Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic
Depth of One Soul
Chapter One: Hope of a Jedi
Carefully, Varon opened the hatch of the cargo container, hoping the throbbing hum of its automated lift sequence would go unnoticed by the guards stationed outside. The mechanics had finally left their work in the equipment room momentarily and retired to the living quarters, leaving the place dully lit and dead silent. Varon could not remember how many hours he had just spent, cramped in that tiny metal storage case, patiently avoiding any attention. Luckily, his compartment had not been one of the first that the mechanics had opened. If his senses did not deceive him, he was completely alone, although he would not let himself rush too quickly to that conclusion. Checking his senses once more, Varon delved into his inner conscience, surveying the outside with a vague clarity that his eyes could not physically hope to match. Again, they assured him: the room was clear. Sighing, and with considerable effort, after his muscles had not been able to move for hours, he rose and looked around.
The room was empty; the metal locking doors were closed, likely to protect against thieves. Varon smiled, looked at the mechanics' workbench, and spotted them almost immediately – encased in stainless Corath cases, two small, fluorescent crystals, one red, the other green, side by side, removed from the mess of instruments about the disorganized workbench. Varon scanned the place again, spotting no hidden cameras or meticulously-constructed security systems to ward this supply room from harm. Fortunately, no one was expecting visitors. He closed his eyes, outstretched his mind, and again sensed no danger, so he carefully pocketed both crystals within a small pouch under his robes. Turning to the metal boxes scattered about the bench, he spotted an open case. Grenades. Sonic grenades in this one, and dozens of them; each box likely carried a different type than the one beside it. At a moment's pause, he took two for good measure, then looked around for another hiding place.
And a spanner.
Two guards must have been posted right outside the room, to have heard the noise and responded so quickly. Though they barely noticed the silver tool immediately under the entranceway, both men walked inside, short-range blasters cooly clasped between ungloved hands as the equipment room doors slid back into their neighbouring walls. As they reached the workbench, they paused and looked around, slowly and carefully at opposite ends of the room. Varon, standing on the ridges of his toes behind them, pensively raised one hand, his deep, brooding eyes far removed from the light of the room. Both guards instinctively reached for their temples, then dropped to the floor, unconscious. They'll be out for a while, he measured, dragging both into the unlit corner beside the workbench he had just appeared from. Satisfied, he crept out the open door, locking it with the outside hallway console in case the two guards found sleep too time-consuming for his plans.
The hallway was empty from what Varon could see, its marble-white walls reflecting the neon sheen of halogen lights from the ceiling. Peeking round the intersection a few paces ahead, he spotted two guards at another door. He looked out the portside window opposite the equipment room contemplatively; the stars were an unwelcome sight for a lone man, one who knew there was little room in a delicate gravity-generating ship for error, with only a slight margin for escape. However, there was comfort too in the calm silence and serene complexion of an ever-changing galaxy, almost surreally surrounding him. Varon's thoughts flowed clearer in this scenic abyss before him, allowing him a respite rarely garnered beneath the common struggles of metropolis life that he was so often an involuntary part of.
It did not take him long to find the ship's destination from the nearby console: the planet of Corun, a spice trading port, was just visible off the starboard bow. Its short-distance proximity with the last port he had entered from, Baranor, made hyperdrive an unneeded commodity, which explained his curiosity at why they had been traveling very slowly, almost too smoothly, through the atmosphere-less space. 'Twould almost seem like a pleasure cruise for the captain, Varon mused. A sly smile broke his normally calm, grim features. Nevertheless, he knew he was stalling. Nodding to the starscape with a calm reverence, he darted through the corridor and headed for the cargo hold as discreetly as he could manage in his heavy robes.
For an instant, by the bridge doorway, one guard blinked his eyes curiously. A shadow passed through the hallway only thirty feet in front of him. His hold of his blaster tightened; and one step pulled the indecisive man forward.
"Hey," the other guard blurted noncommitally, the movement somewhat fixing his gaze forward instead of down at the floor where it had been.
The former guard shook his head, stepping back, and twitched. He had forgotten. "I... just stretching," he said at length, trying to conceal an aura of embarrassment. "Boring as Mynox broods just standing here."
"Yeah, I know what you mean. Like anything's going to happen when we're headed for an abandoned spice mine, hey! Why, I remember the time..."
The admiral of the Norfast stood patiently on the command deck, hands curtly intertwined behind his back. The Twi'lek was dressed in grey khakis and light bleach meshing, somewhat complimenting his moist grey features. His yellow eyes regarded the approaching surface of Corun, little more than a grey asteroid with an artificial ozone layer and millions of metropolises, most, moreover, unimportant slums too ignorant of Republic regulations to reform given any length of time.
The stars were silent, almost too silent for his liking. He missed the low rumbling of the hyperdrive and the exhilaration of watching every passing star - and yet it was not more than a fortnight since last this ship rode the light waves, seen his destiny unfold before him, from a tiny speck in a distant system to a bustling planet of two trillion. Resignedly, he examined the outside world with patient anticipation. It would not be long before they arrived and docked with the mining port. 2.54 standard hours, the navicomputer estimated.
