and because I wanted to test your loyalty before I
began to duplicate you.”
Maarek wasn’t sure how to respond. He
certainly never would have gone along with such an idea when he’d first met the
Warlord.
“I don’t know if I like the thought of
other… You know… Me’s…” he began.
The Warlord cut him off with a wave. “They
will not look like you, Maarek. They
might resemble you as a distant relative might, but that is all. What I
required was in your mind. Don’t
worry, my friend. There will only be one true Maarek Stele. I will make sure of
that.”
Maarek took a breath, then
nodded. If it was done already, he knew there was really nothing he could
really do to stop Strife from carrying out his plans. Besides, this wasn’t his
concern any longer.
“Now,” Strife said. “If you wish, you are free
to go. Or, you may live out the rest of your life in luxury in my territories
as a prince. You would have access to anywhere in my empire,
and nothing I have would be off-limits to you.You could take wives…” He arched
an eyebrow at him knowingly. “You could have anything you desire, Maarek.”
Alona’s face instantly popped into his
head. I’d like that,
the thought came all on its own. Following a moment later was an image of Chele,
lying dead somewhere on the planet Borrose. The twinge of pain knowing she was
gone bloomed back in his mind. He pushed it all to the side with some
difficulty. “And what will you do with the clones?” he asked.
“I will use the clones as I see fit, even
taking them back to the Altarin’Dakor galaxy.”
“Will you use them to conquer this
galaxy?” Maarek asked.
“That question is irrelevant to our deal,”
Strife countered. “Assuming the Altarin’Dakor invasion is successful, the
clones might not even be ready until it is all over. Perhaps the galaxy will
already be under my control, or that of another Shok’Thola. I am looking to the future, to what lies ahead, quite a
few steps more than some of the others. There are many other galaxies out
there, Maarek Stele.”
“I see,” Maarek replied, thinking. What
did he have to lose? He was home here, anyway. Alona was closer to him than
anyone else in the galaxy, now. He had carried the Warlord personally onboard
his own fighter. He supposed that he had
proven his loyalty, at that. “I want Alona,” he said, surprised at how quickly
the words came out of his mouth.
Strife smiled slightly. “She is already
yours, Maarek. But know that she will not leave my presence easily. It can be…
intoxicating.”
Maarek took a deep breath, then nodded.
“You
must work things out between yourselves.”
“I understand,” Maarek said.
“You will stay with us, then?” Strife
asked.
Maarek nodded once. “I will.”
The truth was, he
knew his decision had been made already.
A few hours later, Maarek was back on the Eternity’s observation deck, watching as
Akargan’s former ships were brought into formation with Strife’s fleet.
Presumably commands were changing hands, and those factions that would be
unwilling to change allegiances were being eliminated even as he watched.
He was aware of Alona’s presence even
before she stepped up beside him. That he could do that now – with his budding
Force abilities – continued to amaze him. But not as much as the look in her
eyes as he turned to look at her.
“You are staying with us,” she said.
“I’m staying with you,” he said, staring
into the maroon discs that were her eyes.
She didn’t blush at his intense stare, but
merely returned his gaze. “I am honored, Maarek Stele. There are more battles
ahead, though. You know that.”
“I know,” he said. “And I’ll fight them
beside you, every step of the way.” He glanced back out at the stars again.
“I’m a pilot, Alona. War is all I’ve known for so long, there’s nothing really
else out there for me. Except for you. I want to do
this together. And after this is all over, maybe we can settle down somewhere.”
He reached over and took her hand, squeezing it gently.
“I would like that, Maarek Stele.”
“I know now,” he said, nodding. “This is
what we were made for.”
“I understand what you mean, Tan Stele,”
she said.
Maarek turned to look back at her. “Why do
you call me that?” he asked.
“It is the short form of Seitann. It is a term of endearment,”
she explained, her eyes twinkling.
A
smile began to play across her mouth. He stared into her eyes for a moment,
then reached a hand behind her head, taking hold of her thick azure locks, and
drew her lips to his.
* * *
Angol Moa’s
Laboratory
Location Unknown
Time
Unknown
“Welcome back,” Angol Moa said as Xar’s eyelids flickered
back open. He looked up at her and saw her still sitting above him, just as she
was before. Making him feel even more like a blasted guinea
pig. He shook his head to clear it of the sudden grogginess he felt. He
hadn’t even known he was out.
“I have good news,” she said, then broke
off and paused thoughtfully for a moment. “Well, I suppose it’s actually bad
news, but at least it is progress.”
“What do you mean?” He glared up at her.
“Whatever it is, just tell me.”
Angol Moa tapped her lips thoughtfully. “I
have isolated your problem, my boy. The good news is that you’re not completely
insane. The two personalities within you are very much real.”
“What?” he said.
“They’re
not a physical manifestation on your brain at all. Part of their spirit is
trapped inside you, intertwined with your own.”
“So how do we get them
out?” he demanded.
“That is the part you’re not going to like.
Their personalities have nearly bonded to yours, marking you as a completely
different person from what you might otherwise be. It is good that you came to
me now; if you had waited much longer it might have been too late to save you
from complete insanity. But I cannot forcibly remove them from you. The healing
cannot come from outside, it must be from within. The only way to do that is
deep inside your own psyche.” She arched an eyebrow at him. “You’re going to
have to face them. You’ll have to fight them off, eject them from your own
psyche. And if you lose, it might be yourself who is cast out, instead.”
He
shivered at that thought. Still, he doubted this could possibly be true. “Can’t
you help me?” he asked suspiciously.
“I’m afraid this is something you’ll have
to do by yourself,” she replied. “I can only provide the doorway inside.”
Xar
didn’t respond. Doubts played through his mind. What was Angol Moa really up
to?
“Give it some thought,” she said. “When
you are ready, let me know when you to want to proceed.”
That night, he didn’t sleep well. In his
dreams, he did cruel things, hurt people that he knew he really cared about,
but in that moment inexplicably lost all sympathy for. In his dreams, he knew
he was really a different person. And when he saw his face in the mirror in
those dreams, it wasn’t himself that he was seeing. It was always the face of
Krun, or Runis. It was never Xar.
* * *
Titan-class
Battleship Grand Crusader
In Orbit, Mizar
System
1600
Hours
“Sir,
a Titan-class battleship had just decloaked a point two-five-seven!”
The call blared out from beside his cot,
waking him almost instantly. With the lights still dimmed, he nevertheless
dressed in a rush, then strode out of the ready room, where he’d had a
makeshift quarters set up so he could be close in case something happened.
Something like this.
Gaius
was on the bridge within moments of the call going out. The fatigue from the short,
fitful sleep he’d been having quickly vanished as he saw what was waiting for
him outside the forward viewports.
A monstrosity eating
away at least a quarter of the sky floated out in space in front of them.
It was pitch black, making it stand out in sillouette against the Galbagos
Nebula filling the sky behind it. Two massive, wickedly-curved arms stretched
out in front of a broader central hub, making it look like a massive, spiky
beetle’s head floating in space. But there was more than just a visual sense
about the ship. Through the Force Gaius could feel the evil emanating off of it. It wasn’t just the ship that was the threat; there was a
powerful presence inside of it, and it felt more dangerous than the Titan ever
could be.
It was nearly fifty kilometers long. He
remembered a time he’d stood in disbelief at seeing a ship of that size. No longer. Now he was commanding one of his own.
Walt Amason had been watching the bridge
in Gaius’ off-shift. He spun around in Gaius’ chair as he noticed the fleet
commander’s entry. The whole bridge was a bustle of activity behind and below
him.
“What
have we got?” Gaius asked as he walked up.
“The ship is called the Dark Sun,” Walt said, coming to his feet.
“We’ve never seen this particular Titan before.”
Gaius took a deep breath, looking out the
viewports again. The ship outside was huge, but not as large as the Grand Crusader. They weren’t outmatched
yet. The question was, however, was this ship alone, or were
there others, cloaked just as theirs were?
Their plan here, to hold at Mizar and pick
off Altarin’Dakor fleets as they came in one by one, depended upon not having
to face too large a force at once. If they were seriously overwhelmed, it would
expose the weakness in their plan.
A chime sounded throughout the bridge. “We
are being hailed,” the Comm officer reported.
Gaius
exchanged quick glances with Amason. “What are they saying?”
The Altarin’Dakor officer paused, perhaps
to translate in his head what she was hearing. “They are asking our purpose for
being here, and to speak with the commanding officer,” she reported.
“That would be me,” Gaius said. Walking
over, he took the empty chair that Amason had vacated. Walt took up a place
beside him, for support if needed.
“What is our response sir?” the woman
asked him.
Gaius put an elbow up on his armrest and
stroked the stubble that had started working its way out of his chin. He hesitated
before replying to the woman. This situation was delicate. He needed more
information. Was it just one Titan, or more? He had three more cloaked Titans
in close formation around him, his surprise card. But he needed time to assess
his enemy before he knew which action to take. Could this be decided
diplomatically, or would force be necessary”
“Maybe we can scare them off,” Walt
suggested at his side.
Gaius considered his options. He didn’t
want to reveal his hand prematurely, but he also couldn’t ignore the
communiqué, either. “Send them a message,” he ordered. “Ask them what they are doing here. Tell them the Mizar
is under our jurisdiction.” He hestitated, mind working
quickly to find a way through this. “Tell them it’s under Nimrod’s jurisdiction,” he finished.
For a moment the officer just stared at
him, doing nothing. Gaius wondered if he’d somehow violated a cultural taboo or
something by invoking Nimrod’s name. You
just never know with these blasted Altarin’Dakor, he thought. He wished he
had the dayshift officer here instead, but there simply weren’t enough NI
personnel to man all the shifts. “Is there a problem?” he asked finally.
The woman straightened, as if realizing
she’d been gaping at him and that she wasn’t supposed to do that. “No sir,” she
said in a monotone voice. “It is… an unusual thing to say.”
“That’s the idea,” Gaius told her. “Send
the message.”
“Understood, sir.”
Then she leaned over her console and began speaking into the receiver.
For several moments, Gaius and Walt waited
without any sign of a response. The constant hum of activity on the bridge
around them was the only thing to be heard.
“Well?” Gaius asked.
The Comm officer looked back up at him.
“They are not replying, sir.”
“Figures,” Walt spoke up.
“They’re trying to decide if we’re
bluffing,” Gaius told him. “This should buy us some time.”
“Time for what?”
Walt asked.
“To figure out what our next move is,” Gaius said.
* * *
Titan-class
Battleship Eternity
Ultraspace
0900
Hours
Days had passed since Maarek’s sudden promotion, and his
decision to stay with Strife’s fleet. They had left Tritonia, jumping to another
system, though Maarek wasn’t sure where. It had to still be inside Epsilon
Sector, though. They weren’t leaving the key battlefield of the war just yet.
The days of downtime had also given him as
much uninterrupted time with Alona as he could have hoped for. During that
time, their bond had deepened even further. Hours on the observation deck, long
walks in the envirodecks, and most importantly, lots of conversation. He had
been fascinated to learn about where she was from, and what turns her life had
taken to bring her to this point.
She’d been trained almost from birth to be
a Jedicon pilot. Maarek could only imagine what it must have been like to have
your destiny set for you for as long as one could remember. Alona had been the
star of her class, and her amazing powers in the Force had put her on track to
become one of the Shok’Thola’s most
elite squadron pilots. Slowly, Maarek came to understand what her position
truly entailed. The chances of being selected to serve in the position she held
were literally one in a million. Alona was the envy of thousands, millions of
Altarin’Dakor pilots and Jedicon alike all throughout Strife’s vast empire. She
was a personal servant to their supreme ruler, a man their great-great
grandparents had learned to serve and worship from the day they were born.
In comparison to that, Maarek didn’t
consider his own life to be that remarkable. Yet remarkably Alona was
fascinated with every aspect of Maarek’s life from his childhood to his
Imperial pilot days, all the way to his time in the NI. She didn’t take it
offensively that he’d killed Altarin’Dakor pilots – after all, she reasoned, it
was a war – and she found it especially interesting to hear how Maarek had
saved Emperor Palpatine – the former ruler of this galaxy. He supposed that she
could relate well to what his role had been, at least for that mission, anyway:
the personal bodyguard of an unquestioned authority.
She also wanted to know all about Maarek’s
parents, Kerek and Marina Stele. Maarek was reluctant to reveal too much,
especially what their current whereabouts were. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust
her – no, he trusted her more than anyone – it was
just that old habits died hard. He hadn’t spoken of his parents to anyone in
years. Not since Vader had lied to him about releasing his father.
The days went by so quickly that he didn’t
even notice the fact that Strife’s fleet was amassing in a single location
again until they had already done so. One evening, on the observation deck, he
noticed far more ships around than he’d ever seen in the fleet before. Strife
was getting ready for another big move. Maarek understood – he’d defeated one
big opponent, now he wanted to keep the momentum up. But what would their next
mission be? Would they go up against yet another Shok’Thola? Or would they be turning their guns onto the New
Imperium next?
His questions about Strife’s plans were
soon answered. Maarek had been called back to the Warlord’s war room, for what
would now be the third time. Each one so far had signified a momentous change
in Maarek Stele’s life. Would this one be the same?
Now, staring at the giant map floating in
the air with Strife standing on the other side, he held his breath in
anticipation for whatever he was about to hear. Because whichever direction it
went from here, the changes would be momentous, indeed.
“Here,” Strife said, gesturing at the holographic
representation of the Mizar system floating in the air between them. “From this
you can see that the New Imperium Starfleet has amassed in the Mizar System.
They arrived several weeks ago and secured it before anyone else could move
in.”
Maarek looked at the map, feeling more
than a bit of shock. The New Imperium had taken Mizar! The first time they’d
tried, it had been one of the worst defeats of the war, and one of the
bloodiest battles Maarek had ever seen. Now the NI had been successful, and
Maarek hadn’t been there to see it. “What are these other blips?” he asked,
pointing.
“Unfortunately,” Strife said, “a coalition
of Shok’Thola appear to have banded
together and positioned their fleets opposite those of the NI. My sources tell
me that the fleets belong to the Shok’Thola
Asellus, Kronos, Calvernic, and Velius.”
Maarek felt a chill run down his spine.
Four Warlords together!
“This is an unprecedented opportunity,”
Strife said, glancing sideways at him. “One we cannot afford to pass up. Five Shok’Thola,
including Zalaria. If they can be eliminated, then there would only be
four Shok’Thola left remaining within
the entire Altarin’Dakor, including me. In addition, my superiority over the
others would be unquestionable, as I would be the strongest by far. The entire
Altarin’Dakor empire might even fall under my command,
at that point.”
“So, we’ll be going in, then,” Maarek
said, taking a breath and glancing again at the map. It would be oa battle of
legendary proportions. “When?”
“Our forces will assemble immediately. We
will hold just outside the system, in Ultraspace, and wait for the right time
to enter the engagement.”
Maarek nodded slowly. Then, irresistible,
the next question on his mind came to his lips. “Whose side will we be fighting
on?”
Strife met Maarek’s eyes with his own.
“That has yet to be determined,” he said. “We will continue to watch the
situation, and when the time has come, we will move.”
Maarek merely nodded, turning to study the
holographic display in more detail. He pushed aside his worries; he had to
trust Strife. And even if things turned out differently, he knew that in war
things were never clear. Allegiances shifted.
“You must obey my commands no matter what,
Maarek Stele,” Strife said, taking his attention again. “Even
if you do not understand them at the time.”
“I understand,” Maarek replied professionally.
“You belong to me, now.”
Maarek glanced back at him, and he knew he
couldn’t deny that fact any more. “I’ll be ready,” he said.
* * *
Angol
Moa’s Laboratory
Location
Unknown
Time
Unknown
The experiments continued for quite
some time. Xar was beginning to lose patience with Angol Moa.
Xar seriously doubted that Angol Moa was
what she and Icis claimed. The thought that anyone could be as old and as smart
as her, and could accomplish so much, was starting to feel a bit far-fetched.
After all, he’d been here for weeks, now,
and still she hadn’t figured out a solution to his problem. If she couldn’t do
it, then he’d rather have her come out and admit it, rather than keep leading
him on like this. If he was going to go insane, then he didn’t want to do it
cooped up inside her laboratory.
Now he found himself in yet another
scanning chamber. She must have run the same scans on him a hundred times by
now, he surmised. What good was it to do more? Sitting there at her hovering seat, there was
an almost haunted look to her face. It was barely perceptible, well hidden. But
more than ever he felt a sense of sadness about her. Maybe she was realizing
that Xar couldn’t be saved.
“Any progress?” he asked for what must
have been the thousandth time.
“Progress is always being made,” she said.
“I must assemble more data before I can give you a more accurate picture of the
situation.”
Xar grunted; he’d heard that answer quite
a few times already. She never said any more than that. She just kept working,
her eyes rarely blinking, fingers working furiously.
There. The corners of her eyes dropped just slightly. It was barely noticeable,
but the sadness was definitely there.
“What’s with the look?” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not exactly your normal, perky
self,” he said in a sarcastic tone.
She glanced down at him. “We Kajeat are
highly sensitive to the feelings of those around us,” she said softly. “It
helps us to understand others better, and therefore
chronicle their lives. Certain things in your life… remind me of tragic events
in mine,” she finished.
That was about as open an answer as he’d
ever gotten out of her. “Did you… lose someone?” Xar asked. He was guessing – but
maybe it really was just disappointment in her lack of progress. Was this creature even capable of something resembling a
normal relationship – much less love?
She frowned for a moment, as though she
knew exactly what he was thinking. Then she sighed. “My… mate, and my child,
both perished in our home dimension. They were too close to the Entity, and I
could not save them.”
Her words struck a chord in Xar. He’d
never considered the possibility that she could have been a mother, once.
He
frowned. “But couldn’t you… you know… draw them back here? Couldn’t you pull
them out whenever you draw a new Traveler into this dimension?”
“It doesn’t work that way,” she told him.
“We cannot choose a certain individual to bring back. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
“I… see. I’m sorry,” he said.
“You must reconcile yourself to the loss
of the boy,” she told him eventually.
Xar snapped his head up in surprise. “What
does that mean?”
She didn’t answer him. Instead she said,
“You have to move on, Xar.”
“That’s none of your business,” he
snapped. But after a moment, he relented. If what she told him was true about
her family – and that was a big if – then she should understand what he was
feeling. But then again, he didn’t fully understand it, himself.
“I should have protected him,” he said
finally.
“You
have to forgive yourself,” she said instead. “It was not your fault.”
Xar took a deep breath. His voice had
become unsteady – he hadn’t spoken about this with anyone, yet. “I can’t let
his memory die. D…” Stang, but it was hard to say that name… “Derek would have
been stronger, greater than I ever could be,” he said. “He had a bright future
– a destiny. And it was snuffed out.”
“It is not your place to make that determination,”
she said. “The boy Derek’s destiny was his own. Who is to say that his sole
purpose was not to draw you into what you now face?”
“How can you say that?!” Xar exclaimed. “You coldhearted…”
“Do you yourself believe in sacrificing
your life for that of others?” she interrupted him. “Haven’t you risked your
life many times for your wife, for your people?”
He broke off. The casualness of her
comment was dismaying, as though she were suggesting that Derek had been
something less than a real, living being. Xar shook his head. It was
impossible. The Force couldn’t be that
cruel. “You’re forgetting one thing,” he said. “I was supposed to die. We never would have discovered something was wrong
with me if my son hadn’t come back to save me. If only he could have saved
Derek, too…”
“You have to focus your mind into the
present, boy.”
“I have to mourn him!” he countered. “And
I won’t tolerate your disrespecting him again.”
She sniffed loudly again. “Perhaps. But there is little time for the healing process,
I’m afraid. You are holding back, and I cannot help you if you won’t let me.”
“What do you know about healing wounds?”
he shot back.
Angol Moa arched an eyebrow. If his words
perturbed her, she showed little more, yet that one gesture felt like a yell.
“I am not playing games, boy,” she quipped back at him. “Consider this: you may
have lost one who was like a son to you, but you have gained two other, true
sons, instead.”
Xar looked up. “What do you mean by that?”
“You have Derek, the son resting within
the womb of your wife. And you have the Derek who came from the future and
saved your life – soon he will return to be with you.”
“But that can’t be,” Xar countered,
shaking his head. “How can there be two at the same time?”
“Your son Derek has the ability to
transverse the pattern of space-time,” she said. “Perhaps you do not fully
realize the implications of his decision to help you. When he altered history
in that way, he changed forever the future that he knew. Now he is all that
remains of that timeline, of that entire universe.
“Now the boy who grew up without you will
never be. The child that is now within his mother will grow up a different
reality, with a father to guide him. Future Derek still has those memories, of
course, but the moment he changed history, the mother that raised him alone and
the timeline in which he grew up have now effectively ceased to exist – or at
least, they are now inaccessible to him. He is trapped in this timeline
forever, now. He gave up all of that – everything that he knew, Xar. He gave it
up for you.”
Xar listened, but didn’t look at her. He
was at a loss for what to say.
“He shouldn’t have done it,” he declared
finally. “One man’s life could never be that important, to trade for everyone
else’s.” Everyone in
the universe.
“So you wish that you had died?”
“Don’t play games with me,” he said.
“You’re just trying to justify killing off everyone in your universe. My son would never do that. He’s a good man – better
than you’ll ever be.”
“Whether his actions were right or wrong
is irrelevant, now,” she told him. “The universe is amoral, Xar. Decisions are
made and must be lived with. I have come to terms with myself. You must do the
same for you.”
“We’ll see about that,” he said, wishing
he knew of something better to say. All he could think about was what his son
Derek had told him, that he’d grown up with only his mother to guide him, and
that he’d taken an incredible risk to come and save his father, to change
history.
Xar was supposed to die on Varnus, that
day. Derek wouldn’t have traded an entire universe just to save his father’s
life, would he? Did time really work that way? He didn’t know – and that lack
of knowing was unbearable. It couldn’t be true. Derek had to be a better man than Xar was.
Angol Moa began typing on her screen
again, and he heard the scanners firing up once more. “What’s done is now in
the past, Xar,” her words echoed throughout the chamber. “What matters now is
that you must live in such a way as to prove his actions worth the cost.”
* * *
That night, the nightmares came in
force.
Xar rolled over, burying his face
into his pillow. Heaving sobs, dry sobs without tears, raked through his body.
He gripped the sheets in clenched fists, pulling on them tightly as he could in
a body that suddenly felt sapped of strength, as impotent as his ability to
turn back time and change what had happened.
Why had she had to mention the boy? Xar
had managed to push it far, far away, into the deepest corner of his mind where
he’d locked the events away tightly. He hadn’t had time to think about it, and
he knew that he wasn’t strong enough to take it even if he did. That day on
Varnus part of him had died just as certainly as if hi son hadn’t rescued him.
In fact, that was the key; Xar was supposed to have died. If he had, he
never would have known that the boy had been killed by those Jedicon. Xar could
have slept in peace forever. But instead he had to live now in the agony of
that knowledge. Angol Moa had thrust those doors in his mind open, and now the
full power of that devastation rushed through him in a chaotic maelstrom.
Derek was dead. He accepted that fact,
now, and the despair was overwhelming. He was never coming back. Never! It was
so surreal, like a dream that he had to wake up from. How could it be?!
He was just a boy! The thought tormented
his soul endlessly. Xar had done everything – everything! – in
his power to keep him safe, away from the conflict. Why had hit happened? Why?!
Derek had been so kind, so endearing, so
innocent! He hadn’t deserved this!
Oh,
kriff! his mind raced. Kriff it all! It’s not FAIR!
Suddenly, the room felt different.
“You’ll soon be joining him,” a raspy
voice sounded from within the darkness.
Xar jolted awake, sitting upright, his
heart racing. Sweat-soaked sheets fell to his waist as he looked around. There,
in the doorway, was a sillouetted figure. As he watched, heart pounding in his
chest, the figure moved forward slightly, just enough for the light to
illuminate his features.
The man had long, dark and unkempt hair.
His face was marred by the ugly scar stretching across his face. His eyes were
dark, sinister. It was Dasok Krun.
“What’s the matter, Kerensky?” Krun
taunted him. “Afraid to die?”
Xar screamed, lunging out of bed and
reaching desperately for the Force. “Lights!” he shouted, causing the room to
illuminate. He cast about for his lightsaber, but it took only a second to
remember he’d left it back on the Black
Star.
He turned to look back at the figure in
the doorway. Then Dasok Krun turned and ran from the room.
Xar took off after him, allowing the Force
to rush through his body. He passed through the doorway out into the cool night
air, the sounds of Angol Moa’s forest surrounding the apartment he’d been given
to sleep in.
Dasok Krun was already a good twenty paces
ahead of him, barreling towards the entrance to Angol Moa’s laboratory. He
glanced behind him as Xar stood there, hesitating. This isn’t real, he thought. It had to be an illusion, a product of
his own mind working over time. But Krun looked so
real… Could it really be him, still existing somewhere inside
Xar’s mind? Was that was was controlling this image in front of him?
“Come get me, Kerensky!” shouted Krun from
below. “Do you think you can kill me? Do you think you’ll be able to stop me? I
killed your whole family, Kerensky! Your father, your mother,
your sister and your brothers.” He laughed then, a sound rich with the
utter vileness of the dark soul that rested within. “I even killed your uncle,”
he finished with a grin.
Xar was running again in an instant,
barreling towards the murderous creature below him. He didn’t care whether Krun
was real or not; he was going to kill him tonight. Even if he
had to burn part of his brain out to do it.
Krun turned and continued running, heading
for the entrance. He slipped through into the laboratory just ahead of Xar,
disappearing for a moment out of sight.
Xar passed through the entrance and
paused, scanning the giant vaunted area beyond. Krun had vanished.
Ahead lay the gardens situated directly
underneath the first massive dome, the one with the holographic creatures.
“Over here, Kerensky!”
There he was. Standing
over near the side wall to the right, just in the shadows, grinning wickedly.
With a roar, Xar thrust out his hand and
send a blast of energy out at his enemy. The flash of energy crossed the space
and slammed into Krun, who exploded into a hundred pieces. Glints of metal and
plasteel flew through the air. It didn’t take long for Xar to realize what it
was.
One of Angol Moa’s
droids.
“I’m here, Kerensky!” Krun’s voice came.
Xar looked up at the bridge arching ten
meters above the gardens, allowing its travelers a superb view of the scenery
below. Krun was standing directly in center of it, glaring down at Xar, hands
on the banister.
Xar sent another blast out towards his
enemy. Dasok Krun exploded. Sparks and pieces of synthetic material flew
everywhere, and a cloud of smoke rolled upwards from the wreckage.
Another
droid down, Xar thought. Maybe at
this rate I’ll destroy all of those blasted things.
But what about Krun?
What if he didn’t go away, this time? Would Xar really go insane?
“Kerensky!” Krun laughed wildly from
somewhere else. Xar snapped his head around and saw the man darting from one of
the side hallways.
He took off after him, following him into
the gardens. If Krun thought he could lose him there, he was sorely mistaken.
He followed a narrow path into the gardens, temporarily losing
sight of his quarry. He could still hear Krun’s footsteps, though, coming from
somewhere. Crouching down, he slipped off the path into the dense foliage.
Tracking more by his natural instincts than the Force, he skirted
through the tall ferns surrounding him, coming around to flank his opponent. He
finally emerged into a clearing a few moments later. Sure enough, there was
Krun, standing still next to a babbling brook and waterfall, his back turned to
Xar.
Drawing on a surge of the Force, Xar lunged forward at his enemy.
At the last second Krun turned, a mad smile painted across his face, then Xar thrust out a fist with all his might and sent the
man’s head flying from his shoulders.
Sparks flew from the headless droid as it collapsed into the
waters. The head crashed into the underbrush somewhere out of sight. Another one down, Xar thought feeling a wicked
grin creep across his face. This was actually becoming enjoyable…
“That will be enough, boy.”
Angol Moa’s voice cut through the air like
a knife. He turned toward the sound, over to where a short bridge rose up to
cross the brook as it flowed downstream.
There she was. Standing
there in all of her terrifying glory, her hair spreading out in the darkness wildly
like rays of dusk sunlight. The woman who, so he was
to believe, was the oldest living being in the universe.
If Shok’Thola
were guilty of horrible crimes in the thousand generations they’d lived – if
they deserved to die for what they had committed, then what must this woman
have done after four times that lifespan? What must she deserve to endure for
her own crimes? The Warlords had wiped out whole races, but this woman had
destroyed an entire universe. And Xar was the only person who knew. He was the
only person who stood in a position to bring about justice.
“I said that’s enough,” Angol Moa
repeated. “Stop this nonsense.”
