It hung there in the void, a perfect sphere of green and blue contrasting sharply with the black emptiness all around it. Its pristine appearance was no lie; the planet, settled centuries ago, had somehow avoided the numerous conflicts that had raged throughout the galaxy since its founding. Exar Kun's rampage, so felt by the Republic, had never touched this planet, so remote was its location. Indeed, the world remained untouched by even pirates or raiders and the denizens of the various settlements were allowed to raise their children and live their lives in peace. Of course an agri-world could not exist in isolation; transports arrived daily to take charge of the foodstuffs and in return offload vital technology and supplies. But they always arrived daily, and at the same time without any deviation.
So when those fat-bulked transports were replaced by sleek, gleaming shuttles that disgorged soldiers and engineers instead of farming equipment, the citizens were bemused. When those same soldiers began ordering the planet's sparse population onto the shuttles, bemusement turned to alarm, and anger. There were demands for information, not a few shouting matches, and even a riot. All the disputes were resolved quickly and calmly by a young woman clad in the robes of a Jedi while her soldiers gently but firmly ushered the civilians into the waiting shuttles. The settlers numbered just a few thousand, and under the watchful eyes of more Republic soldiers they were efficiently bundled up into a waiting convoy in orbit.
The settlers of this planet would be dispersed across the galaxy, from Nar Shaddaa to Ord Mantell, with a notably unlucky group ending up on Tatooine. They would never see their home again, and the events that unfolded there would be as much of a mystery to them as they were to everyone else. They would die without understanding the significance of the world or the consequences it would have on the rest of the galaxy.
Weeks after the evacuation, the Jedi General would send a brief message encrypted with the latest codes with only one intended recipient.
Population evacuated. Malachor V secured.
Malachor V's lone airport had been quickly requisitioned by the Republic forces, with the port authorities putting up only a token protest. The engineering corps set to expanding the station so that it had the space and equipment to handle multiple bulk landers of the sort needed to offload large numbers of troops and raw materials. The results now showed; the formerly small port was now at least four times its size and looming over the endless grasslands that surrounded it.
Jedi General Tristan Olin strode quickly towards the port's entrance, heavy boots flattening the grass underfoot. The detail of red-armored soldiers saluted at her arrival, and she acknowledged them with a terse nod before plunging straight into the compound.
It took only a few short minutes to arrive at the central landing pad; what had been the station's largest bay was now one of many such sites designed for equipment offload. There had been many quizzical looks when she had ordered the expansion, but no one had questioned her. That was good, because she had no idea herself. Her orders came from Revan, and only Revan knew what role the port would play.
The bay doors parted quietly, allowing the Jedi General to step sleek vessel resting on the pad before her was of a unique design, nothing like the bulky landers and dropships that took up the other bays. With its lean design and outswept struts sporting laser cannons and missile mounts, it reminded Tristan of a drexl in flight.
Four more Republic soldiers waited at the ship's as-yet unlowered ramp, and they snapped to attention as she came to a halt before them.
"General." One of the soldiers, a sergeant according to his armor, stepped forward. "This ship touched down about fifteen minutes ago. It's not listed in the flight logs."
"Did the tower hail it on its way in?" Tristan frowned. Air traffic protocols were very strict, usually to prevent unanticipated collisions.
"According to the techs, it didn't show up on their sensors." The sergeant matched her frown. "In fact, no one noticed it at all until it actually landed. The techs are running the silhouette and visual profile through the database now." He hesitated, clearly mulling over what to say next. "Ma'am...do you know what's going on?"
Instead of answering, Tristan scanned the ship. "Have you tried to enter it?"
"No, ma'am," the sergeant shook his head, "it's sealed tight and we don't happen to have any breaching explosives."
"Thank you, sergeant. Let me have a try."
"Yes, ma'am."
Obediently, the sergeant motioned his men away as Tristan inspected the ramp. There was no external control pad, or anything that looked like it might grant access to the ship, not to mention the sealed position of the boarding hatch meant that conventional explosives would be wasted. It was this that had stumped the sergeant.
Fortunately, the Jedi had their ways.
With the ease of long practice, Tristan reached out. The Force flowed around her, submerging her in its entirety. Constructs of durasteel and chromium did not channel the flow like life did, but still the Force existed within them, connecting them within the web that bound all things together. A Jedi spent his or her life learning to channel the flow and also submerge themselves within it, surrendering to that eternal river of life. One finger crooked in on itself, and with the hiss of hydraulics the ramp lowered.
Tristan could sense the disbelief and wonder of the soldiers behind her. It forced her to suppress a smile. Despite serving with the Jedi for many months, most soldiers rarely got a chance to see the Force utilized outside of combat.