Startled, and apparently bearing ill news as shown by his composure, one of the ship's crewmen came up to his side.
Almost without thought, the admiral spun round, narrowing his gaze on the man with zealous, yet slightly disinterested, scrutiny. "Well, what is it? Speak."
"Sir, Lord Zaithla'in has ordered that we head to sub-space, code 5-4-619 before continuing our present course. He feels it would be best to inspect the cargo himself."
The numb feeling in most of the captain's body both relaxed and intensified in almost the same instant. Perhaps this was a promotion... perhaps suspected heresy. He turned to the man, and cleared his throat. Given the implications, he knew he had no choice in the matter. "Very well. Plot the course, Karhydron."
"Yes, captain," the man replied, slowly walking off towards the navicomputer.
The captain was about to turn around, back towards the starscape before him, but noticed an unusual limp in the officer's pace. Nervous about something, he thought, before calling, "Sir." Karhydron turned back to face him. "Is there anything you wanted to tell me?"
Karhydron swayed from side to side, contemplating, before he turned and stood at attention. "Sir... – it's... just a ship's rumour right now, but some of the crew are unsure of Varn and Gharik's whereabouts. They say the two have been missing since last hour's shift and have not been seen again – or registered on any of the telecams."
"Send five of your men and search the vicinity," he ordered. "Don't tell me they've been gambling again in my mess hall…" He sighed. Paid well or not, some mercenaries he hired simply could not be trusted. "Regardless, make sure they're found before we reach commercial air space." He was about to turn and dismiss the man a second time, before adding, "Wait. Where and when were their shifts?"
"Maintenance area, captain. I'll see that it gets checked first."
"Very well, Karhydron. There will be more safety in a wyrm's stomach than at my side if that load has been tampered with, and I do not care who's head will take the blame. Is that clear?"
"Yes, captain," Karhydron answered dutifully before leveling his blaster, turning up its particle beam intensity, then heading away, somewhat flustered.
The captain nodded to the other officers, who instinctively broke their stare, lowering their eyes to the ship's network controls under their fingertips. Two missing men on a ship of fifty officers, under the watch of an approaching Sith Lord, was not an enviable situation.
In an instant the Mantite doors to the cargo hold slid open with a sharp hiss. Varon could hear steel-booted footsteps clanking about from under his perch in the airduct. They seemed cautious, systematically searching for something. The only other person in the hold was a Rodian guard who soon entered the scene acting as if all was in order. The patrol had questioned him thoroughly over what felt like long minutes to Varon, but once they saw he had nothing to hide, they exited discreetly. Moments later, the Rodian closed the doors. Varon sighed, then dropped down from his place in the ceiling, taking great precision in his timing between a single moving security camera's rounds from a corner near the doorway. He scuttled out of its way as he landed, behind a stack of containers, before it returned to survey the main facility. The Rodian came to meet him.
"You were not here," he said again, noncommitally placing a chemical dispenser to a corner of its mouth with two fingers.
Varon smiled. "Very good. You may resume your activities... And take that thing out of your mouth," he added, seeing the dumbstruck pleasure it brought the alien.
"I will not consume contraband," he stated monotonously, before he sauntered off to the nearby workbench, continuing his late hours' work on a blaster rifle.
"Good," Varon murmured in passing thought, waiting on the security camera to again pass him by. He jumped back to his place on the ceiling and breathed in deeply, centring his mind to the currents of thought above him on the command deck.
What news the captain had received disturbed him greatly. His right hand had begun to twitch, and his jaws did not respond the way he intended them to. The crew did not have to look long to see he was nervous, and undoubtedly furious.
One of the crewmen behind one array of controls spoke up; "Lord Zaithla'in is requesting video."
"Put her on screen," he mumbled, one hand straightening his collar.
The faint image of a black Twi'lek in a dimly-lit room appeared in the forward window, with round, smooth features, and, peculiarly for a Twi'lek, many more than two tentacles sprouting from the back of her head, resting on her shoulders and behind her back, their poisonous slime glistening in the faint light of the room. A minor agitation seemed to be plaguing her features the moment the screen flashed on, but it quickly disappeared behind a wall of composure. The gold bands on her largest tentacles, coupled with her unnatural red eyes further attracted the captain's undivided attention, as well as stirred his logical fear. Her face was out of his wildest dreams and nightmares, and the more it moved, the more she disturbed the man.
"Captain Q'elmaric?" her lips mouthed; though the captain could not tell whether such a deep, intrepid voice as the one he heard over the comm-link could emanate from such a lightly-built female, hybrid or no.
"My Lord," Q'elmaric replied, almost mistakenly making it sound like a question. "Lord Zaithla'in..."