“I will not,” he said back defiantly. She
could undoubtedly feel that he was filled to bursting with the Force, but she
showed no fear whatsoever. “I’m through taking orders from you. You’ve wasted
enough of my time. I know you can’t help me.” He gave her a wicked grin. “Admit
it! You’ve finally met your match! A problem you couldn’t solve! Well, from
here on out I’ll take my chances elsewhere. I’ll defeat Krun and Runis on my
own, on my terms.”
“Focus, Xar!” she shouted at him. “Search
your feelings. You are not yourself! Krun is inside your mind!”
“Part of Krun,” he countered. “But I have
my whole mind. I’m stronger than he is. Stronger than both of them combined!”
“Don’t be a fool! If I lose you then our
chances of defeating the Entity…”
“I’m not listening to any more of this!”
he spat at her. “Why should I believe your crazy ideas? You created that thing! You’re as guilty as
the Altarin’Dakor!”
Her eyes narrowed. “I’ve never denied my…”
He stopped listening to her. His vision
had d gone red, and all he could focus on was the anger and rage boiling inside
of him. “It’s time you learned to deal with your own problems!” he shouted,
shaking his head. He couldn’t believe the
audacity with which she walked around, pretending to be some great matriarchal
figure, all the while hiding the fact that she was the biggest killer in all of
history.
“You’ve killed far more than the
Altarin’Dakor ever will,” he declared. “In fact, the Altarin’Dakor are your fault! Every death they’ve caused can be placed
in your hands! Even…” He flinched as
the realization suddenly hit him. The AD
killed Derek. It was like a sledgehammer to the stomach. The sense of loss
hit and overwhelmed him instantly. The anger, the frustration at not being able
to do anything, at being powerless to change the past, sent the rage spiking in
his mind.
Xar glared at Angol Moa with hate-filled
eyes. “YOU killed him!” he shouted.
He clenched his fists, reaching out to
draw all of his power, enough to destroy her. He reached out – and froze in
complete shock.
He couldn’t touch the Force! At first he
thought she’d outsmarted him, and his hatred boiled all the more. But no – the
Force was there, just not in the way that he was used to. This feeling, this
way – it felt old and familiar. He could take hold of it once more, if he
wished.
Letting his anger fuel him, he reached for
the Force again and seized it by force, commanding it to do his will.
He reached out towards Angol Moa, and sheets of lightning shot out of his outstretched
fingers at her.
She looked almost as shocked as Xar felt
as the dark power flowed through him again.
Her surprise lasted only a second. The lightning
didn’t come within two meters of her – it simply dissipated against an
invisible bubble surrounding her that he hadn’t been able to see.
His anger unabated, he let the lightning
die. Very well then.
If that wasn’t strong enough for her, then perhaps this would be. Clenching his fists together, he drew on all the
Force he could muster – which was somehow not as much as he was used to, but it
didn’t matter – then he thrust his arms out at her and sent a blast of Force
Destruction erupting from his palms.
Angol Moa’s eyes widened. She took a step
back, thrust out a hand just as Xar’s blast reached her. Light and energy shot
out from her hand and touched Xar’s
The blast illuminated the jungle all
around them, and a gust of wind made Angol Moa’s hair stand out behind her
head. Her robes flapped wildly, and the foliage around them swayed violently.
Finally the eruption died down, and dark
and quiet settled around them once more. Water burst out in clouds of mist
around them from hydration machines that had been damaged by the assault. Xar
cursed again, seeing how ineffective his attack had been. There had to be some
way…
“How far will you go to satisfy your
thirst for vengeance?” Angol Moa said, her voice
eerily still, yet somehow piercing the quiet like a thunderclap.
“Kriff you…” Xar spat. “I’ll show you…”
“Will you allow the dark side to consume
you once more? Tell me Xar, who is in control, now?”
“I…” he began to say, then
paused. The dark side.
Realization struck so hard that he collapsed
to his knees, falling over in shock, hunched over on the ground, hands sliding
through the wet soil beneath him.
Just as quickly as it had come, the anger
and the hatred faded away to nothing. He understood now what had been
happening. I let Krun take control,
he realized. I used the dark side. I
swore I never would again.
What have I done?
The sense of guilt was overwhelming. In a
moment Xar had thrown away everything he believed in. He’d even tried to kill Angol Moa. What has happening to him?
How could he live with himself like this?
Suddenly he was aware of Angol Moa
standing over him. He pushed himself up on his hands and knees, forced himself to look up at her. He wondered if she was going to
kill him now. If so, then he knew that he deserved it.
“The transition is almost complete,” she
said. Her eyes – and her voice – were both full of pity. “We don’t have a lot
of time left, Xar.”
“I…” he tried to say, choking up. He
stared at the ground, water dripping down off his face. “What’s… happening to
me? I don’t understand…”
She knelt down in front of him, and he
felt her hand touch his shoulder. “This is a most sinister attack against you,
Xar,” she said. “There is no way you can defend yourself against it.”
Suddenly her hand was under his chin, guiding
his head up. “Look at me,” she said.
He met her gaze, his emotions welling up
like a bursting dam, unstoppable. “I hate them so much…” he croaked. “They took
everything away from me. My father…
My mother… My brother and sister…” Even his uncle, Aron.
“Even Derek. He’s dead…!” he broke off, unable to
utter another word.
“Oh, child,” she said. “Come here.”
Willingly, he collapsed into her arms, put
his head into her lap, and wept uncontrollably. Great sobs ripped through him,
muffled only by his face buried in her dress, his tears mixing with the water
streaming down his face.
“Your pain runs deeply, child,” she
explained her voice coming soft to his ears. “You were not allowed a normal
life to grow up in. As a child you were forced to grow up quickly. Then that
young man was subjected to endure things very few people ever have to endure.”
He cried for a long time, letting out all
the hurt, all the anger at what Runis, Krun – and the Altarin’Dakor – had done
to him. To his family. He felt he would never heal
from the pain, it was so debilitating. How could he have been so stoic, so
emotionless, for so long? He hadn’t mourned them; he’d held it all inside. Now
it was coming out at a rush, uncontrollable.
After what felt like an eternity, he felt
her hands on his face, her touch soothing as cool water on a hot day. The water
stopped, and he felt warmth spreading throughout his body, filling him with a
sense of reassurance, of safety, of hope. “There, there,” she whispered, rocking
him back and forth.
Xar let himself become lost in that warm
embrace. He couldn’t help it; never before had anyone felt so much like a
mother to him. He understood now that she was
the oldest living woman – the oldest living mother – in the entire universe.
She may not have created it herself, but she surely knew more than anyone else
possibly could. A thousands questions surfaced in Xar’s mind, questions about
himself, about his life. Would she have the answers to all of them? To the
things that Xar had always wondered?
Sometime later Angol Moa lifted his head
up to look into his eye.. He saw little more than a
blur as she spoke to him. “We will have to deal with these issues inside of you
if you wish for true restoration to take place,” she said. “But for now, child,
rest. Come. I will help you keep the dreams at bay.”
* * *
Royal Palace
Vectur,
Varnus
0820
Hours
Grand Master Alyx Misnera sat with the remaining members
of his Jedi Council, attempting to solve the problems only they could, using
what creativity and resources they had, even though each of them probably
hadn’t had a decent sleep in months, at the least.
Cups of caf sat in front of each member
gathered, steam wafting inexorably upwards from the dark liquid inside. Some
were on their second or third cups. Alyx blinked until the stinging sensation
left his eyes. He hadn’t gotten much sleep lately, and Force-induced trances
only helped for so long. He was long past that point, now.
Every day from the moment he awoke to the
time he fell asleep was spent trying to piece Vectur back together. Xar had dropped
the whole disaster squarely in Alyx’s lap. He’d never asked to be an
administrator – Xar was better at that, even though he’d always shirked those
kinds of duties. How was he supposed to put an entire city back together?
And now, it was clear that even the
combined knowledge and know-how of Kiz Thrakus, Vynd Archaron, Jinx Skipper,
and Atridd Xoan wasn’t enough to solve all their problems.
Alyx had had enough.
“Construction has stopped once again,”
Jinx reported. “Contractors are tired of not being paid, and we don’t have
enough money in the treasury to pay…”
“What about clearing the rubble from the
streets?” Alyx cut in.
“A lot of progress has been made,” Thrakus
added, “but it’s the same problem now. We haven’t paid wages in six weeks.”
“Let them do it volunteer, then,” Alyx
countered gruffly. “They live here too, don’t they?”
“Sir, people need to earn money to buy
food so they can eat,” Kiz replied. “Not to mention to pay back their debts,
their houses, transportation… The economy can’t recover from this overnight.
With our infrastructure having taken so many hits, it may never recover.”
“We might as well face it, Alyx,” Jinx
spoke back up. “We can’t rebuild Vectur just like it was. Not for… well… years.
We might not even be able to rebuild the palace like it was. People don’t want
to work here anymore.”
Alyx dropped his head, feeling the steam
of his caf waft up over his nostrils. They were right, he knew. The whole NI
economy had collapsed. It had become impossible to undo the damage done by the
Altarin’Dakor invasion. It would take years just to get them back to where they
had been, and that was assuming people stayed around to invest in the NI all
over again. That didn’t seem likely – people were leaving in droves, calling
themselves “refugees”. He shook his head in disgust. Refugees
from the government that had protected them.
“Keep sending out the recruiting
advertisements,” he told them. “And the marketing campaigns.
Maybe we can keep people from leaving and attract people back to Vectur.
Promise them we won’t let any AD near Varnus again, ever.”
“But, sir, with due respect, they’re
already here…” Thrakus began.
“I am aware of that,” Alyx said, grabbing
his caf in a clenched grip. “But we have to do whatever it takes. Even if it means kicking any
AD off of Varnus, whether they’re helping us or not.”
“We can just make sure all AD are with the
main fleet at Mizar,” Vynd put in. “They need all the forces they can get, and
we certainly don’t need – or want – them here.”
“Gaius is still asking for more of our
Jedi to supplement the forces there,” Atridd said.
“He’ll have to do without,” Alyx declared.
“We’ve hardly any Jedi left to even rebuild the Order. Xar’s managed to run off
even his most loyal followers.”
That comment sent silence around the table
for a long moment. Alyx shook his head in disgust. Things were bad – they
didn’t even speak up when he put Xar down in front of them. Alyx didn’t care;
the man deserved every bit of it, and more. Even Akala had resigned, weeks
earlier. Citing that Xar had abandoned him, he’d left in disgrace. Alyx
couldn’t forgive Xar for that.
“I’m tired of fighting Xar’s personal
wars,” he said. He looked up, met the gazes of the other men around the table.
They looked tired – but he felt more fatigued than any of them appeared.
“With
all due respect again,” Thrakus spoke up, “This isn’t about Xar anymore. The
New Imperium needs us. The question is, are we still a
part of it? I, for one, am.”
“And I am, too,” Jinx added. “If for no
other reasion, the NI is the only hope my people have at this moment.”
Suddenly the doors burst open without
warning. Ready to expect anything at this point, Alyx spun towards the sound,
already drawing on the Force, feeling the men around him doing likewise.
Standing in the doorway was a tall man in worn
robes. His long, dirty blonde hair hung down unkempt from his head, framing a
face full of weariness and pain. Alyx hadn’t seen that face in months.
It was Bren.
“You,” Alyx said. “What are you doing
here?”
Alyx had heard from Rynn and Jinx that
Bren had run away, overcome with guilt about Derek’s death, but as far as he
was concerned the man had gone AWOL.
“You look like you’ve seen better days,”
Atridd told Bren.
Bren stayed where he was, taking in
everyone seated in the room. “I have seen
better days,” he replied in a hoarse tone. “Much better.”
Alyx took in Bren’s posture, his weary
eyes, and the fresh-looking scars on his face. Atridd was right, the man didn’t
look good. “Where have you been?” he repeated.
The long-haired man took a deep breath
first. “I was with the Shok’Thola
Akargan,” he breathed finally.
“What?” a chorus of shouts came.
“Doing what?” Alyx asked. He noticed
Jinx’s hand had dropped to his waist, where his lightsaber hung.
“Trying to stop him from invading,” Bren
said more energetically, apparently stirred by their aggressive remarks.
“How did you know where he was?” Kiz
demanded.
Bren hesitated visibly.
“Well?”
“We knew each other during the Great War,
before I was put into stasis,” Bren answered. “We were close friends.”
The room suddenly became deathly silent.
“You never told us about this,” Xoan
accused him.
Alyx considered the possibility that they
might all be fighting for their lives in a few moments. Bren was strong in the
Force, he knew, but he didn’t know exactly how strong. Could they all take him,
if necessary?
“I thought that I could turn him away
from this war,” Bren said quickly. “I thought he could be saved.” He looked
down. “I was wrong.”
Another moment of
silence. “So, he’s coming here,” Thrakus whispered.
Bren shook his head immediately. “Akargan
is dead.” He looked back up at them. “He was killed by Strife, an even more
powerful Warlord. I saw it with my own eyes. It was… unlike anything I’ve ever
seen. Now Strife is on his way to the Mizar system.”
Alyx exchanged brief glances with the
other Council members. None of them said a word.
“The New Imperium fleet – it’s at Mizar,
isn’t it?” Bren asked.
“That’s classfied information,” Alyx told
him.
“Strife told me personally,” Bren
countered. “He said they were already there.”
“Maybe he was lying to you,” Jinx
suggested.
Bren just shook his head. “No way. I know they’re there. Just admit it.”
“We don’t have to admit anything,” Skipper
countered.
“This isn’t a game!” Bren said forcefully,
and Alyx reached out to the Force just in case something was about to happen.
“The future of the NI is at stake here!”
“They’ve already been there for three
weeks,” Thrakus stated. “Now they’re in a standoff with an enemy task force.”
“The NI fleet is in grave danger,” Bren
said.
“I don’t think you can really call it the
NI fleet anymore,” Alyx added
bitterly. “All we’ve got left are four Altarin’Dakor Titans. But I’m sure they
can handle themselves.”
“Strife told me they’re up against four Shok’Thola,” Bren said.
The room became deathly quiet again.
“What…?” whispered Atridd.
“No one can withstand the power of four Shok’Thola working in tandem,” Bren
continued. “But to make matters worse, Strife is on his way too, like I told
you. He has at least four Titans of his own, and he may have as many as three
of Akargan’s with him! With his reinforcements the NI won’t stand a chance. They’ve
walked into a trap!” Bren said, desperation clear his voice. If he was faking
it, Alyx remarked, then he was doing an incredible job
of it.
“We have to help them,” Jinx said.
Alyx looked at him in surprise.
Atridd spoke up first. “What good could we
do? A couple of dozen Jedi wouldn’t make a difference.”
“We have to at least warn them,” Jinx
countered.
“So send them a message.”
“It won’t be enough,” Jinx said.
“We’ll have to move fast, or it’ll be too
late,” Bren said. “Please, take me with you.”
Alyx stared at the man, considering his
words. Could he risk trusting Bren?
“We could try and talk them out of it,”
Xoan said. “Bring them back here.”
“Don’t count on it,” Alyx countered.
“With Zalaria there, you might as well try and take a Titan apart with your
bare hands.”
“Maybe Xar’s son will help us again,” Vynd
suggested.
“Do you really believe that tale?” Kiz
asked him. Vynd gave a sheepish shrug in response.
Alyx shook his head harshly. “We cannot
count on anything like that. We don’t even know if he really exists, and even
if he does there’s no indication that he would choose to help us.”
“Besides,” Kiz offered. “He might be able
to kill one Warlord, but what about four or five at once? No one is that powerful,” he finished.
“So what are we going to do?” Xoan asked.
“Just keep sitting here and talking about it? Or are we going to decide and do
something?”
There was a moment of silence as the
Council members took turns exchanging glances. Alyx considered his options. As
the Grand Master, he of course had the final say. He didn’t want to embroil the
Jedi Division in any more unwinnable situations. With the losses they’d taken,
it would already take years to recover, if they ever could. But he also knew
that if the Altarin’Dakor weren’t stopped, there wouldn’t be a Jedi Division
left. Nor would there be a New Imperium. Or a New Republic.
Or anything else.
“I’m in,” Jinx spoke up first. “I’d rather
face them out there than wait until they come here again. They’re not just
going to pass us by, and they’ll hit Varnus next if we don’t face them off at
Mizar.”
Kiz nodded agreement. “Jinx is right. We
don’t have much choice in the matter.” A round of nods around the table
completed the silent vote.
They were right. Better to choose your
battles than have them chosen for you. They would have to do this. And more
Jedi would die. Each remaining one at this point was precious, so very
precious, for the NI.
“Blast Xar and that woman of his,” Alyx
declared. “Gather what people you can,” he said. “We don’t have much time.” The
repairs in Vectur would have to wait – probably until the end of the war. If there was an end.
“I hope that Xar appreciates how often we
have to go in and save him from the messes he gets us all into,” Atridd said,
standing.
“This isn’t for Xar,” Alyx announced,
letting them all hear as he stood also. “I’m doing this for Gaius. He’s saved
our butts quite a few times. If Xar doesn’t want to help us, then he can rot
for all I care,” he continued. “But the NI… That’s something I’m not going to
let go down without a fight.”
A chorus of agreement rose through the
room as the Jedi Masters began to disperse and get ready for the challenges waiting
ahead.
* * *
Titan-class
Battleship Grand Crusader
Mizar System
1850
Hours
The Grand Crusader was
still at a long-distance standoff with the Dark
Sun, and the time was beginning to grate on Gaius. Something had to happen,
soon.
This was a battle they absolutely had to
win, or the war would be lost. He wished he knew how many Titans were out
there. It had to be more than just the one. Blast
the AD, he thought. Every time we
think we gain some ground they just hit us with an even bigger force. He
wasn’t even sure if all the ships he’d brought with him this time would be
enough. He needed more time, until Zalaria returned from wherever she’d gone to
give birth.
His limited resources told him that the Dark Sun belonged to the Shok’Thola Asellus, but it had virtually
no information on the Warlord herself. Zalaria hadn’t returned yet to shed any
light on the situation; in fact, she hadn’t been heard from at all. What if
they were attacked while she was gone? All the firepower in the galaxy wouldn’t
save them against a Force-user of this capability.
Still, they had no choice but to stand
their ground. If they ran, the AD would sweep over NI space and wipe out everything
they knew and loved. And the disperate forces of an unsuspecting galaxy might
not be able to muster a defense in time.
Gaius took mental stock of his task force.
He had four Titans, three of which were cloaked but within a hundred klicks or
so from the Grand Crusader’s
position, all in high orbit over Arcadia, Mizar’s third planet. He watched as
the world slowly spun beneath them.
Resting just on the other side of the
planet Arcadia was the New Imperium’s Task Force Darkstar, consisting of the
MC-120 of the same name and a cluster of Imperial-class Star Destroyers. They
were the most fragile of his ships, unable to bear the brunt of a Titan’s
direct assault. But they offered necessary morale support to the NI forces;
without them, how could they even call themselves the NI anymore?
Finally, there was the fleet that Amason
had promised – some ten Majestic-class
Cruiers. They were waiting just outside the system, ready to jump in on a
moment’s notice. Gaius hadn’t wanted to tip off the enemy that they had them;
best to have an ace in the hole whenever possible.
He’d brought virtually every major capital
ship he had to this engagement, knowing that their claim of Mizar would make or
break this part of the war. If they retained control, then they could begin
preparations for the attack on the Gate and try and seal the Altarin’Dakor out
of this galaxy. But if they failed here, none of that would happen; the NI
would be finished and the AD would continue on unabated.
Below, on the surface of Arcadia, he had
several battalions of troops stationed inside the main Altarin’Dakor base,
having forcibly taken over it upon arrival. Other than the military forces down
there, Arcadia was sparsely populated; there were only a few bases and
spaceports down there, and no major cities. The whole world was a priceless
gem, just waiting to be captured and cultivated.
Gaius raised a cup of caf to his lips and
took another sip, only to realize the liquid had cooled to an unappetizing
lukewarm temperature. He drank it anyway.
A chime sounding throughout the bridge
took his attention immediately.
“What is it?” he asked, standing and looking
over the railing toward the bridge’s forward viewports. The enemy Titan still
hung out there, just a few hundred kilometers away.
“A message from the Dark Sun,” the comm officer reported, the surprise
clear in her voice. “They wish to speak with our Shok’Thola.”
So, someone was finally ready to talk.
Unfortunately Gaius had no idea how to proceed, save for staging an all-out
battle. Altarin’Dakor etiquette was completely foreign to him. He was ready for
a fight, but not to negotiate.
“We’ll have to disappoint them,” Gaius
said after considering it. “We don’t have a Warlord for them to talk to.”
“Should I relay that message, sir?” The
comm officer looked skeptical.
“Certainly not,” Gaius said, chiding
himself for speaking his thoughts aloud. “We want them to think Zalaria and
Nimrod are both on board.”
“Shall I refuse to answer them, sir?”
Gaius thought for a moment. A lack of
response might provoke them into attacking. He’d already delayed them several
times. He should at least tell their commodore personally.
“Put them on the main screen,” he ordered.
Moments later a holographic projection
appeared in the center of the bridge’s atrium, a large open area three levels
deep separating Gaius from the forward viewports. The image was huge, many
times life-size. But it wasn’t the size of the speaker that appeared that
shocked him. It was the figure itself.
This was no ship’s commodore.
A waist-up image of a woman seemingly made
of golden light filled the air, her head adorned with an ornate crown and wings
made of some unrecognizable material floating behind her. Golden hair fell
straight to her shoulders. He eyes were a glowing blue; her lips were full and
pursed in seeming annoyance. Her features were flawless – it was impossible to
guess at her age. She could have been Gaius’ age, or she might have just turned
twenty for all he could see.
All he did know, however, was that she was
one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen in his life. Definitely on par
with Zalaria, yet somehow as different from her as night and day.
The woman opened her mouth to speak. Her
voice echoed in the chamber, not matching her lips, for she was speaking in
Altarin’Dakor and the computer had to translate her words.
“I ordered an audience with Nimrod,” said
the woman in Altarin’Dakor. “Not his lackey. Begone.”
It
took a moment for Gaius’ mind to process her words, as he had to read the
translation subtitled beneath her image. Her voice was smooth as honey, melodic
in tone, almost certainly artificially enhanced. It sent chills across his
skin.
Gaius’ mind raced for a suitable answer.
The woman’s visage had captivated him so completely that he’d lost all sense of
where was or what he was doing. The feeling had come so suddenly and
unexpectedly, so different from anything he’d ever experienced before, that he
hadn’t known how to react. He fought the feeling now, forcing his mind to
realize that this was an enemy – an enemy perhaps more powerful than any he’d
faced before.
“My Shok’Thola
is indisposed at this moment,” Gaius said finally, letting the ship’s translators work for him. “I was sent to speak with you. My apologies for the delay.”
“You are not Altarin’Dakor,” she replied,
switching to flawless Basic. The honey-sweet chime of her voice seemed just a
tad harsher now that the complex tones of the Altarin’Dakor language were
replaced by the harsh syllables of Gaius’ own tongue. “Has Nimrod allowed
outlanders to speak for him? Or do you represent Zalaria? Perhaps Nimrod truly
is dead, as the rumors say?”A pause. “Speak!”
Quickly Gaius realized he was unprepared
for this; he hadn’t planned on talking directly with an Altarin’Dakor Warlord.
He was way out of his league, here.
“You are the Shok’Thola Asellus, I presume,” Gaius said, still trying to buy
time to think. “It is an honor to speak with you. Nimrod and Zalaria have an… arrangement… with the New Imperium. We are now under
their control. They ask that you acknowledge their authority here and bypass
this region as you continue with the Return.”
Bald-faced lies, he knew. He just hoped
that she couldn’t read it from him. He couldn’t sense her using the Force on
him, just yet.
The
massive image of Asellus regarded him for a moment. “Do you think me a fool?”
she asked finally.
“Of course not…” he began before her words
drowned him out.
“Silence!” she cut him off. Then her
attack came into his mind so suddenly that he gasped in shock and pain.
The defenses of a Jedi Master were no
match for an immortal Altarin’Dakor Warlord. Her attack broke through his
barriers in an instant, and suddenly she was inside his mind. He could feel her
there, rummaging through his thoughts and recent memories, trying to find
whatever it was he was looking for. With all his might he struggled against
her, trying desperately not to think of Zalaria or Nimrod, for fear that she
would know that neither Warlord was on this ship. He knew his efforts were
futile; once she found out the truth, they were all finished. And he knew that
by trying not to think of Zalaria or
Nimrod probably meant that they would pop right into his mind.
“Do not resist me,” her voice warned,
filling his head. “Perhaps if you cooperate, I will allow you to live on as my
slave once I defeat your fleet, your mind wiped of everything except for my
presence. I am your Great Mistress.”
Gaius opened his mouth to scream, but not
sound would come out. She had him, now. He couldn’t even control his own body.
The pain in his head was excruciating. He heard Amason cry out, yelling for
someone to sever the connection with the enemy warship, but Gaius knew it was
too late. He was nothing to her. Soon the end would come, and Gaius knew that
he had just doomed the New Imperium.
Just as he felt her mind reach into the
deepest recesses of his brain, causing pain to explode throughout his head like
he’d never known, he felt something pass between his mind and that awful touch.
A barrier, invisible but seemingly impenetrable, slid instantly into place, and
the pain was suddenly gone.
Gaius gasped, opening his eyes just as
Asellus’ shocked face vanished from the holographic display. With her image
gone, the bridge looked as normal as if the whole thing had never happened.
Suddenly there was a whooshing sound as
the bridge doors split open behind them. Gaius spun around, and his breath
caught at the sight of the woman who strode through the entranceway.
Zalaria had saved him.
He should have recognized her touch when
the barrier had manifested, blocking the attack. He was sure that Asellus was
about to find out everything, and probably destroy his whole psyche in the
process. If Zalaria had been half a second later, Gaius knew he would most certainly
have been dead, or at least a vegetable.
Now, suddenly, Zalaria was back, though
there’d been no indication as to where she’d gone or how long she would be
there. He’d nearly given up hope that she would even return. Now she stood and
surveyed the bridge, as beautiful – and as thin – as he’d ever seen her. There
was no longer any sign of the pregnancy. She wore a snug-fitting, long-sleeved
dress in black, emblazoned with gold and red dragons
scross the torso and with flowing sleeves and train stretching out behind her.
Her hair fell in intricate curls, framing her gorgeous features, the face of a
goddess. She was far more beautiful than Asellus, Gaius decided, then chided himself for even having such as thought at a
time like this.
“This is not good,” Zalaria stated, coming
straight for Gaius and Walt, who had placed a hand on his arm to steady him. Zalaria’s
expression was not in the least bit jovial. Gaius couldn’t help but stare at
her midsection. There was no indication that she’d ever been pregnant at all.
But where was the child?
“You,” she said, coming to a half a scant
few paces away, “made a foolish mistake, and nearly cost us this battle before
it’s even begun.”
Gaius held his tongue, wanting to question
her for her absence, to ask her how he was supposed to know he was facing a
Warlord. Instead he forced himself to say, “Thank you for saving my life.”
“Don’t be so hasty to thank me,” she said
dourly. “Your life may yet be forfeit this day.”
Beside him, Walt couldn’t hold his tongue
any longer. “Zalaria, where’s the…”
“My son is safe,” she barked, cutting him
off instantly. “That is all you need to know. We have more pressing matters to
attend to, here.” She glared down at Gaius. “Deploy the fleet for battle
immediately.”
Gaius made a slow, even turn to look out
the forward viewport and the enlarged image of the enemy ship there. As his
sense of events came back into full awareness once more, he realized the alarm
klaxon that was blaring a low, even drone. The Dark Sun was moving into attack
position.
“It appears we managed to provoke Asellus
into moving first,” Amason noted.
Zalaria stared at him and shook her head
slowly. “Not just Asellus. There are four Shok’Thola.”
There was silence for a long moment. “What?”
Amason finally whispered.
Gaius stared at her speechlessly. Four enemy Warlords?
Why hadn’t he been informed of this before now?
“Who are they?” Amason asked.
She paused for a moment, staring out into
the void. Finally, she spoke. “Calvernic, Asellus, and
Kronos.” Another pause, and she licked her
lips. “And Velius.”
Gaius had heard of some of those before,
especially Kronos and Velius. Supposedly both she and Xar had encountered them
before, and somehow they’d lived to tell about it. Judging from the seriousness
of her expression, he didn’t think she wanted to try her luck against them
again.
This was exactly what they had feared – a
force too large for them to take on all at once. They’d hoped to face only one
Warlord and their fleet at a time. Zalaria had practically assured them that Shok’Thola never worked together!
“We have to retreat,” Amason stated
flatly. “There’s no other choice!”
“And do what?” Zalaria snarled at him.