The smiling impulse vanished as she returned her attention to the ramp. As with everything else the Force hummed within it, but there was no warming glow, no aura of presence that indicated life. So far as the Force was concerned, the ship was empty.
As much as they were taught to channel the Force, Jedi were also taught to trust it. After all, the Force bound everything together. From a certain point of view, it was everything. And yet, Tristan's instincts screamed at her that the Force was wrong, that there was something aboard.
She'd been taught to trust her instincts too, because the Force bound everything together, was everything, and nothing prevented it from contradicting itself. Or maybe it was not, and it was her interpretation that was flawed. It made no difference.
So when Tristan stepped aboard the ramp and entered the ship, she made sure to keep one hand close to her saber hilt.
The ramp, predictably enough, led to what appeared to be the ship's main hold. It was spacious, though not as much as most freighters Tristan had been on, and rather sparsely furnished with an obligatory table and only a few chairs scattered about the room. The walls were similarly devoid of ornamentation.
Tristan stepped off the ramp and it promptly closed, but not before shouts of alarm could filter through the gap. The Jedi General sucked in a breath - that hadn't been her - and cast around, senses extended to their fullest.
Nothing.
A lesser being might call this a ghost ship and lose his or her head to panic and paranoia. Tristan simply noted it as a potential threat and moved on.
She quickly discovered that aside that the ship had no crew quarters, or indeed any extraneous space besides the hold. However slim it had looked from outside, its interior exceeded those expectations. The cramped transit tunnels between the cockpit and the hold testified to this, while the passageway leading to the engines looked even more so, if that was possible.
The cockpit seemed like the best place to start; a quick look at the navicomputer would let her know where the ship had been. That would be a good start in determining who the owner was and how much they knew about Malachor V. Fortunately, or unfortunately, there was no need to go that far.
Before she had put a foot past the cockpit's threshold, the river that was the Force surged. Whether it was a warning or not Tristan couldn't tell, but instincts took over. Her saber soared free from her belt and ignited, spitting blue flame as it landed in her hand.
The pilot's seat, previously in its proper forward-facing configuration, had swiveled around, revealing a seated figure swathed entirely in black robes. The garments made it very difficult to even determine gender, while the face was shrouded by a hood. Visually, the figure resembled a human-shaped black hole, devouring what dim light came from the ship's overhead glow-panels.
And yet in the Force it blazed like a sun, like a star going supernova, leaving Tristan to flinch against its power even as she wondered how she could have missed something like that. The answer was obvious; there were techniques to conceal one's Force presence so that even the most skilled of Jedi or Sith could not detect them, even a presence that declared itself to the world like this one.
But there was something familiar about it, and Tristan frowned, dropping her guard a hair.
Muffled noises issued from the figure's hood, causing the Jedi General to start. With consummate grace it rose from its seat, bringing hands up to draw its hood back down.
"Is that any way to greet an old friend?"
What greeted the Jedi General's gaze was not a face, but a grey and red mask, featureless save for a horizontal slit where the eyes should have been. To Tristan it was as familiar as the face that lay beneath it.
"Revan!" Tristan gasped, letting her blade shrink back within its hilt. "By the Force!"
The masked figure chuckled, gloved hands dropping to hook into its belt. "Hello, Tristan."
"What...happened to your fashion sense?" Tristan demanded, hooking her 'saber back onto its resting place at her hip. "You look like a Sith, and that mask doesn't help."
Another chuckle made its way out from behind aforementioned mask. "I think it suits me. It's...more intimidating than the customary robe and tunic."
Tristan raised an eyebrow. "And why would you need to look intimidating?"
The mask tilted to one side. "The Mandalorians respect strength, Tristan. It's about the only thing they do. They'll know soon enough that I have their measure, but I can speed things along if I look the part."
"You took that mask from one of their own," Tristan countered, "if you use it to fight them that sends a message."
"It does indeed," the masked figure agreed, "that I will do whatever I need to to defeat them, but I think I've already shown that."
Tristan grimaced, the initial feeling of joy upon meeting her old classmate dissipating quickly. "Yes, by becoming progressively more ruthless. The Council already disapproves of our actions, Revan. You are giving them more and more ammunition."
"Let them disapprove from their ivory tower, if that's all they're capable of doing," The masked figure responded flippantly, "If they want to find me, they'll have to come up to the front lines and drag me back to the Temple."
"They might do just that," the Jedi General responded tightly. In response Revan laughed lightly.
"And who would support them? The Republic is grateful to us; its citizens love us for daring to protect them from the Mandalorians. No, the Council is very much on its own in this. They're too caught up in their fear of the dark side; they won't act."