“Fight them when they get to Varnus? They want us. They want blood, and they won’t give up.”
“We’re pinned against the planet below,” Gaius
said. “Retreat isn’t really an option unless we can make it to the other side.”
She shook her head. “We have to fight. We
can’t outrun them. We cannot move back into New Imperium space or we risk
defending our own ground once more. Our stand must be made here.” She glanced
at him, her eyes taking on a strange light. “We either win here, or we die.”
Gaius stared at her, taking in her words.
They hadn’t been prepared for something like this. If there were four Warlords,
then how large was the fleet they were facing out there? Beside her, Amason
paled visibly and swallowed hard.
“We can’t win this,” Amason protested.
Zalaria’s eyes narrowed. “The situation is
not totally helpless. We have the advantage of surprise. Our ships are cloaked,
and they do not know how many Shok’Thola
we have.”
“I strongly implied that Nimrod was still
in charge here,” Gaius told her. “But can’t they sense that he isn’t really
here?”
“Nimrod and I knew a few tricks that we
never revealed to the others,” she said. “One was the ability to emulate each
other’s Force signatures. We knew each other well enough that we could pretend
to be one another most convincingly. It proved useful on a number of occasions
when we needed to appear stronger than we really were.”
“So the Warlords think they’re facing you and Nimrod,” Amason said. “But that’s
still two to one odds.”
“Correct,” she replied tersely, “but only
a fool would attack Nimrod without taking the utmost care and preparation. If
we continue to foster the illusion that we are stronger than we are, it could
buy us time to exploit their weaknesses.”
“Their weaknesses?” Gaius asked her. “And what would those
be?”
“Shok’Thola
are not unbeatable, Gaius,” she said sternly.
She
cut off as alarms began blaring all over the bridge. The tactical officer’s
voice echoed out a moment later.
“Enemy Titans de-cloaking, sir!”
Gaius’ blood went cold. So.
The enemy was making their move, laying their cards on the table. “How many?” Gaius demanded, stepping to the railing and
staring out the front viewports.
There was a pause as the alarm klaxons
seemed to reach their peak. The tactical officer shook his head as though not
believing what he was seeing. “They keep coming!
They’re just… everywhere, sir!”
The three of them watched the holographic
display in the center of the bridge as it made real-time updates of the battle
theater. Gaius watched the enemy Titans appear, staggered in a loose formation
with each ship only a couple of hundred klicks from its brethren. They varied
in shape and size from thirty to fifty klicks in length, the largest of them on
a par with the Cataclysm, or even the
Grand Crusader.
Within a minute there were eight massive
shapes floating in the air. They were spread out wide enough to effectively
block in the NI fleet from escaping.
“Eight confirmed Titans, sir,” the comm
officer said. Gaius didn’t need to hear; his eyes were working just fine.
The ships were as varied in appearance as
any other Titans he’d seen. No two were alike. They were identified by labels
floating beneath each ship, with its name, vital statistics, and the Shok’Thola to which they belonged.
In the center were the Dark Sun, the Vertigo, and the Nightlord,
all belonging to the Warlord Asellus. To the side and resting slightly aloof
from the others were the Violator, the
Tormentor, and the Defiler, three of the most
wicked-looking ships Gaius had ever seen. They looked more like instruments of
torture than starships, and their names seemed suitably apt. They belonged to
Velius.
On the other side of Asellus’ vessels were
the Death Wing, flagship of Kronos,
and the Invasion of Light, belonging
to Calvernic.
He glanced at Zalaria. “Are we facing more
illusions this time?”
She shook her head. “They aren’t fakes.
These are all real.”
Gaius took a deep breath. They were
outnumbered two to one. But in truth those odds were overly optimistic. Because they have four Warlords to our one,
he thought. Amason was right; they couldn’t win this. But they had to fight.
There was no other way out.
“A message from the enemy fleet,” the comm
officer spoke up. “Very short. It simply reads, ‘Surrender
or be annihilated’.”
“Couldn’t someone that old have a more
original line?” Gaius muttered under his breath. “Send a message to the enemy
flagship,” he ordered. “Tell them that the New Imperium will never surrender.
And tell them that unless they leave immediately we’re going to destroy them
all.”
He glanced at Zalaria, sharing a glance
with her.
“Be careful,” she warned. “Provoking them
might make them become rash and act unwisely, but it could also backfire. I will
be in the Meditation Chamber to coordinate our forces.”
“Very well,” Gaius told her. As she turned
to leave, he stepped back up to the railing. “Alert all commands! Disengage
cloaks and launch fighters. Move into attack position!” Then he turned and
nodded at Walt. “Call in our forces. Bring in the Majestics and everything else
we have. If we’re marching to our death, then so be it. We draw the line here!”
* * *
Angol Moa’s Laboratory
Location
Unknown
Time
Unknown
Over the next few days Xar made a conscious decision to
change his attitude about Angol Moa and her tests.
He now accepted the fact that it was
really the influence of the dark Jedi inside his mind that had affected his
personality over the last month – in truth, the last years – making him harsh,
angry, impatient – even ruthless. On the other hand, he knew he couldn’t shirk
all responsibility for his actions by blaming it on them. Ultimately it was he,
Xar Kerensky, who decided what he did and what he
said. But it wasn’t just out of a sense of regret that he accepted Angol Moa’s
tests more readily. He knew now that if she didn’t find an answer soon, he was
most likely going to lose his mind.
He dreamed constantly of Runis and Krun,
now. It was as if, by acknowledging their existence as real, he’d given them
some kind of power, more strength to reach out and affect him. He even caught
glimpses of them out of the corner of his eye when he least expected it, like
the night in the garden. It was a terrifying testament to the fact that he was
slowly going crazy, and that things would only get worse from this point
onward.
At times, the stress of waiting, of
enduring more tests, of not knowing if any progress was being made at all, was
overwhelming. Fortunately, a few days after the incident when he’d broken down,
there was some good news that – at least temporarily – brought his spirits back
up. Gave him hope.
He was at a table in the gardens one
morning, having breakfast alone among the sounds of nature, when Angol Moa
appeared. Standing at her side, dressed in a white robe, was a very familiar
face. Xar felt his jaw drop as they approached. His spoon fell from suddenly
limp fingers, clattering to the floor.
“Nico!” he exclaimed. “You’re alive!”
Angol Moa put on a grin. “Of course he’s
alive, boy,” she said. “He was always alive. Just not very
mobile.”
Nico, practically hanging off her
shoulder, blinked sleepily. Xar arched an eyebrow in confusion. If Nico
recognized Xar, he wasn’t showing any sign of it.
He glanced from Nico back to Angol Moa. “Is
he all right? How did you heal him?”
“Don’t get too excited yet. ‘Heal’ may be
too strong of a word. I’ve only woken him up, so far. I haven’t been able to
restore his memories. What you see here is just a shell.”
Xar felt his expression fall. “A what?”
“An empty vessel.
An incomplete person. Physically, he is perfectly
fine, but his mind is a blank slate right now.”
Xar fought the sudden surge of anger and
frustration that flared up inside of him. “What’s the point of reviving him if
the real Nico’s still gone?” he demanded.
“Progress has to be made in stages, boy.”
“He looks just like the normal Nico to
me,” Xar countered. “Nico!” he addressed the man. He just stood there, looking
just like his onetime friend. “Do you recognize me?” he asked.
Nico just stared at him and smiled for a
long moment. Xar thought he saw a hint of recognition in his eyes, and for a moment
he was sure that Nico had remembered.
“You look friendly,” Nico said finally.
“What is your name?”
Xar felt his smile fade as disappointment
came over him. So, he didn’t remember a thing. The Nico he knew was still gone.
He turned away, unable to look any longer. Seeing a shell of a man that he knew
was even worse than having him lying motionless in a coma.
“I’ve only imprinted him with a temporary
personality set,” Angol Moa explained. “I had to do a complete reboot of his
mind – consciousness, suassbconscious, the id, the ego, the whole mess. Until I
can restore his memories, I had to replace it with something that would enable
him to at least function nominally.”
Xar turned to stare at Angol Moa. “I
thought you could do anything. Can’t you fix him completely?”
“I’m working on developing the technology
necessary as we speak,” she said.
“Why do you have to invent a new
technology just to help him?” he asked.
“Well, it’s not like I’ve dealt with
someone with this problem before. I’m doing the same for you.”
Xar put his elbows up on the table and
rubbed at his eyes, suddenly feeling weary, even though the day had just begun.
“So how about you tell me about this technology you’re going to create?”
“I’m glad you asked!” she said, perking up
so suddenly Xar nearly jumped. She held up her right hand and started folding
down one finger at a time. “My current theory is this. All biological matter
has memories imprinted onto it at the cellular, atomic, even subatomic level.
Everything that has happened in a person’s life is stored somewhere in his
body, through electric impulses, soundwaves, synapses
firing. I should be able to retrace that information by reading the stored
information and extrapolating the results.”
“I see,” Xar said, though he certainly
didn’t in truth. He just hoped the woman could actually do what she claimed. If
not, then he knew he’d never be able to stand being around this… shell… of his
onetime friend. Only the fact that Nico was physically up and walking kept some
hope alive within him. “So how close are you to making this work?” he asked
skeptically.
“I have no idea.” She grinned at him.
“That’s the fun part.”
He wondered who was crazier: him, or her.
* * *
Personal
Quarters
Royal
Palace, Varnus
1440
Hours
The New Imperium sigil faded from the screen, replaced by the
visage of the Diktat himself. He was awake and on duty, even though on Tralaria
it was already well into the night. Rytor nodded, acknowledging the caller. “Misnera. What can I do for you?”
The Diktat’s face was not as Alyx had
remembered. The man’s eyes seemed more sunken, with dark bags underneath them,
and he seemed just a bit thinner, his wrinkles a bit more prominent, than the
last time they’d spoken. Clearly the war was taking its toll. Running a
government on the brink of its own destruction was not an easy task.
“How are things, Gene?” Alyx asked.
The Diktat sighed in response. Behind him
Alyx could catch a glimpse of the man’s quarters, though it was sparsely
decorated, with little in the way of personal possessions. Rytor had always
been a secretive man, showing little of himself on the
outside.
“Most of the damage from the attack has
been repaired,” Rytor said finally. “Yes, I wish the same could be said for
Varnus, as well. The economy though, and morale… Those are different matters
entirely.”
“I know that you have a lot on you right
now,” Alyx replied. Though he didn’t want to burden the Diktat any more than he
already was, Alyx felt compelled to at least be accountable to him for what
they were about to do. After all, he might lose the whole Jedi Order because of
this.
“As you know,” he said, “Sector Admiral
Gaius has led the fleet to Mizar and is currently holding it. They are at a
standoff with enemy forces. I need to inform you that I will be taking a
contingent of Jedi with me to the Mizar System to assist in the engagement
there.”
“I see,” said Rytor after a pause. “Any particular reason for the change of heart? I was under
the impression you were not participating in the offensive.”
“I think that Gaius and the others may be
walking into a trap,” Alyx said. “I don’t like it.
“I don’t like it either,” said Rytor
heavily. He let out a long sigh. “We cannot trust the Altarin’Dakor forces that
we are working with, yet we cannot survive without them. This is a very
precarious position, Alyx.”
“I know.” Alex took a deep breath. “I’m
taking most of the remaining fighting force of Jedi that the NI has. If we
lose, there won’t be much left.” Not that
there is now, either, he thought to himself.
“It’s all or nothing at this point,” Rytor
said, nodding. “These are tough decisions that we face, now. But it is the only
viable thing that we can do. We must
take the battle to the enemy, otherwise we will be
trampled as their conquest pushes them deeper inside the galaxy.”
“My main objective is a rescue,” Alyx told
him. “If they are trapped there, then we will get out everyone that we can. But
I don’t harbor dreams of going up against Warlords with what little forces we
have.”
“I understand. You must take the utmost
care,” Rytor said.
“We will.” Alyx reached forward to cut the
connection, but the Diktat raised a hand, stopping him. Alyx paused, looking
askance at him. The Diktat seemed to hesitate, as if uncertain whether or not
he should speak.
“Misnera,” he said finally, “Before you go
there is a piece of intelligence I have come across that you may find useful.”
He paused again, looking indecisive, though Alyx could not read his face, much
less his emotions across the light-years that separated them.
“I don’t know how reliable this
information is, but considering the circumstances, I am compelled to relate it
to you.”
“Please,” Alyx intoned. “Any intelligence
is welcome.”
“It’s more of a theory, really. An idea. Something that might give you an
advantage, should you encounter one of the Warlords directly.”
“If we do, then we’ll need any advantage
we can get.”
Another brief pause.
“Misnera, have your forces ever used a Null Sphere to encase a Warlord within
its bubble? Even Zalaria, perhaps?”
Alyx bit back a laugh. “Are you kidding?
We’d have been dead before even getting close to her with one of those things.”
“Well, I suppose not. But have you
considered the possibility of what effect it may have on them?”
“Not really,” Alyx admitted. “Again, it
never seemed likely we could ever get it close enough to one of them.”
“You have some examples of the artifacts
in your treasury, as I understand.”
Alyx nodded; the Diktat undoubtedly had
his sources as to what lay within the royal treasury. He was correct on this
one.
“Take one with you, Alyx. Take as many as
you can spare. It could mark the difference between life and death. If it can
isolate them from their powers, as it does a normal Jedi, then perhaps they
would be vulnerable. Perhaps you could even kill them.”
Alyx thought on it. It made sense, though
only on a theoretical level. And he wasn’t generally prone to acting on
anything not backed by hard evidence. “I’ll take it under consideration,” he
said.
“I urge you, just in case, to take it. You
never know.”
“May I ask where you came by this bit of
intelligence?” Alyx asked him.
But the Diktat shook his head. “Sadly no. As you know, many of my sources must remain
confidential or risk losing their cover. And I’m afraid that information is
classified as need-to-know, only.
Alyx didn’t press him further. Rytor would
always remain the spymaster that he was legendary for being. He was said to
have contacts and informants in virtually every major government or
organization in the galaxy. Besides, whatever the source, Alyx supposed it
would not do any harm to take the Null Spheres with them. The devices were
invaluable – no one knew how to make them anymore – but if they were never
actually used, then what good were they anyway? “Very well,” he agreed.
“I’m glad to hear it. Then may the Force
be with you on your journey,” Rytor told him.
“Thanks,” Alyx said. Then he reached over
and closed the connection.
* * *
In
Orbit, Arcadia
Mizar
System
2010
Hours
Space rippled as the Altarin’Dakor
Titans de-cloaked.
This was more ships – and more firepower –
than Salle Darl had ever seen in one place.
From the cockpit of her modified TIE
Avatar, she watched her display screen as all around the Dark Sun, the flagship of the Warlord Asellus, more Titans began to
appear.
The Vertigo
came into view just off to the Dark Sun’s
port side, looking like a massive instrument of torture, the color of dried
blood. The ship was oblong, with two massive prongs jutting out of the front
and various fins protruding along her sides and at the rear. Countless windows
and viewports peppered the hull like stars in the night sky.
On the other side of the Dark Sun, the Nightlord appeared. It was midnight black, and would have been
virtually invisible if it hadn’t been framed by the Galbagos Nebula behind it.
As it was, the nebula provided a stark silhouette of the ship, an impossibly
long monstrosity that fattened into rounded orb-like sections three times along
her hull, each connected by a thinner hull section. The bow gradually thinned
as it extended out like the tip of a sword, and whether in form or function,
contributed to make the ship nearly sixty kilometers in length.
To one side of Asellus’ ships was the Invasion of Light. In stark contrast to
the first three, this ship was painted solid white, and consisted of maybe a
dozen solid rectangular blocks connected by thinner, tubelike structures. Each
block pulsed with engines at the rear and bristled with weapons all around its
hull. It sat like a boulder, looking impervious to attack. Though the
rectangular sections looked as though they could easily be severed from one
another, Salle wondered if should that occur the sections could
each fight independently, anyway. She hoped she wouldn’t have to find
out.
On the other side of those ships hung the Death Wing, the only ship Salle had ever
seen before, in recordings of the initial Altarin’Dakor attack on Varnus. This
ship was listed as the flagship of the Warlord Kronos, and she could see why he
might have chosen such a vessel as his command ship. It was broad and long in
the hull, but with two massive wings that jutted forward from the front third
of the ship. In the center of those arms was a gaping black opening that
chilled Salle’s blood – because she knew what it contained. Resting within was
a mauler-class weapon capable of sending an invisible pulse of energy strong
enough do destroy an ISD in a single blow. Should that
turn against her – or anything but a Titan for that matter – they would all be
dead before they knew what hit them. The rest of the ship extended winglike
structures as well, two each angled upward and downward along the ship’s
middle, with a massive engine array at the rear. The ship was over fifty
kilometers long, making it a match for even the largest NI Titans.
Finally, settled somewhat aloof from the
rest of the group, were three wicked-looking Titans that, despite the variation
each Titan had, were still of a class by themselves, separated from the others
by both structure and distance. Resting around five hundred klicks to starboard
of the Death Wing were the Tormentor, Violator and Defiler. The Tormentor was colored a reflective silver,
and looked as though its hull had burst open into scores of needlelike
projections at key intervals. Red lights pulsed out from the bays and openings
along her visible port side. As Salle looked closer, though, she saw that many
of the projections held cannons along their tips, while others seemed to be
fighter launching tubes.
The other two ships were just as
disgustingly intimidating. The Violator
looked like a sculpture carved out of a mountain-sized rock, but carved by a
madman. It held a central core and rock-like arms that extended out and forward
asymmetrically, each dotted with blinking openings containing beam emplacements
and missile tubes. It looked like a giant, alien hand carved from stone. The Defiler, by contrast, was an ugly,
bloated ovoid colored a nonreflective black, its dimensions assymetrical as
well, like a cancer that was spreading out wherever it could. Though shorter in
length, it made up its mass in the sheer volume of space it occupied.
Filling the space between the
Altarin’Dakor Titans were nearly a hundred support craft – cruisers,
battlecruisers, destroyers, and frigates. Now that all of the enemy ships had
appeared, Salle and the NI forces could finally take true stock of what they
were facing. Eight enemy Titans to their four. They
were outnumbered two to one.
She hadn’t faced an enemy force of this size
since the battle at Varnus, overwhelmed by the Titans in Nimrod’s forces. She
still had nightmares of that day, months after it had happened, reliving the
scenes of death and destruction around her. Why had she survived when so many
others in her squadron had died? Why, later, had Commander Stele gone away,
leaving her to pick up and rebuild the battered remnants of Inferno Squadron?
There were no clear answers, and there was
no time to consider it, now. The Altarin’Dakor forces had revealed themselves
first, and now it was time for the New Imperium fleet to do the same.
Space around the Grand Crusader rippled as the other NI Titans de-cloaked. The Ascendancy appeared beside the new NI
flagship first, a massive dreadnaught encased in reflective armor and its
iconic staircase-style, multi-tiered structure. Beside that ship came the Nimbus,
with its dark outline and wavelike structures resembling its namesake.
Then, on the other side of the Grand Crusader, the Cataclysm de-cloaked. The ship that had caused so much damage to
the NI forces at Mizar before was now on the opposite side of the conflict.
Painted black and stretching for fifty kilometers in length, it was an entire
fleet in itself.
For a moment the four Titans hung in orbit
of the planet Arcadia. Then, seconds later, from the far side of the world a
large cluster of capital ships swung into view. Without cloaking devices, the
rest of the NI fleet had been hiding just out of sight, waiting for just this
moment. Dominating those ships was the MC-120 Darkstar, the remaining super-class capital ship from the original
NI Starfleet. Accompanying her were several dozen capital ships from what had
formerly been the First and Second Fleets – Imperator-class Star Destroyers, as
well as a score of cruisers, destroyers, and frigates.
The NI fleet raced forward to close the
distance, launching fighters even as they came. Then, less than two minutes
later, there was a flash of movement as nine streamlined Majestic-class cruisers exited hyperspace practically on top of the
NI fleet, using one of the planet’s so-called “pirate” points. They appeared
just behind and beneath the NI Titans, pulling up within the boundaries of the
larger ships’ powerful force field shielding, where they could launch their
rail weapons at the approaching enemy.
In
addition to the Grand Crusader, the Cataclysm, Ascendancy, and Nimbus began disgorging their
contingents of starfighters, even as their Altarin’Dakor opponents did the
same. Soon space was teeming with thousands of small dots, filling the space
between the huge floating cities moving ever closer to each other.
On Salle Darl’s cockpit controls, the
launch button began to pulse green, their sign to go. “Inferno Squad, launch!”
she ordered, then pushed the throttle forward. Her Avatar shot down and out
through the Titan’s massive hangar bay opening, with the rest of Inferno
Squadron hot on her tail.
They emerged into open space, with
thousands of ships already surrounding them, and more coming every second.
Behind them hung the NI fleet and the blue-green orb that was Arcadia. Ahead
was a wall of enemy ships and the purple-blue nebula that stretched across the
sky behind them.
Surrounding Inferno on either side were
several thousand Altarin’Dakor fighters – their Zalaria-loyal ‘allies’. She
tried not to think of the risk they were taking in fighting alongside one
another, nor dwell on what could happen should their ‘friends’ decide to betray
them.
Inferno Squadron soared ahead, a cloud of
fighters at their back. Ahead, sunlight glinted off thousands of points of
light, each one growing closer by the second. Salle took deep, meditative
breaths as she had learned to years before, attempting to force the pre-battle
fear and nervousness in her gut to dissipate.
Every
time you fly, you know it could be your last, she reminded herself. The
odds didn’t matter. She was a fighter pilot. She was born to do this. She
thought of herself as a force of nature, an unstoppable warrior riding a
perfect war machine into battle.
Salle’s comm suddenly crackled to life. “This is Sector Admiral Gaius Adonai,” said
the fleet commander’s hardened voice. “Stand
by for capital ship volleys. We will hit them hard, then
move forward to engage the enemy only on my command. May the Force be with us.”
Salle
guided her fighter into their designated vector, then
watched as the fleets kept moving closer to each other on her screens.
This
is it, she realized. Time to do or die.
* * *
Royal
Palace Grounds
Vectur,
Varnus
2014
Hours
A strange silence had settled over the skyline of Vectur, replacing what
had been a constant hubbub of demolition crews and reconstruction work. But now
the massive construction droids had stopped working. The crews that had been
taking down damaged buildings were nowhere to be found. All of the work had
stopped. There was simply not enough money left to pay for it.
The NI economy had fallen flat; the
government was now bankrupt, writing itself deeper into debt with lines of
credit no one wanted anymore. Varnus was no better; even the once endless Royal
Palace coffers were but a fraction of their former strength, unavailable for
use in a challenge of this magnitude.
Now the massive skyscrapers surrounding
the palace in the city center were dark, empty husks, their shattered windows
now gaping holes reminding its occupants of the damage that had been done. Few
of the buildings were populated by workers and businesses. Why work when you
weren’t going to be paid for it anyway? Instead, the population milled about in
the streets in shelters, some provided by the government, others in makeshift
areas cobbled together by the local population. People burned fires outside to
keep warm, especially during nights, which had started becoming progressively
colder again as winter steadily approached.
The Varnusians were legendary for being
hardy. They were survivors. They had, in fact, weathered worse damage than this only decades before. The Varnusians’ lives continued, one way or another. Many continued to work and
rebuild in and of themselves. Makeshift economies had
sprung up as survivors adapted, learning new trades. People shared with each
other.
But not all the city’s occupants were
Varnusians, anymore. The majority were from off-world, hailing from different
cultures, different histories. They didn’t know how to react to such a dramatic
change in their lives. They didn’t automatically pick themselves up and keep
pressing forward, sharing what they had with others.
And so the reconstruction efforts had
ground to a halt. The silence of the city stretched across the Royal Palace as
evening fell and the light faded.
Inside the Royal Palace’s hangar bay, two
dozen Jedi were carrying their bags up the boarding ramp of the Lambda-class
shuttle that would take them into orbit, where the Marauder-class Corvette Annihilator awaited them.
Grand Master Alyx Misnera stood near the
boarding ramp, watching each member of the team ascend into the waiting vessel.
Alyx watched as each of the nearly two
dozen Jedi boarded the ramp. Jacob “Jinx” Skipper went in first, toting his bag
across his shoulder. Though she often accompanied him, Rynn Mariel,
unfortunately, had decided not to accompany them, and Alyx didn’t blame her.
She still hadn’t gotten over the loss of young Derek. Alyx sighed, forcing that
line of thought out of his head; he had to focus, now.
Next came Atridd
Xoan and Kiz Thrakus, discussing something amongst each other in low tones.
Then came Vykk Olyronn and Draken Ar’Kell, leaders of
House Ar’Kell – or at least what remained of it. Also with them were Colin
Moore, Sim Zaphod, Junor Brajo, Varanus Templar, and Satai Dukhat. After them
came the leaders of Vortigern’s remnants, Roger Macreed – recovered from his
injuries and malnutrition at the hands of the AD – and Neres Warjan.
Accompanying them were Mrax Satai, Rilke Darcunter, Eric Donos, and Aethar
Daemonstar, the latter two newly raised to knighthood.
Alyx was surprised to see Nadia Ispen join
the party, giving him a level look as she turned and carried her satchel up the
ramp. He’d asked for volunteers, and everyone onboard had responded to the call
without any prodding or incentive from Alyx. He supposed that Nadia must have
come because she thought it was what Xar would have wanted. The woman was one
of the few remaining Jedi who still practically worshipped the man.
When everyone was onboard, Alyx picked up
his things and prepared to follow them. That was everyone who had signed up,
including the rest of the Jedi Council not away or incapacitated. He’d only
left Vynd Archaron, the Warden, to stay behind, putting him in charge in their
absence. Someone at least had to hold some semblance of order and authority in
Vectur.
It was virtually everyone left in the Order
at or above the rank of Knight – the whole of their fighting force. They had
lost so many over the past two years, especially during the attack on Varnus
itself. That had been the worst by far. The fighting had been brief and bloody.
In the aftermath, nearly half the Jedi in the order were found dead within the
span of that one day. Now this was all he had left. If they lost this time, if
this turned out to be a suicide mission, the Jedi Order on Varnus would never
recover from the loss – at least, not in Alyx’s lifetime.
“Just like old times, huh? The whole
gang’s here.”
Alyx paused at the foot of the ramp and
turned back at the sound of that familiar voice behind him. He looked over and
saw that Mathis Organa was standing there, a bag slung over one shoulder.
“Mathis,” he started.
“Count me in on this one, Alyx.”
Alyx
shook his head immediately. “Sorry, but you’re a liability. You’re still not
over your addiction.”
Mathis flashed him his famous grin. “Give
me a chance, Alyx. I haven’t touched spice since the attack on Varnus. That was
six months ago.”
“Five,” Alyx corrected him. “Look, Mathis.
I appreciate what you did to save the Stormwatch.
If not for your warning, and stopping the Crinn attack, who knows where we would
be now. But this is a special operations mission if there ever was one. I can’t
jeopordize it.”
A light of defiance came into the man’s
eyes. “If I get in the way, I give you my word that I’ll do the honors of
dispatching myself.”
“I can’t let you do that, Mathis.” Alyx
sighed. It wasn’t that Alyx just didn’t trust him. He also wanted someone to
survive in case the worst happene, to carry on at least the memory of the
Order, and those that had been in it.
Alyx looked at the man, unable to remove
from his impression the years of history between them. Mathis was one of the
men who had re-founded House Ar’Kell after all those centuries. They’d known
each other for a long time. “We might not make it back from this one, Mathis.” He
owed it to the man to be honest.
But Mathis was adamant. “All the more
reason I should go,” he said. “Do you think I could live, knowing that everyone
I cared about went up there and sacrificed their lives for our freedom, and I
wasn’t able to join them? Don’t do that to me, Alyx.”
Alyx considered it. He didn’t like it, but
he knew how the man must feel. He must be desperate to prove his worth, not
just to others but also to himself. This could possibly be just the kind of
therapy that Mathis needed. Whether one more hand would make the difference if
they found themselves in all-out war – Alyx didn’t know. But in the end, Mathis
was still someone he considered to be a friend, someone he wanted to see
succeed. If this was the last interaction they would ever have together before
their final fate was revealed, he wanted it to end on a positive.
“Get in the shuttle,” he said finally.
* * *
In
Orbit, Arcadia
Mizar
System
2010
Hours
The nine Majestic-class cruisers opened the battle with their rail cannons,
firing corvette-sized slugs from their shafts at hypersonic speeds towards the
enemy Titans. An instant later, bright flashes lit up space
as the projectiles penetrated their shields and struck home. Explosions blasted
across the front of the Dark Sun, the
Vertigo, and the Death Wing, massive fireballs accompanied by large chunks of armor
and hull plating.
The Majestics reloaded as quickly as
possible and fired again, dealing even more damage to their targets. By now,
the Altarin’Dakor fleet was rapidly accelerating, coming up to attack speed,
the NI Starfleet following suit.
As the two fleets neared each other, space
became crossed with beams of energy as both sides opened up with their fusion
beams. Force fields on both sides lit up under the hits, glowing blue
hemispheres of energy surrounding the Titan-class battleships in both fleets.
Ship-to-ship missiles streaked out on tails of light, and the Majestics kept
firing, sending their slugs through the shields to blast away more armor. Large
gouts of flame, atmosphere and debris shot out of hull breaches as sections of
the ships were exposed to vacuum.
Then, finally, the fighters got their
orders to accelerate and engage. Salle led Inferno and the rest of their forces
forward, keeping beneath the streams of energy crisscrossing the sky above
them. She knew that if any of them got caught by one of those beams, their
fighters would be reduced to their constituent atoms.
Ahead, a cloud of innumerable enemy
fighters glittered like diamonds in the night, and the screens on her HUD
showed simply a wall of red, far too many ships to try and count. Reports had
cited over twenty thousand fighters, and the number was still rising.
“Report in,” she ordered, keying the
squadron frequency.
“One
Flight, on your wing,” said Gren Pabos, in his matching modified TIE Avatar
close by.
“Two
Flight, in formation,” announced Kikitik, who now
led Flight Two.
“Three
Flight, ready for action.” That was Narm Greyrunner, the last surviving
member after the battle at Varnus. He led Flight Three.
“Stay close,” she ordered. “These new TIEs
should take them by surprise at first. After that, if we stay together and work
in tandem, we can take them out one at a time.”
She received a chorus of affirmatives,
then took a deep breath and flexed her fingers on her flight controls. The
numbers were counting down fast, now, the two sides eating away at the distance
to their targets. Salle fought down her nerves, the sense of fear that threatened
to sweep over her as she looked at the tidal wave approaching them. It felt
almost unnatural, unearthly, not at all like the nervousness she normally faced
in battle. Was it the sheer number of enemy ships? There were so many of them!
But
no, she realized. She had felt this once before. She realized that she’d
felt the same way at Varnus, faced with the fighters belonging to the Warlord
Nimrod. She now recognized it as coming through the Force, caused by the enemy
commanders. No, she thought. I will not panic.
“Stay firm,” she said over the link.
“Don’t let them trick you with fear. Think about Bast. About
Rann and Tanya. Think about Petur and the others.” The ones they’d lost.
“We will avenge them!”
The feelings of fear slightened, then
suddenly were replaced by a warm feeling in her chest. She felt her skin flush,
as a wave of optimism washed over her. She felt invulnerable. This was coming
from their side, she knew. From the Warlord Zalaria.
Somehow the woman was counteracting the enemy’s tactic. Salle felt like a pawn
in some massive board game, controlled like a puppet by godlike figures above
her. But despite the feeling, she welcomed it this time. They needed all the
help they could get.
On her HUD, the enemy wave coalesced into
hundreds of clusters of enemy fighters, the dots like grains of sand on her
screens. Those clusters became groups of dozens, which broke down into
squadrons, and finally became individual fighters on her screens. By now it was
too late to get out of the way even if she’d wanted to.
A green indicator light began to flicker
on her HUD, and she knew it was time.
“Enemy in range,” Salle announced. “Let’s
show them what these new fighters can do.”
The shimmering wave in front of them had
become individual points of light, now, stretching above and below, left and
right as far as she could see. It was a target rich environment like she’d
never before known. Using her target-by-sight capabilities in her helmet, she
selected half a dozen enemy targets, knowing the rest of her squadron, and in
turn the rest of the entire NI fighter group, was doing the same. Of course, so
were the enemy.
As the tone sounded in her helmet, Salle
tightened her right index finger on the trigger. They cut loose first with
missiles, sending them out on trails of light. Then, a second later, the enemy
came within beam range. Salle tracked her crosshairs over a target and squeezed
the trigger again, sending four yellow-white beams of energy out at the enemy,
one from each wingtip’s hardpoint.
Sure enough, the Altarin’Dakor wing, never
expecting their opponents to have the same range as they did, was caught
completely unawares. Ships began exploding left and right. Some returned fire,
but it was clear they were in a state of total confusion.
Salle had logged over a hundred hours of
practice firing with fixed beam weapons. At first they had felt unwieldy, and
it had been difficult to hit anything. Overcorrection was easy, and the
slightest nudge of her controls could send the beams wide by dozens of meters.
Not anymore, though. Her first target
exploded in an incandescent ball of hot vaporized gasses. No sooner had she
confirmed the kill than she switched to her next target, which had been riding
off the first target’s wing. Adjusting her controls, she panned right, aiming
for the wingman. The fighter juked, reacting to the destruction of the first
target, but too shocked to return fire. It went evasive, and Salle’s beams
sliced underneath it. Reacting quickly, however, she pitched up slightly,
raking her beams along the same trajectory as the enemy fighter and finally
making contact. Her beams sliced into the target’s starboard wing just before
they died out, cutting the wing cleanly away. An explosion on that side threw
the fighter off course, spinning away and out of the fight.
Salle let her guns rest for a second –
they had reached their maximum firing time and needed a moment to cool down
once more. It was a drawback she’d never had before, but she knew everything
was a tradeoff; more firepower meant more waste heat.
In her helmet, she heard the other members
of Inferno calling out their kills: “Inferno
Seven, one bogey down.” “Inferno Ten, kill confirmed.” “Inverno four, target
destroyed.” The reports rolled in on top of each other in a mixed jumble of
sentences. Nearly all of them had cited multiple kills from the first volley.
Only seconds had elapsed since the
engagement began. The sky lit up with fireballs as Altarin’Dakor fighters
exploded. The several thousand NI-allied Altarin’Dakor fighters at Salle’s
back, launched from Grand Crusader,
Ascendancy, Cataclysm and Nimbus,
added their missiles and beams into the fray.
Then the return fire from the enemy forces
began, as Salle had known it would. She went evasive, rolling and juking along
with the rest of Inferno Squadron. Blips on her screens began to indicate NI
losses. Then, a dozen seconds after the two sides had engaged, Salle saw enemy
fighters streaking past and turning. The initial run was over, and the entire
thing was about to devolve into the biggest furball she’s ever seen.
“Great job Inferno!” she managed to
stammer while the metallic flashes of enemy fighters shot past faster than the
eye could follow. “Hold course on me until they’re past, otherwise you’ll have
someone right on your six!” A chorus of clicks sounded acknowledgement of her
orders.
She waited until most of the enemy
fighters were past, then pulled up sharply, arching
back onto their tails. The looming bulks of the enemy Titans soared past her
field of view. The nearby masses of Death
Wing and Nightlord continued
pumping out cascading of energy at the NI forces, and as she watched, a enormous flash of light came from the center of the Death Wing’s outstretched, fan-like
arms, the flash lasting only an instant. She didn’t have time to see its effect
before it was out of sight again.
Her comms were alive with chatter, as some
pilots called for help, while others died in screams punctuated by bursts of
static. It was a maddening cacophony of sound that she mostly tried to drown
out, except for the Inferno local channel. The voices on her squadron members,
she heard loud and clear.
“Five,
target eliminated.”
“Twelve, got one on my tail!”
“Twelve, this is Six. I’m on him. Break hard
right!”
A second later, an
audible sigh of relief: “Thanks Twelve!”
Salle took it all in even while searching
for her next target. Back in the fray once more, she quickly locked onto the
tail of a retreating enemy fighter and sent two shockwave missiles streaking
out towards it. Then she continued her climb, finding more fighters that had
nearly come back around to face them once more. She thought she saw a flash on
her HUD indicating the destruction of her first target, but by then she was
already firing her beams at another fighter heading to her starboard. Her beams
intersected with the enemy’s path, but a last minute course correction caused
the attack to miss by only a few meters. Only one of her beams struck a
glancing blow against the enemy’s shields, causing them to flare up for an
instant.
The target pulled around and was out of
range a second later, and she wasn’t sure if it was coming back for her or not.
There were just too many targets, making it impossible to have a protracted
dogfight with anyone without becoming vulnerable to an unseen attacker.
Even as the thought went through her head,
her missile alert went off, its tone indicating that it was already close by.
Jerking the stick back instinctively, she made a tight loop, dropping chaff as
she did so. She barely missed crashing head-on into an enemy Stiletto that
flashed past in front of her, and her breath caught. A
second later the lock tone stopped. She could only assume that her chaff
worked, or that the missile had found another target.
As she pulled around, she saw a sky
crisscrossed with multicolored beams of light as the Titans and support ships
continued to pound each other. A cold, stark realization hit her then about how
truly small and limited she was in the scheme of it all. She had to rely on her
computer to even keep track of what was going on in the near vicinity of her
fighter, while all she could focus on was what her two eyes could see. Each
passing second was a frantic struggle to survive, and not much else.
Her warning alert went off, and she rolled
just as an enemy fighter opened fire at her eleven o’clock. Its beams seemed to
spear straight through her eyes, leaving afterimages trailing across her
vision, but somehow they didn’t impact her fighter. The enemy’s beams died, and
she pulled around to try and make a return shot. Before she could, however,
four yellow-white beams lanced down from above her and speared the enemy
figher, detonating it.
“Two, target destroyed,” came Gren
Pabos’ smooth voice.
“Thanks, Two,” Salled said, breathing a
sigh of relief.
“What
are wingmen for,” came the reply.
The words brought a stab of regret into
her chest. Not for the first time her thoughts flashed to Commander Stele, and
she wished for his reassuring presence. She
should be on his wing.
Why had he left them? Why had he put all
of this responsibility on her?
The answers still didn’t come, and she had
no time to consider it now. Turning to port, with Gren on her wing, she arced
back into the furball.
* * *
Angol
Moa’s Laboratories
Unknown
System
Icis emerged from the teleporter and
fell to his knees with a gasp. He remembered the look on his father’s face at
the end. What had happened after that?
Slowly, it came back to him. What he’d
given up. What he’d seen – and learned.
His time with his father had opened his
eyes. Moa Gault was, he finally realized, just a man. He was a Kajeat, of
course – he wasn’t fully human any more than Icis was – but still, he was a man
in the sense that he was an individual, a person of limited intellect and
ability. He’d had only his wits and experience to guide the decisions he’d
made. No longer did Icis see him as the cold, stoic, imposing father he’d known
growing up. He understood – really understood, now – that his father was just
as fallible as anyone else.
Moa Gault had been more open with him than
ever before in his life. Perhaps now, he too understood that Icis could never
have been anything except what he now was. Perhaps he had finally come to
accept the son that Icis had so unexpectedly become. The personal secrets he
had revealed to Icis – knowing that this might be the last time they ever spoke
– they showed a man who’d had to make decisions no one should ever have had to
make alone.
Those revelations had sent Icis back into
the Chamber of Shadows a second time, something no Kajeat had ever done, to his
knowledge. And there, in the Chamber, Icis had finally understood what it was
he’d been called to do:
The Chamber
of Shadows. It was a place that struck a strange combination of
terror and awe in the heart of every soul who had experienced it's warped effects. The chamber itself was located deep
within the heart of Ka'Jaarn, on a level of the artificial planet that was
seldom visited and mostly consumed by a sprawling museum of Traveler history.
The section of the museum closest to the Chamber told of its origins 90,000
years ago, when Angol Moa, the oldest member of the Ka'Jaet race, had fashioned it herself
according to her extreme but unstable genius.
Every
Ka'Jaet youth, upon reaching maturity and being deemed prepared to venture out
into the universe and begin his/her/its life of quiet research, was required to
enter the Chamber of Shadows. It was the ultimate rite of passage and to Icis'
knowledge, no one had ever gone in twice. No one would ever want to. The
effects were straining upon the sanity and always left a lasting impression.
Some were moved to absolute silence and awe, some screamed in fear or sobbed in
anguish, some were inspired, some ran out of the chamber and refused to ever
speak of what they had seen, a few were driven mad, and a rare few disappeared
into the Chamber never to be seen again.
The Chamber
of Shadows, as every Ka'Jaet was told before entering, was a containment field
for a temporal vortex, which constantly raged in the distance like a shifting
sideways tornado of crackling multicolored energy on a plane of absolute black
darkness. There the young Traveler would be shown... something. It was
different for each person. The thing that the Traveler saw was a result of his
own temporal signature's influence on the vortex and would have great
significance to that person's life. Icis Novitaar knew all of this because it
had been told to him, but he had never experienced it. When he had entered the
Chamber at the completion of his training, he hadn't been shown anything. He
stepped through the door to the Chamber of Shadows, and found himself exiting
out the same door almost immediately. No time had passed for everyone else (it
never did), but no time had passed for him either. There had been nothing to
see.
Now, Icis
had stepped through the Great Door to the Chamber of Shadows a second time, and his fears of seeing nothing were immediately put
to rest by the awesome terror and beauty of the temporal vortex. It was both
unbelievably immense and distant at the same time. In fact, if it occupied real
space the vortex would be far too large for the Chamber of Shadows to contain,
but there was a certain degree of dimensional compression associated with the
vortex and the chamber. As such, issues of space (or time, for that matter)
were never a limitation. There was no visible floor, but the darkness below
Icis’ feet was solid and allowed him to step forward and slowly approach the
vortex. Having been shown nothing the first time, he had no idea of what to
expect.
Part of
Icis' mind began an analysis of the situation and concluded that the entire
exercise was pointless, because there was no possible way such a tiny and
insignificant creature as himself could exert enough influence on such a
tremendous force of nature as the temporal vortex to have any useful effect. In
fact, it was far more likely that the visions and experiences were all granted
at random and that...
All thought
ceased for a moment. A long moment. In the seemingly
endless black expanse, Icis Novitaar caught sight of what was surely
impossible. Totally irrational. At
odds with the known laws of physics. And yet, it was there. HE was there. A
young man, maybe thirty years old, stylish black tunic of a senior-class
student of the Ka'Jaet education system. Two meters
tall, black haired. He was...
Icis almost
called the man's name, but the words caught in his throat and threatened to
choke him. How long had he been there? Who could know in a place like this? “Has he seen me?” Icis thought. No.
His back was turned. The young man was completely focused on the temporal
vortex. And Icis was completely focused on him.
The
Traveler stepped forward, closing the distance by degrees as he began to circle
off to the man's left. Finally, as Icis came into the man's field of vision,
the Traveler gathered up the nerve to speak. One word.
One name. His own. “Icis?”
The young
man turned upon hearing his name spoken. Of course he wasn't that young. He may have looked thirty
but he could easily be hundreds of years old. Young for a
Traveler. Young and very
surprised. “Who are you?” he asked, eyes wide with
amazement.
There was a
moment of silence in which Icis debated what he should or shouldn't say to
himself. Then, coming to the conclusion that the universe had gone mad and it
really didn't matter what he said, replied, “I'm you.”
“You can't
be me.”
“Yes, I
think you'll find that I can and I am.” Icis stepped forward, closing the gap
between the two men until they were only a few meters apart.
The younger
man shook his head in disbelief. “That's impossible!”
“I agree.”
Silence. Two men, or perhaps one man,
standing facing each other, neither blinking.
“How?”
spoke the younger.
“I don't
exactly know,” the older replied, “but I can guess.”
The younger
man's bewilderment was beginning to fade, and he didn't wait to hear the guess.
“The temporal vortex has created a future time duplicate of me based on one
possible future timeline and brought that duplicate here.”
Icis, the
older Icis, could tell that his younger counterpart was waiting for
confirmation. No such luck. “No, not really.”
The younger
Icis furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”
“Well,
first of all I'm no time duplicate, I'm you. Secondly, this... thing,” the
older man waved an open hand at the swirling storm of temporal energy, “didn't
bring me here across time to meet you. It's brought us both to a place outside
of time.”
“Outside of time?”
“How old
are you?” Older Icis asked, eying his younger self for any signs that he may
have entered at a different point in time than...
“I'm 171
years old.” The young man paused. “And you?”
“5,014.”
The younger
man's jaw went slack. “Really?” he sputtered.
“You've
just entered the Chamber of Shadows at the completion of your training to
become a field agent. I've just entered it 4,843 years later. However, to the
temporal vortex, both of our signatures are the same, so it brought us to the
same place.” Icis didn't know if that was correct, but at least it sounded reasonable.
“I can accept that,” Icis replied. “But why
did you reenter the Chamber?”
It occurred
to older Icis that he could probably get himself into a lot of trouble by
giving too many future details to his past self. In fact, he had probably
already caused irreparable damage to the timeline. Hoping to prevent further
damage, the older traveler replied, “I have my reasons.”
“Your reasons?” It was crazy, thought the younger man. Did
the older man really expect him to accept that? “Well, I suppose we all have
our reasons,” he said. “What're yours?”
The older
man sighed. “That's something I can't tell you. I'm afraid it'll do too much
damage to the timeline.”
“Don't
hide behind that,” young Icis replied, suddenly becoming aware of a critical
fact. “Why can't I sense you?” Confusion. Frustration. “You're not a Ka'Jaet. You're not even
Force-sensitive? ... You're a fake!”
“Hold on
now,” the other man, who looked like Icis but obviously wasn't, held up his
hands in what was surely intended as a calming gesture.
“No, you
hold on. I don't know what you're after, but you're certainly NOT me.” Icis
examined the man, or whatever he was. “Perhaps the vortex has created you based
on some fragment of my own consciousness and you think that you're a future
version of me, but you are in fact more a figment of my imagination that you
are a man.”
The
counterfeit Icis seemed shocked and mildly offended. “If I'm not really a man,
then how do I know that you were originally Jascar Brodan, small time thief and
no account. If you'd like, I can relate a fairly sound
narrative of the first twenty years of your life.”
“Which proves nothing as you are a construct based on my own
intelligence and I possess all of the information you are presenting.”
Icis would not be so easily convinced.
“I can also
provide you with a meticulously detailed account the next 4,843 years of your
life ahead,” the man told him.
“Which
could all be fabrication, and proves nothing,” Icis countered again.
The older
man sighed. “I can see that I will not be able to convince you I’m real. But
why should I, anyway? Maybe it’s better for you this way.”
“What do
you mean by that?”
“I mean
it’s hard to stand here looking at the man I used to be, remembering how young and
foolish I was. You still have a lot to learn.”
“Wait a
second,” Icis sputtered, feeling indignation rise within him. “You can’t talk
down to me like that! You’re just a figment of my imagination. What if I just
imagine you away?”
“Go ahead
and waste your time if you like,” the man said. “I came here for reasons of my
own…”
He broke
off, their conversation interrupted, and Icis followed his gaze to see a
pulsating ball of semi-transparent energy spiral out of the swirling fiery
orange vortex, directly toward the younger Icis, who watched it in fascination.
Suddenly
the older man gasped. “Of course! The
charge!”
Young Icis
watched as the older man leapt forward ahead of him, rushing toward that
glowing, pulsating ball. “What are you doing?!” he shouted.
Then, out
of nowhere, an even older man appeared directly between the vortex and the
other two men. He held out something in his hand, something that appeared
mechanical, a metallic box that dangled from his outstretched arm. Doors on the
box slid open with a click, and before either man could react, a light streamed
forth out of it, drawing the ball of energy away from its toward younger Icis.
The ball flew toward the box in the newcomer’s hand and entered inside. Then
the doors clicked shut again.
The
newcomer turned to face them then, and both versions of Icis gaped in surprise.
“Hello,
Icis – and Icis,” he said, nodding at each of them in turn.
It was him.
A third version. This one looked to be in his
mid-fifties, with a closely trimmed beard and an eyepatch over his right eye.
His beard was mostly white, and he had salt-and-pepper hair. He wore a high
collared black duster with tall back boots and black-gloved hands. Beneath the
coat he wore a white shirt made of a course fabric, and his tan pants had a
dark brown stripe down the sides. His wide belt held various pouches and a
blaster holstered on his thigh. He seemed somewhat grizzled and worn, but he
also had an air of peace and wisdom that young Icis couldn’t quite identify.
“Who are
you?” both Icis’ blurted out at the same time.
The older
man held a bemused look on his face. Young Icis continued to stare at him in
disbelief. What had happened to him? Why did he look so old, and why did he
have an eye patch? As an immortal Kajeat, he knew that aging and infirmities
were things he would never have to know. What had happened to this man was
impossible – unless, of course, he was no longer immortal. But that was crazy!
“I’m sorry
to disturb you,” said the elderly man, “but I had a feeling this would happen.
To my knowledge, no one else has ever come in here three times before.”
“Please,” said the other Icis, the one who had appeared in the chamber
earlier. He stepped forward, reaching out a hand to the older man. “The charge
you just captured – I need it to restore my Kajeat essence. You… You’ve
obviously aged. That implies I still haven’t recovered my immortality. The
charge could return it to us!”
Young Icis
gaped at the other men. Lost his immortality? How in all the galaxies could
that be? No, it was a lie; it had to be!
The elderly
Icis shook his head, a bit sadly it seemed. “I’m sorry, but I need it for
something else even more.”
“What?”
asked the middle Icis.
“To stabilize
the temporal field of a time machine,” the older man replied.
Now middle
Icis gaped at him as well. “To do what?”
“Apologies,
but I cannot reveal more than that. Talk to Angol Moa when you leave.”
“What could
be more important than restoring our Traveler essence?!” middle Icis demanded.
“As a Kajeat you realize nothing matters more than that!”
Young Icis
glanced back and forth between the two men. If he understood them correctly,
they were squabbling over a ball of energy that could theoretically restore
Icis his Kajeat essence, assuming it had been taken from him in the first
place. But young Icis himself was immortal; he had been ever since merging with
Jascar Brodin years ago. This didn’t make any sense! How could he lose his immortality?
To a
Kajeat, their longevity was what made them who they were, what made them want
to travel the galaxies and record events. To not be able to do that, to have
only a finite number of years, would be to fall victim to the turning of time,
to become part of history instead of hovering outside it. Without the immortal
life essence, one could not be Kajeat at all!
“I fully
sympathize with you, since I am you,” the old man said. “I’ve felt age creeping
up on me in a way I’ve never known in 5,039 years. But you have to trust me
when I say that this is far more important than you and I regaining our
immortal Kajeat essence.”
“What
happens in the future?” middle Icis asked suddenly. “Do we defeat the Ones, and
Altima? Is the battle going on, or is there some new threat?”
“There are
always threats,” the older man said. “But you know I can’t answer your
questions about the future, just as you cannot tell the young Icis there how
much we’ve meddled in galactic affairs, how we lost our immortality in the
first place.”
“You just
did,” pointed out the middle Icis.
The older
man just smiled. “It’s all right. You see, I remember when I was you, meeting
the older version of me. I remember everything you’re thinking and feeling
right now. I also remember, when I was you, that the older me
wiped the memory of the younger Icis standing there.”
The old man
turned toward young Icis then, and stretched out a hand. Before Icis could
react, he felt the other’s mind touch his, instantly breaking through his
defenses, and a white light flashed in his vision, searing away every coherent
thought…
Middle Icis
– current Icis, he reminded himself – watched the older man wipe the memory of
the younger Icis, and a revelation suddenly struck him. This was why he’d had
no knowledge of his time in the Chamber of Shadows! He remembered clearly
stepping into the portal and coming straight out the other side, with no
knowledge that this meeting had ever taken place. But he had been here, in the
chamber! He had seen all of this, and it had been erased from his memory!
This scene,
this event, had happened all those years ago, when Icis had been the young man
standing there just as he saw him now, and he’d never known it. Even then, when
he’d entered the chamber, he had spoken with two older versions of himself –
one of which Icis was now experiencing firsthand. Simultaneously, the same
meeting had occurred at three different points in his life.
This was
scarcely beyond his ability to comprehend. How many laws of space-time were
being broken, right now? The sheer implausibility of it all made his head want
to ache.
“My work is
done,” said the older Icis. “I have to leave now.” He nodded to Icis then,
giving him a mock salute. “Until we meet again.”
Then he
turned and walked through the doorway just as it reappeared beside him.
Icis looked
at the younger version of himself, who was still staring blankly ahead, not yet
returned to his normal state. Icis knew that by the time he came to, he would
be stepping forward through the doorway back into the outside again.
The doorway
appeared in front of current Icis first. He took a last glance around the
chamber and the young man still standing there, thinking back to all that the
young man would experience in his next four thousand nine hundred years. It was
a lot of time for change. If he could go back now, and do some things
differently, would he? Probably.
He stepped
through the doorway…
…and had appeared outside the chamber once
more.
His reverie was interrupted as footsteps
echoed into the chamber behind him. Icis turned and saw Angol Moa enter. Her
expression was, to his surprise, completely solemn. He wondered if she would be
angry with him for entering the Chamber of Shadows twice – no make that three
times, now.
She stopped in front of him and visibly
studied him for a moment. Then the barest hint of a smile curved her lips, and
her voice broke the silence. “So what did you find?”
“I made it inside,” he said, searching for
the right words. “It… wasn’t what I expected. Some kind of temporal paradox, I
think.” He looked at her, searching her deep emerald eyes for some hint of
wisdom. “I now know that I made it inside during my first trial, too. There was
a younger version of me in there. He was young and inexperienced; he didn’t
know anything. Then suddenly the charge came out of the Vortex. I thought I
could use it to restore my Kajeat essence; something had obviously happened to
it since I hadn’t received the vision all those years ago. But then…”
“Then your older seld appeared, stole the
charge and told you he needed it to fix the time machine in the future,” Angol
Moa said off-handedly.
She fixed him with a level look. “He was
telling the truth, or rather, you
were telling the truth. He did need it, for something of the utmost importance.
I hope you believe that.”
It took Icis a moment to realize his jaw
had dropped open. “And just how in the galaxies do you know all that?” he
demanded.
Angol Moa gave him a knowing grin. “Because you told me every detail of it twenty thousand years ago
when you came to me.”
At that, Icis was rendered completely
speechless.
“You know I can’t reveal too much about
the future,” she told him with a wry look. “But since he told you to ask me,
suffice yourself with this: I first met Icis Novitaar around twenty thousand
years ago, from where he had traveled back in time using a device I will
eventually – but haven’t yet, by the way – create. He
then explained to me everything that happened to him during his life, including
everything that we are currently living through. Obviously he was not afraid of
risking the future by revealing it to me, and in this case he was right in
doing so.” She paused, and gave a sly grin. “So now do you see why very little
actually surprises me?”
Icis just shook his head in complete
disbelief. Her words – her story – was so unexpected
and strange that it sounded like a fairy tale. Even if he wanted to believe
her, he had no frame of reference with which to begin to fathom the
implications of what she was saying.
“I… I don’t understand,” he admitted
finally. “It’s too foreign. I can’t see myself there, doing something like
that. It shouldn’t be possible.”
“But you know, Icis,” she said seriously. “You
realize that the future is not completely set. It can be altered. You could
still die before you ever reach that age.”
He nodded again. “I know that.”
“Very well. Anyway,
there is something else that I want to do for you.”
He blinked and looked up at her. Something
she wanted to do? For him?
“I cannot restore to you the Kajeat
essence,” she said, “That was a gift from the Vortex,
and it has only ever given it once to an individual.”
“The Vortex… it’s alive?” Icis asked.
“Not exactly. It
is full of life energy,” she said. “It exists as a buffer between this
dimension and that from which we came. To plug the gap so that the Entity
cannot cross over.”
“So
the charge,” Icis said, excited. “Its energy comes from our home dimension?”
“Residue that bleeds
though, yes.” She glanced down. “Another way I hope to eventually right
the wrong I caused.”
“You’ve done enough,” Icis said. “No one
can blame you anymore.”
“You’d be surprised,” she said, giving him
a knowing look. “But we’re talking about you, not me. I think that you’ve
suffered enough for what you’ve done. Everyone should have a chance to atone.”
“What are you talking about?” he asked,
bewildered.
“Have a seat,” she instructed him. “It has
been long enough since you have known the touch of the Force.”
Dumbfounded,
Icis found himself guided through the corridors of her lab, into a chamber he’d
never entered before. The room was roughly a sphere, with its walls cut into
dozens of angled surfaces, all made of a substance so dark it appeared black.
The walls were featureless and polished almost as clearly as mirrors, though
there was little to reflect, as the only source of light came from a circle of
light directly above the center. A seat extruded itself for him directly below
the shaft of light angling down in the middle of the room. He sat, completely at
a loss for words. What was she doing? Was she actually going to give him the Force
back? And now, of all times?
It wasn’t that he doubted she could do it.
It has just never occurred to him that she would.
His powers had been taken away twice – the first time, it had been halved by
the Supreme Council of Elders. The second, barely two years before, they had been
removed completely. Icis had resigned himself to the fact that he would never
use the Force again.