Tristan exhaled in frustration. "Revan, why are you here?"
"I needed to speak with you. Privately."
The Jedi General gestured at herself, "I am here. Talk, but take off the mask."
The figure hesitated, then gripped the edges of the mask and then pulled it off, setting it gently down on the chair. Raven hair fluttered free from its previous confines, hanging down to frame a delicate, fine-boned face. Gray eyes peered inquisitively at Tristan.
"This better?"
Tristan sighed. "Much. What was it you wanted to talk about?"
"That can wait." Revan gestured. "You've got questions. Ask them."
"Very well," Tristan began to pace, short strides beginning a slow circle around her nominal commanding officer. "Ever since Althir you have been disappearing, leaving Alek in command of a third of the Republic military. Every time you do he attacks the Mandalorians at their strongholds, hammering them into submission at the cost of millions of lives. Terra Selth, Quarna, Calidus - the Republic has taken staggering losses. Alek is a blunt instrument, with no regard for strategy. Why do you leave him in charge?"
Revan folded her arms. "I have more important things to do."
The arrogance in her tone cut Tristan like the edge of a vibroblade, and she drew back. "More important than saving the Republic? We are Jedi Knights, Revan. Our only purpose is to serve the Republic!"
"And that is exactly what I am doing," Those gray eyes were so cold now. "The Masters did nothing but talk, I am taking action."
"Alek burned Quarna to a cinder when the Mandalorians refused to surrender. You abandoned Tlexia to Fett's vanguard just so you could isolate and ambush a fraction of his fleet." Tristan's words could not contain her outrage.
"A necessary sacrifice. The Tlexians were brave, they fought to the last."
"Listen to yourself, Revan!" The Jedi General's anger exploded outwards, shattering her calm facade. "What happened to the young knight who cried at the ruin of Cathar? What happened to the Jedi who swore never to let the Mandalorians take another innocent life?"
"You overstep your bounds, General." Revan's voice burned like the touch of a lightsaber. "Enough of this, I have orders for you."
Tristan forced herself into a poor imitation of serenity, but could not stop a last glare at the old friend whom she barely recognized now.
"Your mission here is considered complete, I will supervise the remainder of the construction. I want you to take a fleet and strike at the Mandalorians' flank. Make yourself a major irritant, but also make it clear where you are striking from. Provoke them into attacking you, and then retreat towards this location. Draw them here."
Tristan nodded curtly, then turned on her heels and made for the ramp. One hand cut the air and the ramp screeched, slamming down against the landing pad with a loud thump. The Jedi General stalked down the ramp without pause, white hair flaring out behind her defiantly.
Revan watched her go, and allowed herself to slump slightly. Gray eyes dropped. Behind her, the console chimed. A flick of the Force enabled the projector, and a ghostly blue figure shimmered to life above the panel.
"How did it go?"
Revan released a breath. "She...isn't happy with me, Alek."
"Okay. That makes maybe seven against what...a couple billion?"
"She's not happy with you, either." The tiny blue figure smirked, his mouth curving.
"Then she'll have to get in line after Fett, Kurixus, Master Vrook, and probably even Mandalore at this point."
Revan didn't smile. "I don't think she'll join us."
"It's her loss, then. We're doing the right thing, Revan. You're doing the right thing."
"I know that," the Revanchist whispered, "but when she looks at me it feels as if I couldn't be more wrong."
Alek's strong jaw tightened, his own gray eyes looking concerned. "I know you feel strongly for her, Revan, but you should remember what we fight for. A Jedi's life is sacrifice, and now we fight for high stakes."
"You don't need to remind me. She won't get in the way, I swear it."
"Now that's what I needed to hear. So tell me more about that cave you found underneath Malachor's surface."
"No need. I'll show you. Leave Admiral Karath in command of the fleet and make full speed here. It's so exhilarating, Alek. You'll love it."
"I'm looking forward to it."
"Delay your trip for a few days, though. I don't think Tristan would be happy to see you before she leaves, and I need to speak to her first."
"You're the boss. Stay strong, Revan. Alek out."
One Day Later
When a fleet made ready to leave a home berth, it was usually a massive endeavor. Cargo needed to be stored and personnel loaded onto the various ships. The undertaking had to be organized, with droids and quartermasters making sure everything was placed where it needed to be so that it could be retrieved easily at a later date. This was often complicated when admirals used their rank to bring massive amounts of personal possessions aboard with them, such as ornate furniture or paintings.