“Supreme Elder, I don’t know what to say,”
he managed.
She walked a slow circle around him,
tapping instructions onto the holopad floating in front of her. “It will take
some time for your abilities to come into full effect,” she said. “Think of it
as retraining an atrophied muscle. But once they do, you will be as powerful as
you have ever been, before even your first banishment.”
She stopped pacing in front of him, and
her holopad disappeared. Icis heard a high-pitched whine building throughout
the chamber.
Icis felt a chill of fear and awe creep
through him. He’d gone so long without touching the Force,
he had no idea what to feel about getting it again. And what she was saying,
what he hoped against hope was true – was that he would finally be restored to
his full power level. He’d lived with
his crippled Force abilities for over two thousand years, and in the recent few
years had lost its touch entirely. What would he feel like with all of his power restored to him once
more?
A jumble of emotions were inside him: giddiness,
trepidation, awe. Fear of change, fear of failure, fear of losing control of himself. Despite himself, despite
how badly he had wanted this for so long, he felt himself say, “I… don’t
deserve this.”
The last thing he saw was her standing in
front of him, stretching out a finger towards his head.
“Sometimes we all need a bit of grace,”
she said.
Then
she touched his forehead, and a blinding light consumed everything.
* * *
Mizar
System
1522
Hours
The two lines of Titan-class
battleships continued to rain barrage after barrage of fire upon each other.
What had been an initial surprise advantage for the NI forces, however, had
quickly deteriorated as the vastly superior numbers of Altarin’Dakor began to
turn the tide back in their favor. The amount of fire the NI ships were taking
was easily double what they could return.
The only thing saving them was the
mysterious force field extending in front of the Grand Crusader, preventing any of the blasts heading her way from
getting through.
Sector Admiral Gaius stood on the ship’s
massive bridge and watched everything unfold, feeling almost powerless to do
anything that might really effect the outcome of the
battle. He still gave orders to the other Titans, directing their fire. Amazon
was still issuing commands to the fighter groups and the rest of the NI
Starfleet.
But it was Zalaria, deep inside the bowels
of the ship inside her so-called meditation chamber, that
was really keeping them alive right now.
It was a trick of the Force, something on
a scale Gaius had never experienced before. Somehow the meditation chamber she
was in could enhance her powers even beyond her normal, unfathomable levels. Enough, apparently, to counter the other four Warlords sitting opposite them inside the Dark Sun.
The flagship of Asellus sat directly in
front of them, sending a steady barrage of beam weapon fire directly at them.
But instead of hitting the Grand
Crusader’s shields, the beams hit an invisible barrier much farther out,
far enough to cover quite a few other NI ships, as well.
He had no idea how she was doing it, only
he could feel it, and he could also feel the assaults of the enemy Warlords
against her. It made his own powers feel as
insignificant as a drop of water in an ocean. He only hoped that her defensive
action would hold out. There had been no communication at all from Zalaria
since she had gone down there.
The other thing that seemed to be playing
to their advantage was that the enemy Titans didn’t seem to be acting with any
level of coordinated effort. Rather, each Warlord’s fleet acted as though it were
operating independently, choosing its own targets and eschewing the advantage
of overlapping their fields of fire. Similarly, the enemy fighter formations
moved independently of one another, preventing them from overwhelming the NI
fighters all at once. Some groups had even been pushed out of the engagement
zone, it seemed, as other units asserted the areas as “their” field of battle.
It was typical Altarin’Dakor behavior –
factional to a fault. Gaius had never seen it happen so clearly before now. But
how could they be anything else? Their own supreme commanders fought each other
in a constant power struggle, and their temporary alliance against the New
Imperium, appearing at first as one, unstoppable force, was looking more and
more to be a fragile and tentative situation.
Meanwhile, the NI Titans continued to pour
fire into the enemy ships. He’d ordered them to focus on the center three, with
the Dark Sun especially as the
priority target. Attacks from the Cataclysm
and Grand Crusader lit up the shields
of the Death Wing and Dark Sun in a continuous cycle of
shimmering waves that lit up around the massive vessels. Every once in a while,
some got through, scouring their hulls with deep furrows that leaked atmosphere
and liquefied armor.
The Majestic-class cruisers continued
their firing as well, from their positions just beneath Grand Crusader. As he watched, some of their slugs penetrated the
shields of the Death Wing and blasted
into one of its outstretched wing arms, ripping through its hull plating and
sending massive gouts of flame and debris launching back out into space.
On the other side of the Dark Sun, the Vertigo was taking an equally hard pounding from the combined
forces of Nimbus and Ascendancy. Their beam weapons had broken
through the smaller Titan’s shields and were carving their way through the
front of the ship, leaving it aglow against the rest of the ship’s dark hull.
Not all was going well, however. The Invasion of Light was pouring fire into
the Nimbus, and the ship’s starboard
side was taking a pounding, leaking fire and gasses in spots that glowed red
from the heat of the assault. The Ascendancy
was also taking some fire, lying just outside the Grand Crusader’s protective bubble.
Gaius refused let himself feel optimistic
about the battle, yet. Rather, a feeling of unease had continued to grow within
his gut ever since the battle began. The situation was precarious, and he knew
that if anything at all happened to Zalaria, the tide would be turned instantly.
In fact, things had been going entirely too
well. That was probably what was worrying him. Something bad was bound to happen, he just didn’t know what it was or when it would
occur.
And the worst part was,
he felt powerless to stop it when it finally came.
Salle dodged and weaved her TIE
Avatar through the fray, soaring through spiraling clouds of gas and smoke and
dodging past twisted chunks of ballistic debris. Several times she saw fighers
colliding by accident, mutually destroying each other in flashes of light that
neither pilot had even seen coming.
NI losses had begun to mount quickly, as
the vastly superior number of enemy fighters began to take its toll. Blips
vanished from her screens so quickly she couldn’t begin to keep count.
Her
own shields were down to half, and she only had four missiles left. She’d
narrowly escaped getting speared by enemy beam lances half a dozen times, now.
Inferno had lost two pilots already. Eight
and Eleven had been shot down by enemy fighters. Though the rest of the
squadron had avenged them, their losses were a hardened lump inside Salle’s
heart, one she had to hold there until this was all over. Time to mourn would
come later, if she survived.
She lined up her latest target, then led
her sights just in front of it and squeezed the trigger. Her yellow-white beams
shot out directly in the target’s flight path and the enemy flew straight
through. It came out in two pieces, which quickly exploded in a double blast
that sent pieces of its fuselage everywhere.
“Inferno Six! I can’t
shake this one!”
The voice of one of her squadron mates
immediately caught her attention. She saw his icon flashing on her screens, then pivoted her fighter to bring the targets into view.
She was too far away. Six had an enemy
fighter on his tail, and somehow he had gotten separated from his wingman. As
the Avatar pitched and rolled, the Altarin’Dakor fighter – another Stiletto –
stayed close on his tail, firing mercilessly. One of its beams clipped the
Avatar’s wing, shearing half of it off, and Six’s fighter fell into an
uncontrolled spin.
“Eject, Six!” Salle shouted,
an instant after he had already started the process.
“Ungh!” The cockpit canopy burst open as the pilot rode his
seat out on a jet of flame. An instant later another blast hit the fighter dead
center and it blew apart. The Stiletto shot past, already looking for another
target.
Watching her pilot flying ballistically up
and to her right, Salle grabbed her comm controls and switched to the emergency
frequency, which would key her into the retrieval corps onboard the Darkstar. “I need a pick-up in sector
26-B!” she said desperately. “Inferno Six is EVA!”
“Negative,
Inferno,” the voice came back after a few seconds’ pause. “That zone’s too hot. We’ll have to wait for
it to clear first.”
“He’s not going to last that long out
here!” Salle shouted back.
“Sorry,
no can do. We’re under orders here not to take unnecessary risks with the
pick-up craft. We’re not picking up anyone at all right now. Darkstar out.”
Biting back a curse, she growled in
frustration and switched off the channel. Six’s floating figure quickly faded
to a speck that was lost among the endless debris field all around them.
Her comm crackled to life again almost
immediately. “Inferno
Squadron, Chalice Squadron, Vengeance Squadron, Nova Squadron and Reaper
Squadron. A large force of
enemy assault ships are on an attack vector to Task Force Darkstar. Fall back
and defend, ASAP.”
“Roger,” Salle replied as soon as the
order was finished. “Inferno on its way.” Then, keying
the squadron frequency, she added, “Inferno, form up and full throttle back
towards the NI capital ships!”
Suiting words to actions, she looped her
Avatar around back towards the formation of the NI fleet and gunned the
throttle, the acceleration slamming her back against her seat. She knew that
while the Star Destroyers and other large capital ships of the NI fleet were in
the relative protection of the Titans’ force fields, they would still be
vulnerable to smaller Altarin’Dakor strike craft that might want to take them
out.
Inferno formed up on her wing, and
together they began to extract themselves from the furball. Thousands of
fighters swam through the space in front of her, glowing like pinpoints of
light. Salle pushed her Avatar as fast as it would go, leading the squadron
back towards the NI position.
“Lead,
we’ve got bogeys in pursuit!” shouted the voice of Narm Greyrunner over the
comm.
Salled checked her screens and saw a full
squadron of enemy fighters coming down hot on their tails, clearly looking for
easy kills on the retreating fighters. “Evasive!” she shouted. “But keep on
course! Try and outrun them!”
She suited words to action, juking and
jinking her fighter this way and that. Stray beams of energy began to pass by
from behind, continuing on into the endless night of space.
A missile warning went off, and she
immediately rolled and dropped chaff. Less than a second later her fighte shook
as something detonated directly behind her fighter. Salle’s breath caught in
her throat; that had been way too close.
“Inferno
Squad, Vindicator has a bead on your pursuers,” came
a voice over her comm.
The NI Starfleet was looming ahead now,
with the central bulk of the Darkstar
surrounded by over a dozen Imperator-class
Star Destroyers along with dozens of support ships. Of the ISDs, the
wedge-shaped hull of the ISD-3 Vindicatar
had somehow ended up closest to them.
“Copy, Vindicator,” Salle said into the comm. “We are closing! Just another minute!”
She angled her fighter towards the Star
Destroyer’s hull, leading her squadron on a virtual ramming course with the
capital ship.
The Altarin’Dakor fighters continued their
pursuit. There was a burst of static, and Inferno Twelve’s icon blinked out on
her screen. “Kriff!” Salle cursed, still jinking her
fighter hard as lances of energy shot past her cockpit.
The Vindicator’s
comm officer shouted over the comm. “Inferno,
break hard in five… four… three… two… one… now!”
Salle immediately yanked back on her
controls, sending her fighter arcing into a loop so tight that she nearly
blacked out. The rest of Inferno broke hard in all directions, as an instant
later a barrage of green-white turbolaser fire blasted through the space they’d
just been in.
The barrage slammed into the pursuing
Altarin’Dakor fighters, ripping them to shreads. Some were vaporized instantly;
others exploded in satisfyingly large fireballs. Only a couple emerged
unscathed, looping back around to gain distance on the Star Destroyer.
“Thanks for the save, Vindicator,” Salle spoke into the comm. “We owe you one.”
“Not
a problem, Inferno, but you can return the favor now. Incoming
enemy squadrons at point oh six eight.”
“Roger,” Salle replied, noticing what was easily a hundred enemy fighters fast approaching the NI
Starfleet’s position. “Inferno, on me!”
* * *
Angol Moa’s Laboratory
Location
Unknown
Time
Unknown
“What am I going to feel?” Xar
asked.
He was in a new chamber, one that Angol
Moa had just finished constructing, apparently. The circular chamber’s walls
were encased in reflective gold panels. It was incredibly bright in here, Xar
realized with some discomfort.
After several more days of waiting and
meditating alone in Angol Moa’s laboratory, she had come to him with the news
that she had perfected her technique for removing the other personalities from
his mind. Xar had assumed that meant she would simply perform some strange
procedure on him, but apparently it would have to be something more involved
than that. It seemed Xar had work to do, as well.
In any case, it was not a moment too soon.
Xar could feel the madness growing closer, like a monster just on the other
side of the door, clawing its way through.
“I can’t tell you that because no one has
ever done this before. Now, take a seat, you.”
Reluctantly, Xar complied, sitting down in
the chair that materialized itself in the center of the chamber. “That’s not
very comforting,” he said.
Angol Moa looked down at him and winked.
“I never claimed to sugar-coat anything, did I?”
“I suppose not,” Xar said drily.
“Now in order for this to work,” she
continued, “I’m going to separate your life essence – your mind, spirit,
whatever you want to call it – from your physical body. Only temporarily, mind
you,” she added, raising a finger.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“What I mean is that this battle must be
waged within your subconscious. It is the only way to separate that part that
is you from the parts that are Dasok Krun and Runis. You’ll have to somehow
force them from you – to bring about a split – ejecting them from your psyche.”
“How am I supposed to do that?” he asked.
“I cannot tell you that,” she replied.
“Perhaps you will have to work out a… deal… with them.”
“A deal?”
She shrugged helplessly. “You’ll know once
you get there. No use asking for all the answers now.”
“So that’s all the help you can give me?”
he asked incredulously.
“Be glad that I came up with this. It’s
your only chance, boy.”
“And I’m going to do all this while I’m
asleep?”
“Exactly!” She
winked at him again.
“How long will I be under?” he asked.
“I
can sustain your body’s need for sustinence indefinitely. However, you can’t
last forever like that. Your body will get weak if you take too long. Keep in
mind that the longer it takes inside, the weaker you become, and the stronger
they may be.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” he
admitted.
“Look, boy.” She leaned down and stared
straight into his eyes. Her face had gone deadly serious for the first time in
a long while. Xar felt suddenly an immense weight in that gaze of hers. It was
like with one of the Shok’Thola, but
somehow this was even stronger. “You must take this seriously. If you fail, you
are going to die. The Xar that you know will cease to exist.”
“I am taking it seriously,” he countered.
“I just wish I knew more of what to expect.”
“Everything you will encounter is
something created inside your own mind. Remember that,” she said.
He sighed. “I will.”
“Be strong. Don’t give up, no matter what
happens. No matter what you feel, and no matter what they might tell you.
They’ll say anything to get their way, to take over.”
“I understand,” he said. He knew Krun and
Runis well enough to know that was true. But he was years more experienced now
than when he’d first faced them. He should be ready for anything they had to
throw at him.
One last question knawed
at him before he was ready. “When I wake up, will you know if it’s the
real me or not?” he asked her.
“I’ll know. Now lie back.”
With that she nudged the seat back until
he was lying down. She placed something around his head, something that sent
cold needlepoints into his scalp. His head began to tingle.
“Good night, Xar,” she said.
She turned away. Less than a minute later
Xar felt himself getting sleepy. He closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to come,
hoping that dreams would come, and hopefully along with those dreams, a measure
of closure.
* * *
Titan-class
Battleship Dark Sun
Mizar
System
1538 Hours
Velius sat cross-legged on the floor, deep in meditation.
Calvernic kept glancing at him in
uncertainty. He couldn’t tell through the Power what the man was doing, but
whatever it was, he was oblivious to everything else going on. Kronos and
Asellus, in contrast, stood facing the battle that was raging outside, portrayed
by the holographics surrounding the entire command chamber. Their faces were
masks of concentration. Calvernic knew exactly what they were doing: fighting
Nimrod and Zalaria and the ancient Power artifact they had onboard the Grand Crusader.
Amazing, how powerful
that artifact made them. Normally the sibling Shok’Thola would never have been powerful enough to stop the
combined strength of Kronos and Asellus, let alone Velius, as well. Yet somehow
they were able to erect an impenetrable force field around their command ship,
strong enough that nothing Asellus’ uneasy alliance had tried had been able to
break through.
Calvernic, aloof from the other three,
instead focused on rallying his forces to assault the enemy ships outside of
that containment bubble. He knew better than to embroil himself in a fight
against Zalaria or Nimrod. He was far too inexperienced, yet. It maddened him
that there were still so many secrets he hadn’t been made privy too. But
Zalaria’s tutelage had been relatively brief, only a few hundred years. Barely
even a start.
Asellus kept staring out at the battle
with a faraway look. Calvernic could feel the arcane energies emanating from
the two of them. He knew that she hated Zalaria more than anything in the
universe. Whatever had happened between them, millennia ago now, it had created
one of the worst feuds in Shok’Thola
history, exceeded only, perhaps, by the one between Strife and Akargan.
Every once in a while Asellus would hiss
in apparent frustration as another ploy she tried was turned back
ineffectively. Finally she turned and looked at Kronos with a withering stare.
The other man’s face was far more composed and placid, a stark contrast to her
mask of effort.
“Link with me.
Lend me your power,” she told Kronos.
Kronos barked out a laugh of derision. “I
think not.”
Calvernic watched as she glared death at
him, then turned away. The two of them would never
link, he knew, because that would make each vulnerable to any surprises the
other had planned. No Shok’Thola
would ever be exposed like that. Although linking was possible, Calvernic knew
of no instance it had ever been done, except possibly between Zalaria and
Nimrod.
“You,” Asellus hissed.
Calvernic jumped, realizing she was
addressing him. He looked askance up at her.
“Link with me,” she commanded.
A feeling of dread shot through him. He
couldn’t refuse as easily as Kronos had. Still, he was a Shok’Thola. She had
no right to demand that of him. “I have other matters to attend to…” he began.
“Link with me, or die,” she said, voice
dripping venom. “You are useless, otherwise.”
He rose, chafing at her words. Perhaps she
would kill him, but what threat was
that to him? He had more than enough clone bodies secreted away in the home
galaxy, waiting for him. Indignation bloomed within him.
He opened his mouth to retort, and thus
doom himself, but before he could speak a leathery growl emanated from the
direction of Velius.
All three heads turned to look at him.
“Nimrod is not on that ship,” Velius said,
with a drip of finality. His eyes were still closed. “We have been fooled.”
“What?” Asellus blurted, then her eyes narrowed.
Velius’ eyes opened then, revealing their
solid white irises, their vertically slit pupils. It was like looking at the
dead. “It is Zalaria,” he said.
He closed his eyes again, a smile forming
on his lips.
Then Calvernic felt a welling up of the
Power so strong he nearly bolted from the chamber. But that power suddenly shot
outwards, invisible, like a hand grasping out at a something to squeeze it to
death. The sense of pressure was overwhelming.
“I have you now,” Velius whispered.
* * *
The moment the meditation chamber died, Zalaria knew it was all
over.
The room had gone dark, her augmented
powers and sense of the battle vanishing simulataneously.
She knew she had only seconds to react.
Reaching deep into the Power, she wrapped it around herself, focusing on the
first nearby location that came into her mind.
All around her, the chamber walls, each
more than a kilometer distant due to the chamber’s huge diameter, suddenly
buckled and burst forth, contracting down towards the center of the room in an
eyeblink.
An instant before she was crushed to
death, Zalaria teleported from the room. Then the walls met each other and
obliterated the command seat, crushing together with unstoppable force.
Then the chamber exploded.
* * *
Calvernic felt the barrier vanish the instant the Dark Sun’s fire began hitting the front
of the enemy command ship.
Velius opened his eyes with a sigh of
obvious satisfaction. The presence of Nimrod, as clear as day
a mere moment before, vanished as though it had never been. Now
Calvernic could feel only Zalaria on the ship directly facing them.
“She survived the attack,” Velius said
with an grin of pleasure. “I’m… impressed.” He also
sounded more than a bit glad.
“You have crippled them,” Asellus
said, walking over to stare down at him. “Now, destroy them!”
“No,” Velius hissed, still not looking up
at her. “I want to capture them. I want to kill them slowly.” His tone made him
sound like a selfish child. For all Calvernic knew, his plans and desires were
just as simple.
“Agreed,” Kronos added, coming to stand
beside Asellus. “I want Kerensky. I will enjoy exacting revenge for what he did
to me. Let us go onboard. Zalaria cannot stand against us.”
“You are both fools,” Asellus said. But
she obviously knew that the consensus was against her.
“Does that mean you’re not joining us?”
Kronos asked, giving her a baleful stare.
She narrowed her eyes, her holographic
servators fluttering behind her in apparent agitation. “I will come. I will not
miss that woman’s demise.”
“Then it’s settled,” Velius said, rising
to his feet.
Calvernic moved as well, taking several
steps forward. He did not want to be left here alone. But before he could reach
them Asellus shot a hateful look at him. “Not you.
You’re not going anywhere.”
“He goes,” Velius said before Calvernic
could open his mouth. He stepped forward and rested a hand lightly on Asellus’
shoulder. “He goes, or you don’t.”
The woman’s face went pale, but she didn’t
question the order further. “Where do you want to take them?”
“I tire of space,” Velius said turning his
gaze on Calvernic, who felt his blood run cold. Then he smiled, and the feeling
grew infinitely worse. “Let us go down to the surface.”
* * *
Location
Unknown
Time
Unknown
Xar dreamed.
At first, the dreams felt normal. Xar
found himself reliving pivotal moments of his life. He would find himself in
situations that were impossible in real life, such as Zalaria and his parents,
together in the same place. Every time he realized he was dreaming, the dream
would change. Then he would forget he was dreaming again, and the process would
repeat.
Some of the dreams weren’t pleasant. He
dreamed about being Krono’s prisoner, of the time he had hung immobile while
the Warlord had tortured him. Though this time there was no pain, there was
instead a feeling of terror as the Warlord loomed over him, the mere threat of
violence and death enough to break through his fragile inner psyche.
But even those dreams didn’t last long.
Gradually, at least in his dream-altered reality, he felt himself slipping
further, into realms he had rarely glimpsed before. At one point he realized
that someone was doing this to him, that someone was making him go deeper and
deeper into sleep, but that half-memory quickly faded away again.
Xar slipped through the dreamscape into
another place. He was in a hallway, in the Royal Palace. The corridor was lined
with doors, but as he walked to each one, they were locked tight, and he
couldn’t get in.
A moment of lucidity came to him. Were
these memories that were locked away from him? If so, how could he open those
doors and find out what was inside?
The lucidity faded, and once again he was
immersed in the dream. He felt – something – behind him. But when he turned to
look over his shoulder, there was nothing there. The corridor ended in a plain
wall. But in the other direction – the direction he was initially facing, the
doors continued on until they reached a wider set of double doors at the end.
Walking that direction, he continued to
try each of the doors as he walked. No luck; they were all locked tight. After
several minutes of walking, he finally reached the doors at the end. They were
ornately adorned, with large golden rods that ran up and down the edges to act
as handles. The wood was carved with images, and for some reason he had the
impulse to study them. As he looked closer, the images sharpened into focus,
causing him to gasp.
The carvings were of him. They depicted scenes
of his life, which up until just then he’d forgotten about. There were ships
flying through the air, duels fought with blades against a myriad of figures.
And there were creatures, too. Or rather, it was one creature, depicted over
and over again in a variety of postures, always lurking near or below one of
the other events. He recognized it as the mythical, dragon-like animal that was
the subject of Varnusian legend. A Sauron.
Xar was gripped by fear, and an
inexplicable urging not to open the door.
The feeling of being watched was stronger than ever. He risked another glance
behind his shoulder, but saw nothing except empty corridor.
He looked forward again, and pushed on the
door. It opened. Darkness waited beyond, sending a chill up his spine. Without
knowing why, he stepped over the threshold, into the unknown.
For a moment he stood amidst total
blackness. Even beneath his feet there was nothing, just an endless void. Yet
somehow he was standing on a solid surface.
Xar wasn’t sure where he was. In fact, he
didn’t know how he had gotten here in the first place. And now that he thought
of it, he couldn’t seem to recall anything except being here in this room, for
what felt like a very, very long time.
It could have been years, he was here. It
could have been seconds. He had no way of knowing. He thought he had gotten
here… somehow. He knew he hadn’t been born here. Yet however it was he’d
arrived, or whatever he’d been doing before this, it had slipped from his
memory like oil on water.
Suddenly he realized he wasn’t alone. He
could feel someone else in the room. He cast about, gripped by fear, looking
frantically for the source of that feeling.
Then suddenly, standing just opposite him,
he saw two figures. Though there was no visible source of light, they stood out
from the blackness just as well as Xar’s own hands and feet did.
One man stood enveloped in a massive black
cloak, with only his face visible. He had dark eyes above a face framed with a
close-cropped white beard. Another man stood beside him, lithe and muscular,
dressed in a kind of form-fitting armor. His long, dark hair tied was behind
his head, and his scarred face was twisted into a grin.
“Who are you?” Xar asked, feeling his
pulse beginning to race. The fact that they were human – and not monsters –
didn’t do much to dispel his fear. There was something about these two,
something almost… familiar.
“You don’t know who we are?” asked the
older man. His voice sounded fatherly at first, but the words were punctuated
just a little too finely.
“What are you doing here?” Xar demanded,
the words flowing out from him without thought. “Stay back!”
“Are you afraid?” asked the other man, the
smirking one. His voice was deep and gravelly.
“I know you,” Xar admitted, feeling
intense sense of déjà vu. “Both of you. I’ve seen you
before.”
“Of course you have,” said the long-haired
one. “In fact, we’ve never been more than this far away from you.” He lifted a
hand, thumb and forefinger a hairsbreadth apart. “All this time we’ve watched
you up there, patiently waiting for you to come down and join us again.”
“You’ve seen us down here before, though,”
added the cloaked man. “Haven’t you?”
Starkly, Xar realized this was true. In
his dreams, he’d seen these men many times. Sometimes he even saw them while he
was awake. “What do you want from me?” he asked.
“What do you think we want?!” barked the
long-haired man suddenly. His eyes gleamed with hatred. “We want your life, kriffer!
We want everything! Everything you took from us!”
Xar gasped as the truth finally struck
home. He knew them; he knew them as well as he knew himself. In fact, they were
part of him, and had been for a long time, he realized. Because
he had killed these men. He had killed them and then had taken them into
himself.
“Good news,” said Runis, Xar’s original
master in the ways of the Dark Side of the Force. His bearded face broke into a
grin that Xar knew all too well, revealing a row of gleaming white teeth. “We
have decided to join forces against you. That will allow us to dispose of you
quickly.”
“After you’re gone,” added Dasok Krun,
“we’ll fight each other for control of your mind. When you wake up, there will
only be one of us left… and you will
be gone forever.”
“No,” Xar whispered involuntarily. This
couldn’t be real… These men were dead! He must still be dreaming, but it felt
so real!
“Oh yes,” Runis chimed in. “You see, my apprentice…” He stepped forward,
spreading his arms wide. “You were a failure as a student, and you are a
failure as a man. I should have known better than to place my hopes in you. I
never should have trusted you with my knowledge. You squandered it!”
“You knew only death and destruction! You
were killing me!” Xar retorted, his voice cracking. Fear had evolved into pure
terror, now. He was afraid of these men – he was afraid he was going to die.
“Because you were too weak!” Runis spat. “You could
have been great, but you threw it away like a fool. Now it is time to cut the
dying flesh out and start over. It is your mind that is weak, but your body
will readily serve my purposes.”
“Stay back!” Xar warned them, starting to
find his voice again.
“It’s two against one, Kerensky,” Krun added.
“You don’t have a chance. We’re going to kill you, but we’re going to savor
it.”
Xar glanced back and forth from one to the
other. It was surreal, seeing them both here, alive again, right in front of
him. He now remembered seeing them many times in his dreams, but this time felt
different. It felt real.
But surely it wasn’t real. Years had
passed since Xar had killed these men. Memories floated just out of reach, but
gave him the sense that he should be, in fact, much stronger than the two of
them, even put together. That gave him some amount of confidence back.
“It’s been a long time since I faced you,”
he said to them, watching their faces carefully. “I am much stronger now. You
cannot defeat me. I want you out of my head, out of my life. Go now or I’ll be
forced to destroy you.”
Dasok Krun let out a laugh of contempt,
while Runis shook his head, grimacing. “You don’t understand,” he said. “Think,
boy! You’ve been sharing our power this whole time. But here we are equal.
Here, we have our own power, and you are nothing more than the wretched princeling
you would have been without us.” He pointed straight at Xar. “Here, you are
just a frightened little boy from Varnus, the boy that you would have been
without my hand to guide you.”
Understanding hit Xar, then. Now he knew.
All this time, ever since he’d killed Runis and accidentally absorbed part of
him, that influence had been there. All this time Xar hadn’t been living his
own life. Runis had always been there, subtlety affecting him. And so had Krun.
“Ah, so now you see it,” Runis said,
grinning widely again. “You are not as infallible as you thought you were, are
you?”
Runis was right: Now that he thought about
it, Xar felt different, here. Something was missing. He felt weaker. His sense
of self-confidence, always so assured, was gone now. He suddenly felt very,
very vulnerable.
He was scared.
Runis and Dasok Krun laughed for a while,
relishing the moment.
Then, without warning, they both rushed at
him, blades of light snapping to life as they came in.
* * *
Titan-class
Battleship Grand Crusader
Mizar
System
1600
Hours
The bridge of the Grand Crusader shook in a way that Gaius
had never imagined could actually happen, not on a ship of this size.
He lurched forward, gripping a handrail
for support as he looked the three stories down to the floor of the bridge’s
lower level. An intense vibration ran throughout the ship for several seconds,
as though an ongoing detonation were occurring somewhere. Sparks were flying
from control panels all over the bridge itself.
Gradually, the shaking lessened, then stopped altogether.
Amason was at his side in a second. “That
didn’t feel like an impact,” the man said.
Gaius looked at him and nodded. “Our
shields are still up. Nothing got through. Damage report!” he shouted over the
din of voices that had broken out.
“Sir! The
explosion was internal!” reported one of his officers. “It came from the
meditation chamber where the lady Warlord was! Sir, the chamber… It’s gone!”
“Gone?” Gaius breathed, looked up at a
schematic status display of the Titan. “What could…”
“We must retreat immediately.”
Gaius started at the voice, then turned to see Zalaria standing behind him. He had not
heard the bridge doors slide open; she had simply appeared inside.
That should have been impossible. But he
was beginning to expect the impossible from her.
“What happened down there?” Amason asked.
“The chamber is destroyed. Our advantage
is lost,” she said in a flat tone that implied that any further conversation
was a waste of her time. “We must run now before it is too late.”
“We have already committed to the battle,”
Gaius told her. “I have thousands of fighters out there. We can’t just turn
around!”
She glared at him, and Gaius wondered if
she was going to turn violently upon him. But he realized she wasn’t looking
directly at him, but through him. Her focus was elsewhere.
“Perhaps you are right,” she said finally.
“It is already too late.”
“Admiral!” someone shouted from the comm
station halfway across the bridge. “Something’s wrong! We’ve lost contact with
the rest of the fleet!”
Gaius turned to look in that direction.
“Comms are down?”
“Yes sir! I don’t know what happened!”
Seconds later someone
from tactical chimed in. “Admiral! Something strange in the engagement
zone! Many of our Altarin’Dakor fighters are breaking off! They’re heading back
this way!”
“They’ve disengaged?” Amason spoke up.
“I’m also getting reports of firefights
breaking out throughout the ship,” the officer adjacent to the first called
out.
Gaius took a deep breath, the reality of
the situation sinking in. “So, they waited until the tide turned to make their
move.”
“What do you mean?” Zalaria asked, turning
to look at him.
“Mutiny,” Gaius told her. “Nimrod’s forces that we captured. They’re casting their lot
in with Asellus’ group.”
“Impossible!” she hissed. “That is
unprecedented. No army has ever turned against their Shok’Thola!”
“Maybe,” he said, giving her a level
stare. “But this wasn’t your army.”
“Then they will learn what happens when
you betray a Shok’Thola,” she said
coldly. “I will…”
Suddenly she broke off, giving a single,
sharp gasp, her eyes going wide. “No…” she whispered.
They all turned as a terrible wrenching
sound came from the rear of the bridge. Gaius looked around to see dozens of
glowing cracks appear in the massive armored doors. The cracks widened, turning
bright white, while the spaces between glowed a hot red. Then abruptly a hole
appeared in the center and spread rapidly out like an iris, and the doorway
that had stood there seconds ago had simply melted away.
Striding through the opening was a being
that sent shivers down Gaius’ spine.
“Velius,” Zalaria breathed, and Gaius could hear terror in her voice.
On his heels were more figures Gaius
recognized. Asellus, still wearing a crown and golden armor,
her holographic wings stretching out into the corridor behind her. Next
to her was a man Gaius recognized from reports as Kronos, the Warlord who had
initially attacked Varnus and captured Xar. Behind those two was one other man
Gaius didn’t recognize, wearing a set of custom-fitting armor, but somehow
nowhere near as impressive as the other three. They had no guards, nor anyone
else accompanying them.
Velius took the lead, striding into the
bridge as confidently as though it had always been his. He took everyone in
with a slow, deliberate gaze.
“Don’t worry, we’re not going to kill you…
yet,” Velius said, speaking Basic with a smile. “We’ve decided to take you all
prisoner. So we can have some… fun… later.”
Some fool in the navigation area moved
then, raising a blaster at the Warlord. Gaius started to yell out that he stop,
but it was too late. The man fired, but the bolt of energy dissipated two
meters away from the Warlord’s body.
Velius glanced at the man, and the
officer’s skin literally ripped itself off of his body, every inch of it flying
upwards where it was plastered against the ceiling. The man, now covered in
streaming rivulets of blood, released a horrifying scream and collapsed onto
the floor, where he began convulsing uncontrollably. Several other bridge officers
near the dying man began retching loudly as blood spread across the floor in a
circular wave.
Gaius wanted to act. He knew that he
should think of something; these were his people, his responsibility. But there
was absolutely nothing he could do. By example, Zalaria stood completely still
beside him. He could feel nothing from her in the Force, as though she’d
relinquished it completely.
The Warlord Gaius recognized as Kronos
stepped forward, looking impatient. He addressed Zalaria. “Where is Kerensky?”
Zalaria looked at him, and for the first
time Gaius thought he saw a hint of defiance in her eyes. “He isn’t here,
Kronos. He’s far away, somewhere you cannot possibly reach.”
The other Warlord’s eyes glared. “Spare me
the dramatic banter. You will take me to him. If you don’t, I will skin you
alive, not nearly so fast as this one was.” He
indicated the corpse now cooling on the deck nearby. “I will kill you more
slowly than you’ve ever before experienced. But before that, I’ll make you kill
him, when I find him.”
She shook her head, still showing a mark
of defiance. “You don’t understand, Thule. He is gone, and he may never return. I couldn’t reach him even if I
tried.”
“Don’t call me that!” Kronos shouted.
Velius raised a hand, cutting him off.
Surprisingly, Kronos listened. “We will find him in time, my friend,” the
nightmarish man said, throwing patience into his voice.
Taking a deep breath, Gaius pushed the
despair and panic that were palpable on the bridge out of his mind, and he
forced himself to address the Warlords standing in front of them. He knew that
it was his duty to speak, here. It was his job to try and save everyone that he
could. Even if it meant forfeiting his own life.
“I am Sector Admiral Gaius Adonai, War
Coordinator and commander of the New Imperium Star Fleet,” he said, managing to
keep his voice from cracking as the formal words came out. “I assume you’ll be wanting to discuss our terms of surrender.”
Velius blinked slowly, then
brought that reptilian-looking gaze to bear on him. Gaius felt physically
assaulted by an overwhelming sense of hopelessness. His knees wanted to buckle.
He was consumed with a nearly uncontrollable urge to weep. It was all he could
bear to even remain standing.
“We don’t want you to surrender,” Velius
said in his scratched-steel voice, as if it were the most obvious thing in the
world. “Your fleet will be destroyed. Every last one of your soldiers will die.
But you,” he took in Gaius, Zalaria and Amazon with the slightest nod of his
head. “You and your friends are coming with us. As I said, we’re going to have
a little fun.”
* * *
Mizar
System
1620
Hours
Grand Master Alyx Misnera watched
the starlines retract into starscape as the Marauder-class corvette Annihilator, his personal ship, dropped
out of hyperspace in the Mizar System.
They had taken a calculated risk, popping our at one of the third planet’s so-called “pirate points”,
so named because pirates and smugglers often used them to avoid local
authorities. There was always the chance they could run into something, or even
that the planet’s gravity well might rip them apart if they miscalculated. But
space was wide, and there was usually a little room for error.
Not this time, though.
The ship buckled as things began impacting
against the shields, accompanied by pops and flashes of light. A collective
gasp went up around the room. The planet Arcadia loomed beneath them, right
where it should have been. But what they hadn’t expected was the wall of ships
that filled the viewport in all directions.
The battle was already underway.
He immediately recognized the NI Starfleet
directly ahead. The Grand Crusader,
Cataclysm, Ascendancy and Nimbus
were all there. So were the Darkstar,
Vindicator, and a host of other NI command and support ships. But he also
saw – once he took a moment to count them all – a full eight Altarin’Dakor Titan-class battleships. And they were pouring
heavy fire into the NI ships.
“We’re too late,” Jinx said from his
position beside him. “This is a lot worse than we feared. The trap’s already
sprung. The fleet’s in trouble.”
Alyx quickly took stock of the situation
as the Annihilator continued to close
the distance with the battling fleets. The NI ships floated in a cloud of
debris and gasses. Ships and chunks of ships made streaks of light as they fell
back into the planet’s atmosphere below. Hits from the Altarin’Dakor ships were
penetrating the weakened shields of the NI Titans, leaving glowing furrows of
destruction in their wake.
In the center of the NI formation, the Grand Crusader still sat. That was where
Gaius would be. Perhaps they could still be of some use, here.
“Take us to the Grand Crusader,” Alyx ordered. “Bring us in close and open a
channel.”
“On it,” Jinx said.
He watched their angle of trajectory shift
slightly as they aimed the ship up and over the Cataclysm, bringing her on an intercept vector with the NI command
ship.
“Are our Avatars ready to launch?” he
asked, turning back to Kiz.
“Prepped and ready,” the man replied.
“Get them out there to support us. Tell
them to watch for enemy fighters that might see us as easy pickings.”
It only took seconds before the order was
carried out. Their pilots must have truly been ready to launch as soon as
they’d arrived.
“Fighters away,” Thrakus announced.
Alyx watched as the icons of the six TIE
Avatars left the Annihilator’s
hangar. Vykk, Draken, Macreed, Neres, Nadia Ispen and Malik Raven were in those
fighters. Alyx had determined that those six were the best pilots they had,
among those who weren’t actually on the Council itself.
The other twenty Jedi, along with the rest
of the crew, were at maximum readiness, already at their battle stations. Bren,
Mathis, and the rest were all manning turbolaser emplacements, giving them not
only a view of the battle but teeth to fight with, as well.
On the bridge, Alyx sat in the captain’s
chair, while Jinx oversaw navigation, Thrakus sat at weapons, and Atridd Xoan
watched over comms. A Marauder-class corvette’s bridge was relatively small,
which enabled each of them to do enough multitasking to keep the ship going on
a skeleton crew.
“I’m not getting a response from the Crusader,” Atridd Xoan spoke up
suddenly.
Alyx glanced back and saw a concerned
expression on the man’s face. “What’s the matter with them?”
“I have no idea.” Xoan pushed the button
again and again, in obvious frustration. “They can hear us, but they’re not
responding at all. It’s like they’re ignoring us.”
Alyx frowned. The Titan-class battleship
was growing enormously large, now. Soon its fifty-kilometer bulk filled
virtually the entire viewport.
“But why would they do that…”
Suddenly a blast of light erupted from the
side of the Grand Crusader, and the deck dropped out from beneath Alyx’s feet.
He lurched forward out of his chair,
hitting the console in front of him, hard. The lights momentarily went out
before being replaced by emergency lighting. Display screens sent out showers
sparks and consoles erupted into flame all around the bridge.
“We’re hit!” someone shouted. Alyx felt
weightlessness for a brief second as the ship’s artificial gravity temporarily
failed, then kicked back in, and he fell to the floor before he could catch
himself. He forced himself up, staring ahead at a starfield that was spinning
slowly in front of his eyes. Warning klaxons began sounding all throughout the
bridge.
“Damage report!” he shouted.
“Critical damage to all
systems!” Jinx said. “Direct hit from a fusion beam, I think. Look!”
Alyx looked to where Jinx was pointing,
and saw a schematic of the Annihilator.
Large parts of the ship were glowing red, but the starboard wing had gone
black. That meant that it was completely gone, sheared away by a single blast
from the Grand Crusader’s batteries.
“They fired on us!” Thrakus yelled.
“Couldn’t they see that we’re friendly?”
“Maybe they just reacted,” Jinx said,
coughing through the cloud of smoke rising above his station. “We came out of
lightspeed so close.”
“Then tell them we’re on their side!” Thrakus said.
Suddenly a growing feeling of dread made
its way into the pit of Alyx’s stomach. A premonition,
through the Force. They were in serious danger. They had to get out, right now!
Desperately he hit the shipwide comm. “All
hands, abandon ship immediately! Drop everything and get out NOW!”
The rest of his bridge had picked themselves up off of the floor by now. “Alyx, are you…” Jinx
began.
Alyx chopped a hand through the air,
cutting him off. “Come on! Get to the
escape pod now, before they fire again!”
Suiting action to words, he ran to the
side of the room that held the bridge escape pod’s hatch, punched out the
protective glass with his fist, and threw the lever. The door opened
immediately, and he threw himself inside, abandoning all pretense of
professionality as he collapsed inside. He turned and saw that the other men
had taken him seriously, because a second later their bodies slammed into him
one by one, pressing him him up against the
restraining couch.
It was a tight fit, but they were all
inside. Alyx slammed a hand on the “Eject” button, and the door closed with
terrifying rapidity. Then an instant later crash
webbing shot out all around them, holding them in place, and the crushing force
of high-g acceleration took his breath away.
The escape pod had one viewport, angled
back the way they’d come. He saw his corvette spinning outside the window, saw
more escape pods bursting their way out all over the ship.
Then a beam of blue-white energy flashed
into existence, this time working its way straight through the center of the
Marauder-class corvette. Before it could finish slicing the ship in half, a
chain reaction began in the engine section that lit up the entire ship and blew
it apart in a massive conflageration.
Alyx had barely time for thought before
the shockwave hit the escape pod, sending them reeling even more strongly than
their initial launch had. The pod spun so violently that he couldn’ move a
muscle. Stars whirled outside the viewport, and occasionally the image of the
Titan or of a blast of energy would sweep past. Someone retched loudly, but
Alyx couldn’t see who it was.
Then something else began to flash across
the viewport – the blue-white surface of the planet below them. Alyx knew they
were going in, and going in hard.
“I think we’re on an entry vector!”
Thrakus grunted through the strain.
“Can
we make it?” Atridd’s voice came from somewhere to Alyx’s left. “We must be
coming in steep!”
“These things are built tough,” Thrakus
shot back. “Autopilot should land us safely – I hope!”
“Let’s just hope the others made it out,
too!” Jinx said.
Alyx took a few deep breaths and delved
into the Force. The sense of claustrophobia faded, and he was aware of the
space around them. The pod was still spinning, but was already beginning to
slow as it started encountering the friction of the atmosphere. He couldn’t
sense any danger from potential attackers around, which meant they should land
safely on the surface within a matter of minutes. He could also sense familiar
presences around, but not within the pod itself. That meant at least some of
the other Jedi had made it out of the corvette before it blew.
What would happen after they landed, he
had no idea what to expect. His ship was gone, and he had no idea how many of
the others had survived or how they would continue their mission. For all he
knew, the planet below was full of hostiles, and they could be attacked as soon
as they landed.
If they survived the
landing, of course.
He knew that missions rarely went they way
that you planned them to. But even this, he remarked, was getting a little too
ridiculous.
* * *
Location
Unknown
Time
Unknown
Nico opened his eyes. And screamed.
“No please, don’t!” he yelled. “Please
leave me alone!”
He broke off suddenly. Zalaria was gone.
The pain was gone, as well. What had happened? Was he dead?
He looked around at the unfamiliar room
around him, at the ceiling that soared overhead, lit softly from lights set so
they were just out of view. He was lying down on a bed in the center of the
room. He didn’t remember how he’d gotten here.
In fact, the last thing he remembered was kneeling, collapsed, in front of Zalaria, her mind violently
invading his own. He’d felt helpless, like prey in the clutches of a predator.
Even now the terror of that memory hadn’t fully abated. But where was he now?
Surely only a moment had passed…
“You are in Angol Moa’s laboratory,”
someone answered beside him.
He turned, blinking in surprise as he saw
Icis Novitaar towering over him. He glanced down, seeing that he was lying on
some kind of medical gurney. “I’m where?” he asked, his voice coming out in a
croak.
“It’s a long story,” Icis said. “Welcome
back, old friend. Let me help you up.”
He pressed a button on the side of the
gurney, and the bed tilted Nico up into a sitting position.
“How do you feel?” Icis asked him.
“I feel… fine,” Nico replied, answering
truthfully. “I’m thirsty.”
“Here.” Icis reached over and took hold of
a drinking tube that extended from the gurney’s side, then
angled it towards Nico’s head.
Nico drank greedily, then finally stopped
when he felt satisfied. “I could use some food, too.”
Icis smiled cordially at him. “I already
asked one of the droids to prepare something for you.”
“Droids?” Nico
ran a hand through his hair, then felt his face. He
pulled his hand away in shock. He had a beard! “How… how long was I out?”
“Do you really want to know?”
Nico nodded.
“Over six months.”
“What?!” Nico
exclaimed.
Icis raised a hand to forestall any
further questions. “You were… in bad shape, friend. Zalaria did serious damage
to your mind, damage we couldn’t repair. Xar and I brought you to Angol Moa.”
“Xar!” The man’s
name brought back another flood of memories, and Nico’s head was starting to
ache. “Where is he?”
“He isn’t here at the moment. It’s just
you and me.”
“And where is ‘here’, again? Who is… Angle Moa?”
“Angol Moa,” Icis corrected. “And… As I
said, it’s a long story. You should get some rest. You’re safe here.”
“I really feel fine, Icis,” Nico said. “Physically, at least. Mentally, I’m ready for some answers
to what’s been happening to me. It feels like I just woke up from the longest,
strangest dream ever. Or maybe all this
is the dream.” He put a hand on his head again, which had started aching worse
than ever. “It’s like my mind’s been locked up inside a room, and now I have a
key to open the door, but I just don’t know where
the door is. If I could just figure out which…”
Nico stopped speaking. A new memory had
just popped into his head, something that froze him in his tracks in sheer
terror.
“Nico?”
“Black sands of Sacorria, no,” he
whispered. How could this have happened? What in the galaxy had he done? How
had he not known?
“What is it, Nico?” Icis asked, concerned.
Nico reached out and grabbed the man’s arm
in wide-eyed horror. “Icis! We have to do something!”
“What?”
The memories were coming back in a flood,
now. The problem was, they were memories he hadn’t
known he had. Memories
that had been taken from him, by someone. Someone terrible.
The words spilled out from him in a rush.
“Something… Something horrible has
happened, Icis! The Diktat of the New Imperium!”
“The Diktat?”
Icis asked, confused.
“He’s an Altarin’Dakor agent!” Nico
swallowed hard as the full realization of what he’d done set in. “And I… I
helped put him in office!”
* * *
Mizar
System
1630
Hours
With the Grand Crusader’s
batteries gone silent, the tide of battle was quickly turning against the New
Imperium. The remaining NI ships were getting pummeled. The ISD Crusader went up in a chain explosion as
beams tore into her interior from multiple angles. The Titan Nimbus had gaping wounds in her side
opened to the vacuum of space, while the Ascendancy’s
chrome-like armor was losing its sheen as large swaths of it were melted into
slag.
The Majestic-class cruisers, without the
protective bubble that the Grand Crusader
had offered, found themselves directly exposed to enemy fire. Beams reached
across space, slicing two of them in half in rapid succession. The others
weren’t running, though; they continued firing stalwartly, sending their
projectiles slamming into the front of the Dark
Sun and penetrating deeply inside, through layers already exposed due to
repeated assault. Huge explosions ripped out of the front of the ship, sending
more fire and debris into the field of battle.
Another Majestic took a hit directly
amidships, and the entire ship exploded in a miniature nova underneath the bulk
of the Grand Crusader. Meanwhile,
Altarin’Dakor fighters had begun strafing runs on the other ships in the New
Imperium fleet. Although NI fighters had returned to ward them off, it was fast
becoming apparent that there were simply too many Altarin’Dakor forces to
handle. With the defected AD fighters from the New Imperium turning against
their former allies, it was clear that soon as the mopping-up was over, the NI
Starfleet would be no more.
Suddenly, without warning, portals of
light materialized in the space above the NI Titans. From inside those holes, a
writhing kaleidoscope of colors swirled, revealing another universe existing
outside the realm of starships and worlds.
And out of those portals, a fleet exited
Ultraspace practically on top of the battling forces.
Calvernic recognized those ships
immediately, but he still couldn’t believe his eyes.
Seven Titans had emerged from Ultraspace.
Four of those Titans belonged to the Shok’Thola
Strife: Eternity, Oblivion, Abyss,
and Maelstrom. But what was completely unexpected were the three Titans that
belonged to the Shok’Thola Akargan: Exterminator, Warhawk, and his flagship,
Overlord.
Those two would never have traveled here
together. This shouldn’t be happening.
“Impossible,” Asellus whispered, speaking
as the last of the bridge’s former crew were being escorted from the chamber.
They were all in the process of moving to the surface, allowing their admirals
to mop up the remaining NI forces. This, however, had just changed everything.
“Apparently we know why Akargan never
rendezvoused with us,” Kronos observed, standing stoically near one of the
bridge’s massive viewports.
“Strife and Akargan would never join
forces!” Asellus snapped at him. “Not even to catch us all here and kill us!”
“Obviously,” Kronos replied, his voice
flat, “the great rivalry is finally over.”
Asellus gasped, and Calvernic looked at
the man in shock. Could he be serious? Had Akargan and Strife finally fought to
the death? Their feud had gone on for so long, flaring up into large-scale wars
and yet without ever actually confronting each other. But the times were
different, now. The Return was at hand. Apparently it was time for a winner to
be chosen.
But who had won? Calvernic only had to
feel the currents within the Power to know the answer to that question.
“It is Strife,” Kronos stated, about the
time Calvernic reached the same conclusion on his own. That meant that Akargan
was dead; his flagship would not be here, otherwise. Strife had defeated his
rival and taken his fleet and territory as his own.
And
now, he comes to Mizar to eliminate more of us with his reinforced strength,
Calvernic thought.
“His ships are moving into attack
formation,” Asellus said. “He is launching fighters, but against whom?”
Calvernic watched as countless fighters
were disgorged from the seven Titans that Strife had brought into battle. The
formation of the ships tightened, bringing them closer to the battle. Soon they
would be able to engage either side with equal effectiveness.
“It does not matter,” Kronos said. “He
will move against us, or he will attack both sides. Either way, he must be
dealt with.”
“Surely Altima will not condone a
confrontation on this scale!” Asellus declared. “He will intervene personally
for this!”
Kronos sighed, putting on an air of
patient endurance that was obviously meant to antagonize her. “Altima has given
us free reign to invade this galaxy as we see fit. Remember his words? ‘All of your
concerns are beneath my notice.’ The longest sentence I’ve heard him speak in
ages. He has not intervened in our affairs for a very long time. Even by our standards.”
Asellus’ face held a dark look, but she
didn’t speak. Calvernic flicked his eyes from the two of them to massive new
fleet that was now approaching. There were now at least six Shok’Thola involved in this battle, more
than had fought together in millennia. He knew that Strife could easily defeat
him; he had already killed Mordachus, Calvernic’s contemporary, and now
Akargan, one of the mightiest of the men, had fallen, too. He was fairly sure
Asellus was weaker than Strife, but Kronos was a mystery, perhaps close to the
great blademaster in strength. Together, they might all be able to stop him,
but Calvernic had no intention of getting anywhere near Strife, himself.
“One of us must stay behind to oversee the
battle,” Kronos stated finally. “Unfortunately, its outcome is no longer
certain.”
“Suit yourself,”
Asellus said flatly. “I’m not fighting him. I am here to deal with our
prisoners. Then I will return to my worlds to plan my next move.”
“You called this alliance together,”
Kronos warned her. “Do not think to back away now.”
“An alliance
is only valid for as long as interested parties benefit,” Asellus told him.
“With Zalaria out of the way, my objectives have changed. I am sure you are
capable of dealing with Strife,” she said, her voice changing to a cooing sound
as she finished. “However, if you feel uncertain, I can ask Velius to come and
assist you.”
Kronos’ eyes glared at her with sudden
hate. Calvernic thought he might try to kill her then and there, and he
prepared a special fleeing technique he’d been saving for just this sort of occasion.
But Kronos did not strike. “Begone,
woman!” he shouted finally. “And pray I do not see your face again.”
Asellus narrowed her eyes at him. “The
next time you see me, I will have become the next Altima,” she said, her voice
barely above a whisper. Kronos didn’t respond; his eyes stood locked on her.
She turned to Calvernic. “Come with me. We have unfinished business on the
surface.”
With little choice in the matter, and with
no desire whatsoever to stay with Kronos and watch this battle unfold,
Calvernic moved to follow Asellus as she made her way towards the exit.
* * *
Mizar
System
1645
Hours
Maarek Stele exited Ultraspace in
the shadow of the Eternity, his
Archon fighter ready for anything they might encounter. Once again he had
returned to the Mizar System, once again he was arriving to do battle there. In
front of him lay the largest fleet engagement he’d ever seen; the amount of
fighters alone numbered in the tens of thousands.
But the swarm of Archon fighters surrounding
him gave him a complete sense of peace and confidence in the situation.
Furthermore, he had Alona on his wing. That made everything perfect. He felt
that with her by his side, he could fly straight into the mouth of hell itself
and not bat an eye.
With his supersensory view of the space
around him, he quickly took stock of the battle raging above the third planet,
the one known as Arcadia. The NI fleet was doing badly. Outnumbered two to one,
they had begun to take a serious pounding from the approaching Altarin’Dakor
Titans.
If they had gotten here even an hour
later, Maarek guessed that the battle would have been over, and there would
have been nothing left of the NI fleet except debris and wreckage.
Maarek waited for the inevitable order to
engage. His only uncertainty was who they would be ordered to attack. Strife
had not given him any hint at their last meeting, nor
since. Would they attack the stronger Altarin’Dakor force,
eliminating the most serious opponent first? Or would they be ordered to
finish off the damaged NI forces? Maarek didn’t know what he would do if it was
the latter. But he had faith in the Warlord. Over the past few months, he had
found a change in himself that he never would have believed. He had begun to believe
in Strife – that he was who he said he was, and could
do what he said he could do. And, even stranger, Maarek was beginning to trust
him.
Suddenly a voice sounded in his ear.
Maarek started; it was the voice of the Shok’Thola,
himself. He had expected some sort of fleet-wide communiqué, possibly from the
commodore of the Eternity. Instead,
Maarek could hear Strife’s voice coming over a private channel. Of all the
members of his vast fleet, Strife was speaking to Maarek personally. Irregardless of the circumstances he found himself in,
Maarek still felt an involuntary swell of pride inside.
“Seitann
Maarek Stele,” Strife addressed him. “We
have arrived at your greatest test of fortitude, a return to the system where I
first found you. It will be a
glorious day. We have the chance to eliminate many of our opponents today in a
single stroke.”
Maarek forced himself to take a deep
breath before responding. To do so he had to imagine his body inside the Archon – the bond between man and
fighter was normally so strong that Maarek felt he was the fighter. He could feel it moving, feel its “pain” when it
was damaged. Compared with that sense of oneness, returning
to reality and exiting the fighter was extremely difficult, and oftentimes
depressing. He didn’t know what he would do without Alona there by his
side.
Now he pushed those thoughts aside,
focusing on the task at hand, and his master’s commands. “Awaiting your
orders,” he replied professionally.
“Take
the Archon Wing and cut off the ships attacking the New Imperium vessels,”
Strife said.
Maarek tried not to let the relief show in
his voice. It was little use; the Warlord could probably sense it, anyway. “At
once,” he replied.
“Once
those targets are neutralized, launch an attack against the main body of
command ships including Dark Sun, Death Wing and Nightlord, destroying any
targets of opportunity along the way. Also, reduce their amount of enemy
fighter escorts as much as possible, especially those piloted by Jedicon.”
“Understood.”
“Your
own friends may attack you. They will not understand what you have become. Hold
fast.”
“I will,” Maarek promised, knowing that he
must.
“Have
you finally discovered who your true enemy is, Maarek Stele?” Strife asked suddenly.
Maarek was surprised at the question. He
hadn’t thought about the Warlord’s cryptic question in weeks, or even months.
Yet the first time he had posed it to Maarek had been right here in this
system, at their first meeting.
Strangely, Maarek realized that he now had
the answer that Strife sought.
When had it dawned on him? Was it just
now? Or had he thought it through in stages, working it out all this time
without realizing it?
"I now understand what you meant by
‘true enemy’,” he said finally. He looked out at the
warring fleets, at the NI ships and personnel who were valiantly fighting on
the very edge of their own destruction. He now knew his enemy wasn’t any
particular faction or government. Neither was it as simple as concepts such as
‘injustice” or ‘cruelty’ or ‘selfishness’. His true enemy – the thing that they
all fought to stop, the thing that they could not afford to give a single step
of ground to, was far more profound, and deadly.