This particular departure held none of those problems. The Fourth Fleet had been on standby above Malachor ever since its first arrival, so no further preparations were needed. Only a few personnel had been allowed off the ships, and those few had already been shuttled back in anticipation of the forthcoming launch. The only thing the fleet needed now was its commanding officer, who was currently kneeling in a courtyard on the planet below, attempting to find serenity in meditation.
Tristan clenched her jaw and closed her eyes again, opening herself to the current of the Force and trying once more to lose herself in it and gain tranquility. It wasn't working. Malachor V was...strange.
There was power here, but muted, as if coming from a great distance. To Tristan's Force sense, it felt greasy and slick, a far cry from the pure, clean wellspring of light in the Jedi Temple. She dared not touch it; there were many stories of Jedi tapping into mysterious conduits of the Force and few ended well.
What did it mean, she wondered, that Revan had chosen to base one of her plans here? There was no such thing as coincidence, only the will of the Force, but when Revan was involved it was her will that mattered.
She floated in the lotus-style pose traditionally adopted by Jedi for meditation, but while the levitation was meant to assist in achieving serenity this time it merely resulted in her surveying her surroundings from a few meters above.
Finally deciding to give up, she let go of the Force and dropped gently to the floor, boots clicking as they touched the stone. There were still a few hours left before the fleet was scheduled to depart, and she didn't fancy the idea of being cooped up in a ship's cramped environment for more time than necessary.
Perhaps she'd practice a kata or two, and burn off this restlessness.
Her lightsaber hissed to life, and she began to go through the basic movements she'd learned while still a youngling. She usually warmed up for sparring like this; Shii-Cho was not her preferred style but it had always helped her to remember her roots.
Eventually the blue blade began to move faster, the simplistic strikes and blocks of Shii-Cho becoming more complex, tracing wider arcs and carving the air in long, sweeping blows. Tristan's emerald eyes narrowed to slits as Djem So took over her body.
Her sapphire blade swept up and she executed a Falling Avalanche strike, crashing down upon her imaginary opponent with all the power that the Force could give her - and a brilliant violet stream intercepted her blow.
Tristan nearly dropped her lightsaber in surprise, cursing to herself. That was the second time Revan had snuck up on her in as many days. She had better not let it become a habit.
"Want a partner?"
Gone were the ominous black robes and intimidating mask; today the Order's most promising Knight was garbed in the simple tunic of a Jedi. The outer robe had been discarded; it was never that easy to fight in anyway, and currently gray eyes were sparkling with mischief. The overall effect was to make Revan look like the eighteen year-old girl she once had been.
Tristan pulled her 'saber out of the lock and stepped back. "Revan...what-" The Force pulsed and she ducked aside from a quick jab.
"Come on," Revan laughed, twirling the lightsaber expertly in one hand, "show me if I need to start looking for a new general."
The aforementioned General felt a fierce smirk turn up the corners of her mouth. "I think the better question is, will we need a new figurehead? I hope you're not still practicing that hybrid nonsense."
Revan spun quickly, aiming an overhead slash at Tristan that was easily shunted aside. "Words are meaningless, Tristan. Talk with your saber, not your mouth!" Blades sparked and snarled as they clashed, again and again.
You've forgotten how good it was to spar with her. As that humming blue blade draws a trail of lightning across your vision and you bat it away again and again, you remember what it was like to be a youngling, all light and laughter with the people you cared most about.
She reminds you of a Trinthan prowler, coupling easy grace with deadly ferocity. The ground exists only to assist her every motion, adding force to her every blow. Prowlers never give up and rarely give ground, but this is where the difference ends. Tristan never backs down; when she moves it is always to press forward..
Her latest blow burns through the grass as you slip aside, aiming a kick at her side that she slants aside with a twist of her elbow. With your balance disrupted, she attempts to bisect you with a Falling Avalanche strike. It would have worked on anyone else, the flawless timing combined with a blow of devastating power.
But you are Revan, and you are not so easily overcome.
The blow from her elbow was meant to push you back; you go with it, turning a backwards fall into a Force-fueled backward flip that hurls you away from the sapphire flame. You spy her from upside down, hurtling forward with intent to gut you before you can touch down properly. While still airborne, you aim a Force push -less of a blast then a punch - that staggers her for a precious moment, allowing you to gracefully resume an upright pose with your saber at the ready. Her charge thus disrupted, it's quite easy for you to meet that whirling blue blade with your own violet one, spinning through strike after strike.
There comes a turning point, like always. She overleaps a blow at her legs, but doesn't expect the shoulder check you slam into her midsection. A grunt of surprise escapes her as you both tumble onto the floor. You chop her sword wrist and her lightsaber skitters away. She hisses in frustration and thumps a knee into your belly. While you're still reeling from that she catches your lightsaber hand in a vice grip and squeezes. Now it's your lightsaber that drops from your grip and clatters onto the floor.