“My true enemy…” he whispered. “Is Despair, itself.”
* * *
Location
Unknown
Time
Unknown
Xar fell back before the onslaught of the two Dark Jedi.
His lightsaber materialized in his hands,
its yellow-white shaft snapping to life just in time. Runis and Krun struck almost
simultaneously, and Xar threw his blade out defensively first against one, then
the other. Fear gave way to desperation as he fought for his life. Light
flashed off their blades into the darkness beyond.
He retreated before the two men, completely
on the defensive, their three blades a whirlwind of yellow, red and purple
clashing over and over again. Krun came in with aggressive abandon, launching
powerful blows with his deep crimson blade that took all of Xar’s strength to
fend off. By contrast, Runis’ attacks were more conservative and precise,
requiring deft skill for Xar to parry, his dark violet blade snaking this way
and that.
With his vast and varied experience and
skills, Xar knew he should have the advantage in a duel, but even in good times
he wouldn’t have liked to face both of them alone. Making things worse, to his
dismay, he found his arms wouldn’t move quite as fast as he was used to. The
coordination of his limbs was just slightly off, and he didn’t seem able to see
as many moves ahead as he normally could. More than just his Force strength had
been taken away.
It took every ounce of skill and luck to
keep from getting killed. And yet he knew it was only a matter of time. He
blocked one strike from Krun, then another from Runis. The two men were
coordinating as though they had practiced this, and Xar felt sorely
underprepared. Krun tried to goad him towards Runis, leaving Xar’s back exposed
to the dark master. Xar sidestepped, always trying to avoid getting flanked. Runis,
when faced against Xar alone, fought more defensively, biding time for Krun to
come in and tip the scales in their favor. Runis’ cloak billowed out behind him
as he came in, swinging again and again.
Xar parried his attacks and slid to the
side, only to find himself defending against Krun
again. The wild-haired man struck overhead hard, and Xar barely got his blade
up in time to keep Krun’s from slicing into his head. He retreated again,
Krun’s blade flashing in again and again, Xar’s parries sending flashes of
light out into the darkness. Their faces were bathed only in the light of their
blades, yellow, red and violet light reflecting off their features.
Xar had to break off again to block Runis,
who was trying to flank him. He struck at his former master in a complicated
series of strikes, and for a second they seemed equally matched, before Runis
took a step back, unable to follow Xar’s more advanced technique. Yet Xar had
no time to press the advantage. Krun was there again in a second, dancing on
air with his speed, his crimson blade a blur.
Krun swung horizontally, the powerful blow
catching Xar’s and trapping it to the side for an instant. At the same time,
his foot snapped out and caught Xar at the knee, the booted foot sending pain
shooting through Xar’s right leg. That leg buckled, and he sank to one knee.
Instinctively he ducked and rolled forward, barely missing the return stroke
that Krun had intended to decapitate him.
Feeling Runis moving around to the other
side and knowing they were about to box him in, Xar did the only thing he knew
to do. He pushed himself up, turned to the side, and ran as fast as he could.
He didn’t know if he could outrun them; he
did his best, with what Force abilities he still had in this place, to increase
his speed. But running would only buy him a few seconds, he knew, and would
ultimately drain him of vital energy.
Xar ran forward into endless blackness. He
didn’t know how long; it might have been only seconds. But just when he
despaired that the darkness went on forever, it suddenly parted before him,
splitting like a sheet of paper. In an instant, he was beyond it, and somewhere
else entirely.
The scene had changed. They were in the
Royal Palace on Varnus.
Xar stood in the grand atrium of the Royal
Palace, the entranceway that virtually all visitors had to transverse before
heading deeper inside. Beneath his feet, the seal of the royal family spread
out across the floor, a sunburst with the family crest beneath. A balcony surrounded
the massive chamber, and exits on both floors lined the walls, leading to the
various hallways of the palace.
The place was totally deserted.
He turned, and saw that his quarries had
followed him through. Runis and Krun cast wary-looking glances at each other.
They seemed as uncertain of why they were here as Xar was. They both stood in
front of the closed main entrance doors. A flashback to a similar scene, of
waiting for Nimrod to burst through those doors, flashed in Xar’s memory.
How
did he get here? Was he trying to tell himself something? He thought about
running for his personal quarters, but surely Runis and Krun knew them as well
as he did. None of his tricks or booby traps would be able to work against two
men who’d been inside of his head for years, now.
How much of this dream could he control?
Was he merely a spectator? After all, this was his body, wasn’t it? He tried imagining them somewhere else, but
nothing happened. He then tried imagining other weapons, and failing that, even
death to fall upon the two men attacking him out of his past. But it was all to
no avail. He didn’t even know if he could control it at all.
The two dark Jedi were beginning to circle
him now, each moving in opposite directions. Xar stood in the center of the
seal on the floor, turning slowly, keeping both men in sight.
“Why
not give in?” Runis sneered, moving with the grace of a viper. “Make this
easier for us all. You’ve had a decent span of life, now it is time to move on.
Nothing you do will make a difference. You were supposed to die on Varnus, Xar!
Let go and join your fallen comrades in the sleep of death that you were meant
for.”
“You should
have died there,” Krun echoed. “Your life is meaningless, now.”
The words struck Xar like a knife. They
were the exact words he had heard in his mind ever since nearly dying at
Nimrod’s hand, instead being saved by someone who shouldn’t have even been
there. All those insecurities crept up to a head once more within him now. These
men knew everything that had gone through his mind since that day, and they
were ready to use it against him.
“My life is not meaningless,” he tried to
counter, his voice sounding hollow in his ears, unconvincing. “I can still do good. I can still stop murderers like you.”
“What difference does it make?” Krun
jeered back. “You’re just one man. Do you think you can stop all of it by
yourself?”
“You’ve seen so much death and destruction
already,” Runis added, grinning. “Or actually, we have.” He threw his head back and laughed.
Suddenly the two men rushed at him again.
Xar spun, lurching his way out of the
trap, moving closer to engage Runis first. He clashed blades with his former
master, throwing all his strength into the attack. Runis parried, but Xar
continued his move, bringing his blade back around to strike beneath his
opponent’s grip. His blade sliced through part of Runis’ dark cloak, but failed
to connect with his body.
As Runis stepped back, Krun jumped into
the gap, throwing a series of powerful attacks that took all of Xar’s strength
and speed to counter. Still, he fell back, leading Krun on a slow circle around
the Royal Family’s sigil.
A flash of danger sense alerted Xar to
Runis’ flanking maneuver, and he switched course, blocking Krun’s attack right
and throwing himself to the left. Suddenly he was facing both men again, and
they came forward together in a renewed assault.
Xar fought, letting instinct guide his
actions, feeling his body grow weaker with every block and deflection off his
blade. His stamina seemed to be fading far too fast. He began to slow, to make
clumsy parries and blocks.
He took a light slash to the left thigh
that sent fire burning in his leg. Then a light touch to his ribs, maybe a
centimeter deep, and a gouged left shoulder right after that. A moment later he
blocked a stab from Runis just an instant too late, and the man’s blade left a
seared cut beneath his right eye.
Xar stumbled back, his wounds aching him, stealing away his strength. They were wearing him
down. The stench of his own burned flesh filled his nostrils, making him want
to gag.
Runis and Krun both held victorious and
mocking smiles. Now they were feline predators playing with their prey before
the kill. Xar had backed up nearly to the far wall.
“Would you like to know a secret?” Krun
asked with a sneer on his face.
Xar didn’t respond. His eyes darted from
one man to the other. Two faces out of his nightmares, that
had haunted him from the moment he’d met either of them.
“Your uncle is still alive,” Krun
whispered.
Xar’s
eyes went wide, the words shocking him senseless. It was impossible. “No! You
killed him. I saw the recording.”
“You saw the flash of his blade against
mine,” Krun said. “I nearly killed him before he had time to reveal himself as
an Altarin’Dakor agent.”
“Liar!” Xar
shouted at the accusation. “Don’t you dare talk about him like that!”
“Think, Kerensky!” Runis spat at him. “How
do you think Akira was able to coordinate such an attack on your family so
precisely? How do you think he knew exactly how your father would react and
where he would be? Did it never occur to you that there must have been someone
on the inside amongst your own people? It was Aron Kerensky all along!”
Xar just shook his head, stupified. He
knew that they was lying. They had to be! It was just
a ploy to through him off guard!
“He was a good servant of the
Altarin’Dakor,” Krun said with a sneer.
The scream emanating through the air was
his, Xar realized. By then he had already launched himself from the wall at
Krun.
He struck at the dark Jedi with all his
might, screaming and grunting with the effort. Krun fell back and blocked, but
the smile was still on his face. Xar’s attacks were clumsy, born of anger and
hatred. Runis had moved out of the way and was laughing. “Good!” he shouted.
“Embrace your true nature, Kerensky!”
Xar let up, realizing what they’d made him
do. It was a fatal mistake.
Krun’s counterattack came in force, then.
He batted Xar’s blade to the side, again and again, and finally, with a blow of
force, knocked Xar’s to the side and then snapped a foot out, catching Xar
straight in the chest.
Xar flew backward and slammed into the
wall, sending a crack through the air and a jolt of pain through his body.
Something broke in his shoulder, and he felt himself collapse to the floor,
agony washing over him.
Just then, an earthquake hit the palace. The ground trembled, hard enough that vases with decorative plants
and trees fell over or toppled from the balconies above, shattering to the
floor. Streams of dust and bits of rubble rained down from the ceiling
above.
Krun was standing over him, laughing
triumphantly. But Runis had a concerned expression on his face. The ground
continued to tremor, a sound like a mountain collapsing filling the massive
domed chamber they were in.
Krun raised his blade overhead, and Xar
forced himself to his feet, pain shooting through his body. His own blade felt
like a lead weight in his hands. He was weary, and knew he couldn’t physically
fight much longer. It was nearly the end.
“Wait,” Runis called out towards Krun.
“Something’s not right. This isn’t happening how we expected.”
Xar looked at where the man’s gaze was,
and saw up through the arched skylights above. The sky overhead had gone dark,
filled with rolling clouds and lightning. A moment before it had been calm as a
midwinter’s day.
Something was happening to Xar. It was as if
getting weaker was breaking down the dream, and everything in it, including
them, was being affected.
“What difference does it make?” Krun
snarled, not looking back at the other man. “We have to do this. Either he
dies, or us.”
Seeing the uncertainly in Runis heartened
Xar’s sense of hope, but then Krun’s eyes filled with even more determination,
and that hope faded away once more.
Xar had no choice. He turned and ran toward
one of the corridors as fast as he could.
He could feel them following right on his
heels. Enhancing his speed with what little of the Force he could still muster,
Xar turned this way and that down the corridors, leading them deeper inside the
palace. He let instinct guide him, focusing only on running, only on staying
ahead of them, and staying alive for a moment longer.
He finally turned a corner and saw the
massive doors of the royal treasury lying ahead of them. The doors were closed,
the room sealed. There was no other way out; this was a dead end if he couldn’t
get through them.
Xar could feel Krun right behind him. As
he got close to the doors, he turned and slid to a halt. The dark Jedi was
right behind him.
Krun’s blade slashed in, and Xar blocked,
the force throwing him even further backwards. Runis caught up and appeared
just beside the man.
“This ends now, Kerensky!” Krun shouted, his blade bearing in once more. Xar blocked again
and again, his muscles crying out in protest, and he could feel the last of his
strength ebbing away. His wounds burned with agonizing fire. Krun’s crimson
blade struck his again and again, each blow coming closer to finding its mark.
Finally a massive swing swept Xar’s blade
to the side, and Xar felt the tip of the man’s blade burn a line across his
chest as it passed. He screamed and fell back, nearly dropping his blade.
“Die!” Krun yelled, making a return swing.
Xar barely got his blade up, but the man’s powerful blow batted his own aside.
Krun stepped in and let go with one hand, throwing a backhand across Xar’s
face. He reeled back, slamming into the doors.
The corridor lurched as another earthquake
hit it. Glowlamps burst outwards in an array of sparks. Something gave way
behind him, and he looked back to see the door collapsing into blocks of
rubble.
Xar barely held onto his blade with one
hand. He looked down at the cauterized wound spreading a diagonal scar across
his chest. The flesh beneath his shirt was blackened, and this time, instead of
hot, it was a cold fire burning through his body.
Krun seemed oblivious to the collapse that
was taking place over their heads. Runis called out to him, but the man was
enraged. He leveled his blade at Xar, ready to deal the death blow.
As Xar’s pain continued to rise into a
crescendo, the floor suddenly began to collapse beneath them, its large stone
blocks dropping away from the center of the hallway between the men and
spreading outward. Xar glanced down below, seeing at first only darkness. Then
he made out what looked like a curved shaft below, another corridor deep below
the basement they were in. He remembered the catacombs beneath the Royal
Palace. That had to be what was down there.
Krun moved forward tentatively, and Runis
stepped up behind him, cutting off the only exit. Xar glanced around, knowing
he was trapped. He could try to cut a hole in the wall, but then he’d have to
turn his back on his opponents. On the other hand, he knew very little about
what was in the catacombs beneath them, and he knew that neither of the other
men would, either.
Faced with a desperate choice, Xar made
the only one that seemed to make sense.
He dove into the opening in the floor, and
the darkness rushed up to envelop him.
* * *
Mizar
System
1701
Hours
Salle wove her fighter through the melee of ships and blasts of
energy filling space all around her.
“This
is starting to look real bad, Lead,” Gren Pabos
said from his position off her port wing.
“I know,” was all she knew to say back.
The number of enemy fighters around them was overwhelming, now. At first, the
NI forces had seemed to hold the enemy at bay. But then, suddenly and without
warning, many of the AD fighters belonging to the NI’s Titans had disengaged
from the battle. It had all happened about the same time the Grand Crusader’s force field dropped and
the Titan’s weapons had gone silent. Command and Control, generally under the
watchful eye of Fleet Admiral Jann Percy, was no longer responding to any hails.
Something very bad had happened.
Analysis from the Darkstar indicated that most of the defecting AD fighters had
belonged to the Grand Crusader. It
really left only one possibility: there had been a mutiny onboard the NI
command ship. There had been no word from War Coordinator Gaius Adonai or his
staff, or from the Warlord Zalaria, for that matter. Either they had been
captured, or they were fighting for their lives over there, or they were
already dead.
None of those options bode well for the
surviving NI forces. In the War Coordinator’s absence, Fleet Admiral Tam
Eulicid had assumed command as acting fleet commander, based on the Titan Ascendancy. But that ship was taking a
renewed pounding from the enemy Titan-class battleships. They couldn’t hold out
for too long.
Inferno was in deplorable shape, as well.
They’d lost Infernos Three and Twelve trying to defend the NI ships against
wave after wave of enemy fighters. Their losses were a cold knot buried inside
her chest. The rest of the squadron was low on fuel, shields, and expendable
munitions. Salle only had two missiles left, and she guessed most of the
squadron was in the same situation or worse. That left them with primarily beam
weapons to engage with.
Though their upgraded Avatars were a match
for any comparable AD fighter – with their chizon-class beams and their
Altarin’Dakor power plants giving them enhanced thrust and shields – they were
still sorely outnumbered, and the Avatars just couldn’t make up all the
difference. In addition, some of the heavier AD fighters still had them
outgunned and outshielded.
One of those was the dreaded Punisher-class heavy fighter that had
comprised the last few waves. And now, Salle’s screens showed yet another
squadron of Punishers fast closing with their position.
“On me, Inferno,” she ordered on the
squadron frequency. “We can’t let them break through to our cap ships. Conserve
missiles if you can; engage with beam weapons only, if you can. Let’s do it.”
They looped back around, passing the
twisted, glowing debris that were all that was left of the ISDs Dragoon II and Majesty. The two ships had been systematically taken apart by the
combined beam weapons of Nightlord
and Death Wing.
Meanwhile the Cataclysm, rising like a mountain behind them, was taking heavy
fire along her port side from Violator,
Tormentor and Defiler. The
Warlord Velius’ ships still hung aloof from the other enemy Titans, but they
poured fire mercilessly into the now shieldless Cataclysm. The latter ship’s port side was now heavily damaged,
leaking vast swaths of fire and atmosphere as beam weapons continued to cut
deep inside her amidships.
All of the Majestic-class cruisers were gone. The Darkstar had lost her shields and was still taking hits. The NI’s
standard Imperial and Alliance design fighters were becoming scarce as the
vastly superior AD craft systematically kept shooting them out of the sky.
But she couldn’t focus on all that right
now. They had to protect what ships were left while they made an organized
withdrawl from this battle. They had lost again, only this time it was more
than that. This would be the worst defeat they had suffered yet. And after
this, with most of their Titans and even their regular capital ships gone, she
knew the NI would never recover.
They soared across the bow of the Darkstar even as a beam of blue-white
energy flashed out from above, penetrating her shields and cutting an ugly scar
across her back. There was nothing that their small starfighters could do about
such an attack, she knew. But they could do
something about the squadrons of assault fighters fast approaching the
surviving NI capital ships.
The Darkstar
was slowly turning, and all they had to do was give her a
clear path to microjump to the other side of the system. The ISD Vindicator and several other capital
ships were already heading that way, their engines flashing light across her
canopy.
That was when she glanced at her screens,
and blinked at them for a moment in disbelief.
There were many, many more ships on her
screens than there had been a moment before.
“By
the Core,” said Gren over the comm. “Where
did all those new ships come from?”
Salle didn’t answer; she had nothing to
say. She’d been so distracted the last few minutes that she hadn’t even noticed
the arrival of another fleet. Realizing she hadn’t even monitored the fleet
channel due to so much chatter, she cursed herself for making such an grave error. At the same time, a wave of despair swept
over her.
Seven more Titans had entered the
engagement zone almost on top of the NI Starfleet. Most of them were huge, as
big as the largest Titans she’d seen. This new fleet was as strong as the
original AD force, at the least. And they were all fresh and fully-armed and
armored. Although the NI had dealt some damage to the enemy, the overall battle
had been horribly one-sided already. Now, with this new, fresh fleet the battle
would be over within minutes.
Her screens told her that the seven Titans
were split into two groups, one consisting of Eternity, Maelstrom, and Oblivion,
while the other held Overlord, Warhawk, and
Exterminator.
And filling the space in front of the
ships were thousands upon thousands of new fighters, all painted with the red
IFF indicator of enemy craft.
“Major,
what do we do?” Narm Greyrunner’s voice came over the comm. “We don’t stand a chance out here!”
“Keep covering the retreat!” she ordered
tersely. It was all the more reason to get out of this Force-forsaken system.
She targeted one of the approaching enemy Punishers, which were just now coming
into range. “Break and attack!”
She clocked onto her target and fired one
of her last two missiles, sending the warheard streaking away on a tail of
light and gas. Several more missiles joined hers as the other Avatars of
Inferno cut loose, too. Her missile impaced against the heavy
fighter’s shields, weakening them but barely slowing the larger craft.
Multiple other flashes registered more hits on the enemy squadron, which
largely ignored them. A couple of Punishers turned to face them, however.
Salle stuck with her original target,
letting her other flights rain combined fire on the two approaching craft. She
rolled and dove downwards, Two and Four on her wing,
and put her crosshairs over the fast approaching fuselage of the Punisher heavy
fighter. Her reticle went red, and she squeezed the trigger, sending four
lances of yellow-white fire down onto her target. The four beams cut a swatch
through space and finally met together on the center of her target. The fighter
exploded, sending fire and debris rushing onward towards the Darkstar.
A second target took hits from Gren’s
fighter and exploded. Four’s beams cut away the wing of a third craft, sending
it spinning wildly out of control. The remaining three fighters in the group
continued on before Salle could pull down onto their six. One fell victim to
turbolaster fire from the MC-120 and was vaporized, but the other two unleashed
a hail of torpedoes and then pulled out.
Salle felt a stab of panic as the warheads
screamed in, too close for the Darkstar’s
turrets to target. With the ship’s shields down, the torpedoes would open her
up like a cracked egg, exposing thousands of personnel to violent deaths.
The warheads began exploding as blasts of
energy shot them out of the sky.
Almost faster than she could follow,
several dozen silver shapes flashed across her field of vision and were gone.
“What
the…” Gren’s voice started, but broke off as Salle executed a sharp turn
that he was forced to match.
She pulled back onto an intercept vector
with the next wave of approaching fighters, and was shocked yet again. Enemy
blips were vanishing rapidly as the newcomers scored hits on target after
target. Bright flashes of fire lit the sky in front of her.
“Major,
what’s happening? Are these hostile or friendly? I’m still getting enemy IFF
codes!”
Salle just watched as the silver-winged
shapes continued to twist and turn through the engagement zone. She had never
seen this particular kind of fighter before. Its wings swept forward, their
size implying atmospheric maneuverability as many Altarin’Dakor designs did.
But these ships were faster and more agile-looking than any of the other
fighters she’d seen. None of them were being shot down yet, either. Some enemy
craft turned to engage, but Salle watched in stark amazement as they pulled
turns that would cause a normal pilot to black out. Then they rained down fire
upon their targets from angles that shouldn’t have been possible, nearly ninety
degrees in some cases. They seemed to fire a combination of pulse blasters,
beam weapons and – of all things – mass drivers, which could pivot and fire at
wide angles.
Their weapons seemed more advanced too.
Those unlikely mass weapons seemed to penetrate enemy shields, ripping fighters
apart almost instantaneously. Their blue-white beam weapons, instead of
dispersing their energy across the enemy and blowing up ships after
overwhelming their shields, instead seemed to cut, slicing ships in half before
they exploded due to exposed power cores or fuel reserves.
It was unlike anything she’d ever seen.
“They’re
Jedicon!” Gren said fiercely in her ear. “They must be! They’ve developed a new kind of Jedicon fighter even
more deadly than before!”
Salle shook her head in disbelief. Jedicon in even more advanced fighters? It would be a
slaughter.
“Major!
Do we engage?” asked Narm.
She didn’t know what to tell him. So far,
the newcomers seemed to be destroying only Altarin’Dakor ships, but they were
still painted as enemies. She needed to get an update from Command and Control.
Salle hit the frequency for the fleet
channel. “Inferno Squadron, Major Darl speaking. Request
stance toward newcomers.”
She didn’t recognize the voice of whomever it was on the Ascendancy.
“Targets are still listed as hostile.
Engage until otherwise ordered.”
Salle swallowed hard. She wished it was
Fleet Admiral Percy on the other end of the line, but the Admiral was probably
dead by now. “Repeat last order,” she asked. “Enemy fighters are very advanced, and only engaging hostiles so far.”
The voice that came back sounded more than
a bit irate. “Until we know more, we
can’t take any chances, Major. They could cut into our capships like they
aren’t even there.”
“Understood.”
Salle cut the transmission, then switched back to
Infero’s channel. “You heard the man. Inferno Squad, break
and attack. Engage all targets of opportunity.” And may the Force protect us.
Then she suited words to actions, and
targeted the nearest enemy prototype starfighter.
Her Avatar whined in protest as she gunned
the throttle and tried to pull onto his tail, but the ship was still too fast. Within seconds it had passed out
of her effective targeting range.
Another prototype flashed past the other
way, blasting an enemy Punisher out of the sky with a deceptive casualness.
“I
don’t think this is a great idea, boss,” Gren’s voice came into her ear.
“Me neither,” she whispered, though she
didn’t hit her comm.
In the distance, she watched as Inferno
Four, part of her flight, tried to pull down onto the tail of one of the agile
new fighters.
Suddenly, the silver-winged fighter pulled
into a tight loop, far tighter than the Avatar could match. Salle watched on
helplessly was the enemy fighter actually rolled as it turned, surely putting
unimaginable stresses on its pilot. Yet, impossibly, the pilot managed to stay
in control, bringing the ship around on a head-to-head with Inferno Four.
The Altarin’Dakor craft opened up with its
beam weapons. Four had no time to react.
The beams crossed over the TIE Avatar,
splitting it neatly in half from cockpit to engine arrays. The two halfs
drifted apart for an instant, revealing light and gasses leaking out between
them. Then the fighter exploded.
“No!” Salle shouted. But it was far too
late. Inferno Four was gone.
The enemy fighter continued its turn, an
arc that would take it across Salle’s field of view. A cold feeling sank into
her gut, and all thought of avoiding conflict with these fighters vanished.
Okay,
she thought, steeling her nerves. You’re
mine.
She snap-rolled and pulled back on the
stick, taking her on an intercept arc with the enemy’s trajectory. Then she
squeezed the trigger, sending four beams of energy striking out at her target.
The fighter either didn’t notice her, or
else he saw her coming too late to change course. Her starboard beams missed
wide, but her two port beams too the target on its port wing as it flashed
across her targeting sights. The left wing was severed as it passed and
detonated, blowing the fighter out of control, spinning and leaking flame and
smoke.
A second later Gren’s last missile slammed
into it, blowing it into a thousand fragments.
“Payback! That’s one
down!” Gren shouted over the comm.
But there were plenty more where that one
had come from. She noticed another one angling in towards her. A second fighter
hung low off the first one’s wing. In her slower, less maneuverable Avatar, she
knew that the only way she’d have a chance against these was to go all out, to
fly like she’d never flown before.
Well, if that was the case, then that was
what she was going to do.
The lead fighter looked like it would
barrel straight for her, but suddenly it veered away sharply. Its wingman broke
in the opposite direction. Trying to
split up and flank us, she realized.
“Break and attack!” she ordered, sending Two and Three after the second fighter while she pulled into
a tight loop on the first. The enemy was about to cross past her on her right,
but before it could she wanted to get one good firing run in. She cut her speed
dramatically, throwing her forward in her seat, and tried to put her crosshairs
in the general vicinity of the enemy fighter.
To her surprise, she got a solid tone
almost right away. She squeezed her thumb trigger instinctively, sending her
last remaining missile streaking out at the enemy.
The enemy rolled and cut back towards her,
cutting its own speed. As Salle’s missile neared home,
the opposing fighter’s mass driver guns opened up, and incredibly their slugs
found their target. The missile exploded a few hundred meters from its target.
But Salle had a backup plan, as well. As
the enemy concentrated on her missile, she closed the gap even further and
switched to beams. Her crosshairs passed over the craft and she fired again.
This time, her beams narrowly missed,
cutting through the air where the enemy fighter would have been had it
continued on its previous course. Instead, it had veered sharply away, looping
back away from Salle’s approach. And though her attack had missed, the enemy’s
vector forced itself away from her, allowing Salle to pull right onto its tail.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” she whispered
fiercely.
It was time to dogfight.
* * *
Maarek pulled his Archon away from
his approach as he realized who his target was. It’s Salle.
Then his missile alert went off, and he was
forced to go defensive. He turned back, locked his eyes on the the sillouhetted
object approaching him, and fired his rail guns.
As the missile exploded, he felt a
familiar tingling in the back of his mind, his still-new danger sense warning
him of impending attack. He rolled and turned his fighter away instinctively, avoiding the strike but knowing the move
would let her onto his six.
He gunned the throttle, hoping to outrun
her. Unfortunately he had slowed down drastically, and it would take a few
moments to get his advantage of speed back. Meanwhile Salle Darl was dead on
his tail.
He was going to have to outfly her.
Maarek weaved and dodged, using the
Archon’s superior maneuverability to keep her from getting a solid lock on him.
Her beams flashed across space ahead of him as she fired again and again,
missing every time. Still, she might get lucky if he didn’t lose her soon.
He started to open a channel and tell her
to break off – but he froze at the last second. As far as Salle knew, Maarek
Stele couldn’t even fly a fighter at all. She still thought he was completely
incapacitated by his illness, and on his way back to Kuan. She’d never believe
that he was here in this battle, much less flying an Altarin’Dakor fighter. She’d probably think it was some sort of
trick.
So instead, he went evasive, throwing
every trick he knew of to try and shake her off his tail.
He knew he could reach into her mind and
throw her off course. But if he did that, he was almost certain she would
recognize him. Even though she wasn’t Force Sensitive, she knew him well enough
that there was simply too much risk in touching her mind with hi. He was still
no expert at the technique by any means, and he knew the slightest mistake
might give him away.
Of course, the way he flew might give him
away, as well. She knew all of his moves, though she might not be able to pull
them all off as masterfully as he. And Maarek was not ready to reveal his new
role, either to her or the New Imperium, as part of the forces belonging to the
Altarin’Dakor Shok’Thola known as
Strife.
Fortunately he had the Archon’s advantages
over her Avatar, and he used them to full benefit. He rolled and looped,
throwing her aim off even as his speed steadily increased. The TIE Avatar
stayed right on his tail, for now.