From an outsider's perspective, you've made an unwise move. Tristan is both a few centimeters taller and a kilo or so heavier. A grappling contest inevitably comes down to strength and weight, with the smaller party at a disadvantage. And that is why outsiders are always trying to figure out why you have so many victories under your belt.
You lever your captured hand upwards and aim a punch at her face with your free hand. As expected, she moves to catch it with her own free hand. It's a feint, however, and you withdraw the limb with lightning speed, grabbing her leg and throwing the both of you into a sideways tumble that sees her get the worst of it. In the surprise her grip loosens and you manage to straddle her, pinning her hands over her head with one of your own. The other descends towards her throat and you see emerald eyes widen, but instead you flick your fingers up to tap her on the nose.
"I win."
Disbelief shows on her face, and then she begins to laugh. Her entire body quakes, shivering beneath you. You regard her with bemusement.
"Hey, I won. I should be laughing, not you." You snarl playfully. "Stop depriving me of my victory!"
"Oh, I would never presume to deprive the great Revan of anything," she replies, sides still shaking. Her long white hair is tangled and messy from the bout, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. She's nineteen-years older than when you first met her, and more beautiful than ever.
"Revan? I yield the match. You can get up now."
You shake your head, clearing it of inappropriate thoughts unbecoming a Jedi. "Right, sorry." You stand up and offer her your hand, which she takes, and try not to think about how the calluses of her hand brush against yours.
"That was fun," you say jauntily, summoning both lightsabers to your hands with a thought. You hold them in your hands, weighing them. Hers is heavier and blockier, an emphasis on strength and durability in keeping with the tenets of Djem So. It's quite a contrast to the slim elegance of your saber. You've incorporated elements of every style into your own, but your favorite is Makashi for its efficiency and focus; it shows in every line of your weapon.
You look up to see Tristan staring at you, puzzlement in those green, green eyes. One hand is slightly extended, a silent appeal for her weapon. You spare another look for the two sabers, then make a decision and hand her one of them.
"What-"
Just not the one she expects.
"Tristan Olin," you say seriously, "will you enter into the Concordance of Fealty with me?"
The Concordance of Fealty is one of the oldest and most hallowed Jedi traditions, stemming back to the Order's roots on Tython, when the sages of old still utilized metal blades. As the Order grew and changed, so too did the Concordance until it came to hold its present meaning: the ultimate expression of trust one Jedi can show another.
A lightsaber is a Jedi's one true possession, the only thing members of the Order are allowed to possess. It is the lightning that both courts and rejects death, and as you're sure some droll, long-suffering Jedi Master will say in the future to his Padawan, it is your life.
You can see every thought as it flashes on her face; many describe her as opaque and difficult to read, but she's never been anything but an open book to you. You watch her intently: shock, confusion, wariness...and then acceptance. She takes your saber from your hand.
"I would be honored." Tristan meets your eyes steadily, and you can see that she's telling the truth.
"May this weapon serve and protect you as it has me," she intones formally.
"May it be your light in the darkness, a beacon of hope when there seems none," you reply.
"As I entrust you with my blade, so too do I entrust you with my life," Tristan continues.
"As long as you carry it, we will never be apart," you finish.
"We are one." You both say, bowing your heads.
She clips her new weapon to her belt and you do the same. She searches your face for some sign of why you have suddenly decided to partake in this solemn ritual, this declaration of bonds stronger than mere fellowship, but you give away nothing, and she will not ask. This is a blessing, for you don't know what you would tell her.
You wouldn't know how to say that it is a selfish gesture, that you want something of hers to keep with you into the darkest times ahead. Regardless of what occurs in the next few weeks, you will not be returning this blade. In the future, far from looking on this as an exchange of trust, she will see it as the deepest betrayal: a perversion of honor that goes beyond simple treachery, and she will not thank you for what you must do.
"Revan?" Tristan touches your shoulder gently, concern apparent in those vivid eyes.
"It's nothing," you say hastily. "Your fleet is leaving soon, you should go."
"Yes, of course," she says, tone wry. "Duty calls. Until we meet again, Revan."
She turns away, stepping boldly through the short grass with a purity of purpose you wish you still had. She doesn't look back, and you watch her go until she exits the courtyard and disappears from view.
You stare hollowly at the saber on your belt, then go your own way. There is much to be done. The Mandalorians must be broken, not merely defeated, and Malachor V holds the key to that victory. You will triumph, no matter the cost.
May the Force be with you.