She’s
good, Maarek thought to himself, and not for the first time. Salle was
better than almost any opponent he’d ever faced. He’d always been impressed by
her flying – he just never expected that he would ever fly against her.
Finally, however, his speed had increased
once more to the point where her Avatar could not keep up, and her fighter grew
steadily smaller behind him, her beams missing by wider margins. Finally he
pulled up and gunned the throttle, rising so rapidly that their engagement was
effectively broken, since even other fighters would be closer to them than they
were to each other, now.
He froze as he noticed some of those other
fighters. Even now two of them were on an attack vector for Salle’s craft. But
these weren’t just ordinary fighters.
Knowing he had to act fast, Maarek rolled
back down and pulled back into the fray.
* * *
Salle didn’t give up until the enemy
fighter was well out of her effective range.
“Stang,” she cursed, watching the enemy fighter pull away into the
distance. Whoever he’d been, he was a blasted good pilot.
“Major,
you’ve got two coming in at your three o’clock!”
Gren’s voice shocked her mind back to the
present. She glanced to starboard and held back a cry of despair. Two
heavily-armed Altarin’Dakor fighters were heading straight in, on course for a
strafing run on her side. Already their outlines were clearly in view, and her
computer told them they already had lock on her.
Worse, the profiles of those fighters shot
dread into her heart the moment she saw them. Widowmakers.
Those were real Jedicon fighters. And they were closing in, fast. She was
already in their sights, having missed their approach. In another second she
was going to be space dust, and there was nothing she could do about it.
“Punch
out!” Narm shouted in her ear. But it was too late. She knew they’d shoot
her down even if she did, and she’d rather go down in her fighter than out
there among all that debris.
Salle waited, holding her breath,
wondering if she’d feel anything when her fighter was vaporized around her.
Then, just as she was sure they were going
to fire, the fighters pulled up slightly and flashed past her craft, passing so
closely that their wake sent her Avatar bucking. She turned to look the other
way, trying to follow their movements as best she could. They might come around
for another pass…
But they didn’t. Instead, they were
heading away from her, directly for another target – the prototype fighter she
had been chasing. The silver-winged craft was making a head-to-head with them –
pure suicide. But instead, the Widowmakers held their course without even
firing, as if uncertain what to do.
They ran headlong into a hail of mass
driver rounds fired from the prototype.
The shots hit both approaching fighters in
succession, shearing through the port wing of one and nailing the second
straight on, blowing it to pieces. The first fighter went into an uncontrollable
spin and flashed by behind the prototype even as the silver craft blew its way
past her cockpit going the other way.
Salle blinked in amazement. What had just
happened? Why had the enemy pilot she was pursuing saved her?
The fighter didn’t turn back. It kept on
course, moving away from her too fast for her to possibly pull on its tail.
She’d never catch it, now.
Frustrated, with a dozen questions running
through her mind, she keyed the comm, open frequency. “This is Major Salle Darl
to enemy pilot,” she called out. “I’ll get you next time.”
There was no response, and she hadn’t
expected much of one. She didn’t even know if her opponent could understand
Basic, but she felt it was right to at least acknowledge what he’d done. But
that didn’t change the fact that he was an enemy. And his ships had killed one
of her fighters. It didn’t matter that they had been following orders to
attack. The enemy might have thought it was self-defense, but that didn’t
matter to Salle. One of her pilots was still just as dead as if he’d been
killed in cold blood.
There would be a rematch coming.
* * *
Maarek looked back at the trailing group of Avatars, feeling a
momentary stab of regret. He wanted to call out to Salle, to reach her on the
squadron’s comm frequency. Salle, it’s
me. I’m alive, and I’m flying again. He wanted to share that excitement
with her. He’d been close to them once, to Kikitik and Gren and Salle. It felt
like a lifetime ago.
He knew he couldn’t. He couldn’t tell her or
anyone else. They wouldn’t understand.
Salle was leading Inferno Squadron in a
heroic battle to protect the NI capital ships, fighting against impossible
enemy odds. Maarek felt a nearly irrepressible desire to fly on their wing into
battle once more, to use his powerful fighter to protect them from any further
harm. But he knew he couldn’t. He had to let them handle it, had to trust them.
And he had his own orders.
The pride he felt in Salle was
overwhelming. She had grown, had built back the squadron and taken it into
battle, whereas Maarek, injured, had run away like a coward.
She was a far better squadron commander
than he.
If anyone had a chance to survive this, he
knew, it was Inferno Squadron.
“Good luck” he whispered.
Then he turned his fighter, ordering the rest
of the Archon Wing to form up, and began his run on the enemy command ships.
* * *
Location
Unknown
Time
Unknown
Xar was hiding.
He was hunkered down behind a giant black
obelisk, crouching at its base, listening for any sound within the dark
chamber.
He’d thought he had falled into the
catacombs beneath the Royal Palace, but instead the scene had changed again.
Now he was somewhere else, transported halfway across the galaxy in an instant.
He knew exactly where he was, too.
This was Palace Ravenspyre, former home of
House Ar’Kell.
This was where he’d fought and killed
Krun. But that knowledge didn’t console him much. Just because he’d done it
before, it didn’t mean he could do it again.
It was quiet, like a tomb. At first he’d
thought he heard thunder in the distance, here as well. But it had faded after
a while. His wounds were still there, gradually burning more and more as shock
wore off. He’d tried to put himself in a healing trance, but two things had
prevented him. First, the knowledge that Krun or Runis might
find him and kill him before he had time to react. Second,
and more importantly, was that whenever he tried to reach for the Force in that
way, he felt it slipping through his fingers.
He could feel the Dark Side now, beckoning
him. Since that initial lunge of hatred, he had felt its power begin to work on
him, tempting him to give in and let the power it gave rush through his veins
as it once had. Now that he was aware of it, he knew that it had always been
there, lurking just out of sight in the distance.
Here, in this place, fighting two of the
most powerful Dark Jedi he’d ever faced, it was hard not to give into that
temptation.
Xar
didn’t want to die. He would fight with everything he had. But would he give in
to the Dark Side again, becoming like them in order to kill them?
He thought he heard a voice, inaudible to
his ears but somehow in his mind, telling him not to give in, not to give up.
It sounded familiar, but he couldn’t remember when or where he’d heard it
before.
Angol Moa. Where had that name come from?
What did it mean?
Xar closed his eyes, searching deep inside
himself. He knew that he didn’t have the strength to defeat the two of them all
by himself. There had to be something more, some way he could tap his power
once again without resorting to the debilitating limitations of the Dark Side
of the Force.
It was devastating to realize, now, how
much of his power had actually come from Runis and Krun.
Xar could remember it clearly now, looking
back. After Runis, he’d truly begun to come into his own as a Jedi, growing by
leaps and bounds. He’d assumed it was the sense freedom after escaping from
enslavement by Runis. Now he saw that it was Runis’ own power growing within
him.
The second spike had come after absorbing
Dasok Krun. Unlike with Runis, this time Xar had deliberately absorbed the
man’s Force energy, as vengeance for the deaths of his family. Since that time,
Xar had grown steadily stronger, until he’d reached the natural limit that all
Jedi Masters of this day held. And he’d become darker.
Their power wasn’t the only thing that had
influenced him. Xar had been subtly changing ever since he’d killed Runis, and
even more so after Krun. Runis had given him his cold aloofness, his pragmatism
and calculating view of killing. By contrast, Krun had injected a different
element – hot anger, wildness, and a thirst for blood. Xar could remember all
the men he’d killed since then. He’d enjoyed far too many of those killings.
With a stunned silence, Xar realized that
he didn’t even know who he was. Without Runis, without Krun, who would he have
been, really?
Suddenly he heard the sound of footsteps.
Someone had entered the room.
Xar had been hiding in large meeting
chamber in one wing of the palace. Mathis had held quite a few staff meetings
in this room. It was surrounded by columns leading up to a dome roof, and
windows looked out at the top of the wall on one side. In the center of the
floor was a flat stone area where a meeting table had once been. Steps led down
the the lower area on four different sides, and dark obelisks with Sith inscriptions flanked each of those sets of stairs.
Now Xar was sitting with one of the huge
stone obelisks between him and the room’s entrance, so he couldn’t see who it
was that had entered. Perhaps they had split up to search the palace for him.
No, he realized. They wouldn’t risk facing
him alone; they would stay together and try to keep him outnumbered. Neither
man would put himself at unnecessary risk. He knew them well enough to know
that.
Sure enough, a second set of footsteps
followed the first. Then a rough voice pierced the silence.
“Kerensky! We know you’re in here!”
Xar didn’t respond. He pressed himself
against the column, trying to breate as lightly as possible. His wounds still
burned like fire. He felt weaker than he’d been in a long, long time.
“Why are you hiding?” It was Runis’ voice
this time. “Did you think we wouldn’t know where you are? We are you!” He broke off into laughter,
and Dasok Krun joined him.
After a moment Dasok Krun spoke again.
“Kerensky, we’re waiting for you.” A pause. “Or perhaps
we should just drop the charade and stop calling you that. Nikolas Kerensky was
not your father. You aren’t a Kerensky at all!”
Xar sucked in air at the words, repressing
the urge to snort in derision. They were back to lies again, trying to goad him
into reacting in anger. But these lies were even more ridiculous than claiming
Uncle Aron was an Altarin’Dakor sympathizer.
“Do you think it was just coincidence that
I happened upon your damaged ship after the attack?” It was Runis speaking, now.
“Your uncle told me where I could find you after you ran away. He told me so
that I could save you and bring you back to him. He wanted to raise you as a
student of the Altarin’Dakor.”
Xar tried to shut their voices out, but
there was nothing he could do about it. They had stopped in the room, and it
sounded like they were speaking directly at him. He couldn’t move. Fear had
taken hold of him. He knew it was just the beginning, that the Dark Side would
use that just as easily as anything else. It still lay there, just out of
eyesight.
“I lied and promised that I would return
you to him,” Runis continued. “Your uncle never realized that I had no
intention of helping the Altarin’Dakor, that I hated them as much as anyone
else. Nevertheless he trusted me, told me secrets that you have no idea about. Things that your mother and father never told you.”
Xar wanted to shout at the man to shut up.
Instead he stayed where he was, silent.
“Aron Kerensky told me of how his brother
had found a young child on the edges of the Unknown Regions. He spoke of a boy
with unfathomable Force potential, a boy he raised as his own son. The boy they
found – you, my former apprentice – was discovered lying in a stasis chamber by
a Varnusian archeological expedition. He had no memories of where he’d come
from. In fact, no one knew where he’d
come from. Or, when.”
Xar just sat silently, shaking his head.
It was ridiculous. Runis a fool to think he’d believe this!
“But that wasn’t enough, you see. Your mother,
Marina, wanted a biological son, and
they couldn’t pass up the opportunity to infuse their line with such incredible
potential.
“You see where this is heading, don’t
you?” Runis said, mirth in his voice. “They decided to
make a clone of their adopted son, which Marina could bear naturally.
Unfortunately, little Rydon turned out not to be Force Sensitive at all!”
Xar realized he was screaming now, his
howls echoing throughout the chamber. He quickly pushed himself out from behind
his cover, fury raging in his veins. “Liar!” he yelled.
The two men, standing in the center of the
room, quickly turned to look at him in surprise.
“You piece of kriffing dirt!” Xar yelled.
“How dare you dishonor my family with such filth!” The
handle of his lightsaber bit into his hand as he stood, gripping it with all of
his might. It shot into existence, it’s yellow beam
piercing the air.
“Do you think I’m lying?” Runis asked.
“Then tell me, why do you still have memories of floating helplessly in that
Warlord’s laboratory?”
Xar froze. “What did you say?” he blurted.
How could the man know that?!
“You remember, don’t you? The time before you were placed in the stasis chamber. The
time you really come from. You
remember floating in Sado’s tanks, being studied.
Experimented on.
No wonder the Altarin’Dakor fear you as some kind of chosen savior out of
legend! You’re one of them!”
“NO!”
Xar threw himself forward, barreling down
the steps at the two men. He would not – could not – endure another moment of
this man’s lying words.
Krun stepped forward in front of Runis,
his eyes glowing with anticipation, his crimson blade raised in front of him.
The two men met in a clash of light. Xar
struck out with everything he had, strengthened by a fury like he’d never
known. He poured out every ounce of will and strength and hate at this men and
the curse they represented, one that had plagued him for nearly as long as he
could remember.
Dasok Krun fell back at first, but then
Runis moved up beside him. Both men fought against him, their own faces masks
of rage and hatred. Xar slashed at one and then the other, back and forth,
attacking, blocking, striking and parrying again. Krun fought with sheer
strength and speed, while Runis’ stuck with skill and precision. Then Xar began
to fall back.
He couldn’t penetrate their defenses, not
both men at once. They pressed the advantage, and Xar was on the defensive now,
blocking attacks that came almost too fast for him to react. His strength was
fading, fast. His anger had given him a burst of energy, but it was slipping
away once more, his injuries taking their toll.
Nevertheless he pushed himself farther,
crying out in fury and anger. He had to win! He had to kill these two once and
for all!
He struck at Krun, crashing his blade off
the man’s saber, then blocked a strike from Runis,
pushing it away. He struck back, but the dark master backed up out of range.
Krun’s blade came in again. Runis’
followed. Then Krun’s. Then Runis’.
They were too fast, too strong. Too many.
A powerful blow from Krun jolted him,
knocking Xar’s blade back. He struck again, his blade coming down like an axe.
Xar threw his own blade up desperately, and the blow hit, knocking his arms to
the side.
Krun’s blade came down inside Xar’s guard
and sliced his lightsaber’s handle in two. Half of Xar’s right hand fell with
it. The blade went out as the pieces fell to the floor. Xar screamed in pain.
Krun reversed his attack, sweeping horizontally. All Xar was able to do was
throw himself backwards at the last instant, but not far enough. Krun’s blade
cut deeply through Xar’s right side, sending out a gout
of vaporized blood and flesh.
Xar gasped and fell back, his side going
numb. He stumbled, his heels hitting the steps behind him.
A deafening crack split the air like a
thunderclap, and Xar glanced up to see the massive obelisk there begin to fall,
cut neatly into as if by some unseen hand. He threw himself backward
instinctively, glimpsing Krun do the same in the other direction. The column
crashed between them and broke apart, sending dust billowing up into the air.
The room shook with a massive earthquake.
The windows cracked overhead, and dust and rocks fell from the ceiling. Splits
appeared in the stones beneath their feet. Runis was standing back, casting
about with an uncertain expression. More cracks began to appear in more columns
along the walls, and they collapsed as well, casting rubble across the floor.
Xar collapsed onto the steps, clutching
his ruined hand, holding his right arm down against his side, where a
cauterized wound revealed a large chunk of flesh missing from his side. His
vision narrowed, darkness creeping in at the edges. The room kept shaking.
Krun
was up again, crimson blade singing as he approached. Runis stood not far
behind.
Xar had no more strength. He knew he was
dying. He felt his head droop, and saw only Krun’s booted feet as he came to a
halt, standing over Xar victoriously.
The Dark Side had failed him. He’d known
it would, tempting him with a lust for power that it could never possibly
fulfill. It had drawn him in, and then abandoned him. All of Xar’s hate, all of
his strenght, had not been enough.
His
whole life he had struggled, sought after more and more power. He’d wanted to
be the strongest. He had wanted to make a difference. But strength wasn’t
enough. Hatred wasn’t enough. What good had it done? All it had given him was
misery – abandoned friends, broken relationships, and a string of dead bodies.
It hadn’t even been enough to rid his mind
of two psychotic madmen.
He’d fought for so long for what he’d
thought was justice, but all he had accomplished was to preserve these men’s
memories, and to continue the evil works that they had begun. Vengeance. Revenge. Now useless in this, his final moment.
No more. If he was going to die, he would
do it without hate in his heart. He wouldn’t carry this to the grave.
And with that, he gave up. He let it go,
all of the pent up hate that he’d had for these men for what they had done to
him. Krun had killed his family. Runis had enslaved and tortured him. But it
was Xar’s own actions that had ruined his life. He could blame no one but
himself for what he had done and what he had become. He could afford to hate
these men no longer.
So, in that moment, Xar did something he’d
never done before.
He forgave them.
Suddenly, a peace settled over him, calm
and soothing. The knowledge that he didn’t have to try
anymore. The anger, the hate, the lust for revenge – it had all flowed
out of him. He felt it leave as palpably as a weight falling off of his
shoulders.
And suddenly in its place, where he’d
never noticed before, a well of power floated. Almost curiously Xar reached
out, grasping it calmly, confidently.
In that moment, Xar realized that all was
well.
“Time to die,” Dasok Krun said, and swung
his blade downwards. The crimson light blurred, curving down to meet him,
reflecting the uncontrolled fury in the man’s eyes.
In response, Xar reached out with his left
hand and caught the man’s wrists as they fell.
Krun’s eyes went wide. Xar gasped; the
man’s arms seemed like a feather in his hand. Tentatively, he reached up and
looked at his other hand. His fingers were growing back, flesh and bone
reforming where there had been nothing a moment before.
The hand formed fully, and the handle of
his lightsaber appeared in it, as well. Xar reached forward, pressed the end
against Dasok Krun’s midsection, and touched the activation stud.
The yellow-white blade shot into
existence, piercing the man’s body and appearing out his back. Krun’s mouth
dropped open in gasp of pain, which turned into a wordless scream as Xar
brought the blade up through the man’s body.
Light burst out of Dasok Krun’s eyes, out
of the wounds in both sides of his body. Then he exploded in a burst of
blinding, pulsating light.
Xar stood, his blade still held out in
front of him. There was no longer any sign of Krun.
The room shook again. Xar felt strange,
like another weight had lifted from his shoulders, a weight he hadn’t realized
he’d been carrying. And something else, something he couldn’t quite define.
He looked at Runis, and saw fear in the
man’s eyes. Runis reached out, grimacing, and lightning flashed from his
fingertips. Xar brought his blade over and caught it, watching it crackle
uselessly on the glowing edge of his saber.
Runis let the lightning die. He turned and
ran for the exit.
Xar jumped forward in response. This had
to end. Now.
He leapt into the air, flying ahead of
Runis, his body feeling stronger than it ever had before. His wounds were gone,
healed just as completely as his severed hand. He landed in front of Runis, and
the dark Jedi master skidded to a halt on the rubble-strewn floor.
“You want to kill me? Do it,” Runis spat
at him, eyes flashing. “Finish me off. I can see your hatred has completely
overwhelmed you. Look at you. You’re an animal, not a man. The Dark Side is
swelling within you. Kill me, and you’ll become more vile and evil than I ever
was. You’ll be me – only much, much
worse. And all you’ve fought for will be for nothing!”
Xar blinked. Runis’ words failed to resonate within him at all. He
felt nothing – certainly not a trace of the dark side of the Force. If there
was, he would have known it, now.
He attacked. Runis brought
his blade up in defense, and Xar drove him back.
They clashed blades again
and again. For Xar, this was now just an elementary exercise, its outcome
already determined. Runis fell back, struggling to block although Xar no longer
used all of his speed or technique. He struck back desperately, his attacks
like the swats of a child against an insect.
Xar did not want to prolong this. He
struck harder, batting the man’s blade this way and that. Then he stepped in
and forced his blade up, locking his and Runis’ above their heads. He snapped a
foot out, catching the man just under the sternum with bone-crushing force.
Runis fell backwards, his mouth wide in a cry of pain. Xar brought Runis’ blade
back down, thrust it to one side, exposing his guard, then struck downwards and
sliced the man’s arm off just below the elbow.
Runis gasped in pain, the limb and the still-activated
blade falling to the floor. Then Xar’s backhand drove the pommel of his saber
across the man’s face, sending him reeling. Runis collaped to
the ground. He rolled over and came to his knees before Xar after a long
moment, clutching the stump where his arm had been. He looked up and froze, Xar’s
blade resting mere centimeters from his face, bathing him in yellow light.
“Wait, Xar!” Runis whispered, his voice
trembling. “You can’t do this! You can’t kill me. I’m your master! Don’t do
this again; don’t give into your hate. I was wrong! The Dark Side isn’t the
answer! Don’t kill me, Xar! You’ll never be able to live with yourself if you
do!”
“You’re wrong,” Xar said, looking down at
him with a strange calmness he’d never known before. “I don’t hate you. I don’t
hate you at all. Why should I? I understand, now. Everything was destined to
happen this way. What happened, happened, and it
couldn’t have happened any other way. Not in this universe.” He raised his
blade, its yellow light playing over his master’s dark form. “And that neither
can this.”
“No, wait!” Runis shouted desperately, his
expression changing into total fear. “You can’t kill me! You mustn’t! You need me! You are me! We are the same! The same!”
Xar swung his blade through the man’s
neck, its piercing light merging with Runis’ dying scream, silencing it
forever.
Runis vanished in a flash of light.
Xar’s blade disappeared in his hand. The
room shook again, more violently than ever. The windows above shattered, and a
flood of water began pouring through them into the room, as if the whole palace
rested underwater. Another weight came off of Xar, a larger one this time.
Total peace reigned within Xar. He looked up, saw cracks appearing in the ceiling, revealing pure
light resting beyond. The walls of the palace fell away around him, and
suddenly he was rushing upwards, into that light, into rebirth and renewal.
The sweet light filled him, and he
embraced it wholeheartedly.
* * *
Angol Moa watched the second spirit
leave Xar’s body, emitting an unearthly howl as it fled up, through the
ceiling, and out into whatever oblivion awaited it.
She let out a sigh of relief. Despite
everything she had done to help him, only Xar had been able to do this part.
And against odds that said she had been better off not even trying, Xar had
done it.
He was free.
Then the energy spike occurred.
The room went white, then
her screens went blank. The room began to shake. Even though her instruments
had gone dead, though, she could sense it. It was like watching the birth of a
star, coming together and igniting before her eyes.
“He has Awakened,” she breathed.
* * *
Epilogue: Reborn
Planet
Arcadia
2117
Hours Local Time
The escape pod lay half-buried in
the ground a half dozen meters away from the Jedi
survivors.
Alyx stood among them, still watching as
debris from the battle rained down through the atmosphere above their heads. It
was night, and the sky was mesmerizing. The ring that encircled the planet
Arcadia in the foreground, and the shafts of light falling
through the sky – the stars beyond that, and in the distance, the Galbagos
Nebula stretching out across the night sky.
Those who had gotten out on the ship’s other escape pods were here, as well as the Jedi who
had flown down on the fighters they’d been piloting: Jinx, Atridd Xoan and Kiz
Thrakus, Vykk Olyronn, Draken Ar’Kell. Sim Zaphod, Junor
Brajo, Varanus Templar, and Satai Dukhat. Vortigern’s
remnants, Roger Macreed Neres Warjan, Mrax Satai, Eric Donos, and Aethar
Daemonstar. Nadia Ispen, Mathis, and Bren.
This was all that was left. The
unaccounted for: Malik Raven, Colin Moore, Rilke Darcunter, and a half dozen others. Whether they had touched down elsewhere
or had been destroyed along with the ship, he didn’t know.
In the distance, he could see the lights
of a large city, or perhaps a military complex, seeing how this world was a
border stronghold. Garbled communications they’d picked up on the way in said
that the Altarin’Dakor had mutinied; they’d taken War Coordinator Gaius and the
rest of his staff down to the surface as prisoners. Their current fate was
unknown, but it seemed clear they had been taken to the stronghold before them.
“Well,” Atridd said, coming up to stand
beside him on the grassy hill. “We came all this way to do this thing. We might
as well finish it.”
Alyx nodded, still gazing out toward the
lights in the distance.
Jinx appearing on his other side. “If this
is our last charge, then let’s make it count.”
Alyx waited as each member of the Order
formed up with them, in turn. Then he looked at them, meeting the gaze of each
and every member gathered.
“One more time,” he told them. “For the
New Imperium. For our homes. For the
people of the galaxy.”
Then he turned and began walking down the
hill, toward the waiting wall of light ahead.
Toward destiny.
* * *
Location
Unknown
Time
Unknown
He opened his eyes, the blurred
light overhead focusing into the ceiling of a room. He was on a comfortable
bed, wearing soft clothing. The air was cool, and refreshing.
He raised his head off over the soft pillows
it lay upon. A tall man was standing in front of him. The man wore simple robes,
and he had pale skin and jet black hair. He knew the visitor, although it felt
as though he were seeing him for the first time.
“Do you know who I am?” the man asked.
“Yes,” he managed. “You’re… my friend.
But…” he looked around. “I don’t know where we are,” he admitted.
“It should come back to you shortly,” Icis
said. “Can I get you some water?”
“Please.”
Icis moved to the side, then
returned with a cup of water. He took it and sipped it at first. He hadn’t
realized how thirsty he was. The water was so cool and refreshing,
he couldn’t imagine anything tasting better in all the universe.
He looked at his friend, then. There was a
sense of sadness about the man, something that made concern well up within him.
“Something’s different about you, Icis.
Are you okay?”
“I am well, Xar. But I’ve been through
some changes, myself. I’ve both gained and lost things here, just like you.
Precious things,” he finished with a whisper.
“What things?” Xar asked, curious.
“My Force powers have been restored, for
one,” Icis said. “It feels… good, Xar. Like having an old
friend back. I can’t use it much, quite yet, but it is returning,
slowly.
He
glanced down. “But I’ve also lost something… something just as important.”
“What?” Xar asked.
“My… Kajeat essence.
The shell that contains the willful energy that makes us what we are. The thing that makes us immortal.”
“How?”
“I gave it away, Xar.”
“Why?”
“Because someone needed it,” Icis said.
And that was all he said.
* * *
Icis waited in the room with Nico
and Angol Moa. He’d left Xar in his rooms to rest. He couldn’t explain it, but
he’d felt uncomfortable around the man, like Xar knew too much about him just
by looking at him.
Xar felt
different, too. It was hard to put his finger on it. Angol Moa said the
darkness was gone from him, just like it had never been. She’d warned him that
his former friend might be a different man, without it. He’d lived for years
under the influence of foreign personalities. Who knew what the real Xar was
actually like?
“So what’s our next move?” Nico spoke up,
breaking the silence. “We’re all back, and healthy, too. I appreciate all of
your hospitality, er… Supreme Elder… But I would like to get back to New
Imperium space before too much longer.”
“You will be returning soon enough,” she
responded coolly. “For now, we wait for Xar. Even I am uncertain what he will
want to do from here.”
“Why are you worried about that?” Icis
asked. “I thought you said he was healed.”
“Oh he is,” Angol Moa replied, meeting his
gaze. “He’s much more, actually. And depending on what he knows – what he
remembers – it could change a great many things about this war.”
“You mean, our
fight with the Altarin’Dakor?” Nico asked.
Icis didn’t think that was what she meant.
Angol Moa looked at him, as if about to respond.
Suddenly the door opened, and everyone
looked around to see Xar standing there, leaning against the door frame with
one arm. He was still wearing the soft patient’s pants and button shirt.
At least, Icis thought it was Xar. He seemed perfectly normal, even a bit relaxed
for a change. Something about the man’s eyes, though, looked different.
“Oh, my.” Angol
Moa’s voice had dropped to barely above a whisper. “I didn’t see this coming.”
“See what?” Icis asked without thinking,
still looking at Xar.
“There’s something different about Xar,”
Nico said. “I can feel it. He feels… different. Like an entirely different
person. And he’s stronger.”
“What is it?” Icis asked, looking at Angol
Moa. He still couldn’t sense anything in the Force, blast it! Xar was just
standing there, looking like he always did. He still had that thick, scraggly
beard, unshaven in all these weeks here. He still wore the same clothes he’d
been sleeping in the past few days. He looked a bit tired, but that was to be
expected considering all he’d been through.
“What’s happened?” Icis demanded, growing
impatient.
“When you live as long as I have, and seen
all that I have seen, there is almost nothing that occurs in this universe that
I haven’t already predicted or seen,” Angol Moa replied, inclining her head.
“On the other hand, occasionally – so rarely that you never expect it to happen
again – an event occurs that you haven’t
already foreseen. And it takes you completely by surprise.”
Xar’s posture straightened,
and he pushed himself off from the wall. In an instant, the appearance of
fatigue faded off of him. He seemed completely alert, completely ready. And
there was something in his eyes that made a chill run down Icis’ spine. It made
him wonder if he even knew who this man really was.
“I know where Sado is,” Xar said suddenly.
Then abruptly he turned to the side. Icis
felt the barest flicker through the Force as a doorway appeared out of thin
air, right in front of the man.
“Follow me,” he said, and stepped through
the opening.
The End of
Remembrance
Written by Joshua
Ausley
Special Thanks to
Jeremy Akins (T-Rex) for co-writing some scenes!
Copyright New
Imperium 2011
All Rights
Reserved
To be Concluded
in:
Requiem of Dreams