A shred of satisfaction enveloped Zaithla'in's composure for an instant, though Q'elmaric could not tell whether it was amusement or aggravation. "Yes, Q'elmaric?" Her tone sounded cynical, quickly dampening the captain's resolve.
Q'elmaric had always had the smallest bit of faith that such a voice as hers could not come from anything less than a male, though merely by the way this one looked – her presence, confrontation, elegance – he knew he had been mistaken, assumed too much too readily. If there was one thing he had instinctively thought all humanoid races shared, it was their taste and savour of beauty, male and female alike. Now, he was talking to a member of his own race and could not focus his thoughts on anything save her complexion and vocal range.
"My Lord," he continued haphazardly, "it appears we have run into a situation with the cargo we carry. I assure you it will not be a problem by the time we dock at Corun. My men are carrying out the investigation to the utmost extent."
"My dear Q'elmaric," the Twi'lek said sweetly, "if I thought you had the situation under control this conversation would not be necessary. I've been instructed to foresee this personally, and it is a task I will not fail in, regardless of whether you and your pitiful mercenaries are involved at all."
Captain Q'elmaric swallowed almost audibly. "My lord, I assure you, it is not necessary..."
"No, Q'elmaric. Success is necessary, and I will go to whatever lengths it takes for your... 'cargo' to get in order. But I admit my intervention should not be required by one so... resourceful, as you've proven in the past, captain."
"No, my Lord."
"Very well. Two of my finest will arrive shortly with orders to inspect and eliminate all substances, organic or inorganic, that may be in the way of your mission. I trust you will show them the highest courtesy, Q'elmaric... as you truly have no choice in the matter."
"Yes, my Lord."
"Good. A shuttle is on its way."
Zaithla'in reached below her screen, causing the image to blur then break up completely, though the captain did not avert his gaze until long after it had disappeared. He turned around, staring at faces that blankly returned his gaze.
"Well, what are you waiting for? Prepare a boarding party!" he huffed, storming out of the bridge to his quarters, to arm himself for the worst.
Kay'l Nadarin crossed his legs over the control pad, slouching in the pilot's chair of the Corellian VI as he held on to a transparent datapad filled with sub-space coordinates, routines, and bounties. His right hand reached for the mug of coffee, and brought it to his coarse, unshaven chin before he turned his eyes from the datapad to look at it. He breathed in a sigh of satisfaction, then turned around at the droid behind him.
"See? Now that's good coffee," Kay'l said, holding the mug like a modest man would fresh ale. The droid backed off and replied in a series of quick beeps and whistles, presumedly about how it was not programmed to watch beans boil instead of making much-needed repairs to the ship.
"Hey, do you want to fly this thing, huh? Are you programmed to watch your own back? No! Now, when I need coffee, you make sure it tastes exactly like this, otherwise I'll get lazy, incapacitated and throw you off the ship. Or - something," Kay'l interjected, pointing at A5-T171, before he handed the droid his mug. "And you better not forget this, A5 – make sure that's the first thing in your list of objectives the moment you see me wake up."
A5-T171 begrudged him a low obedient whistle, then rolled away to the main hold in automated disgust. Kay'l couldn't help smugly grinning as it left, then put his hands behind his neck and resumed his reading. His hand habitually reached towards the coffee holder, into thin air, until his whole body started to lean to his right. He lost his balance; his hand flew forward, trying to support himself, but only managed to knock over his empty plate, which broke on the floor. The chair he had been resting on spun, leaving him with nothing but the cold ship's metal plated floor to accommodate the back of his head. Feeling more frustrated than hurt, he looked at the datapad, which had landed beside him. A small, thin crack ran through one side.
Kay'l groaned impulsively, knowing his embarrassment would not go unnoticed for too long. The unmistakable automated rolling sequence of A5-T171 echoed off the walls in the corridor behind him, and Kay'l did not hesitate to yell, "No, no, no, back A5!"
Sighing, he knew there was only one thing to do: get up. The datapad looked like it still worked, at least. Kay'l picked up the plate shards and put them in one of the coffee holders, then dusted himself off. "Alright, alright, A5. You can come in now."
The droid slowly came around the corner, holding the re-filled mug with a thin metal arm.
"It's alright. I'm sorry," Kay'l confessed, then took the mug and returned it to its holder. "It's just a bit hectic right now, no thanks to the fact I can't sleep at night. Thank you." The droid beeped its acknowledgment.
"Alright, alright. Go and fix the portside dormitory, or something."
A5 headed off in what Kay'l could have sworn was a droid's form of excitement. The pilot shook his head, then saw a flashing light on the computer terminal. Message incoming. Kay'l put the datapad on the co-pilot's chair and brought the message onto the screen beside him, taking another sip of the coffee as he readied himself and rechecked the sub-space coordinates. The coffee he almost spat it out in disgust, just as the screen turned on and revealed a regular human Corun officer. Three thin red dashes on the left side of his uniform: a frigate captain.
The man looked as stagnant as a hyperspanner, in no mood for a discussion. "Corellian VI, this is the Valin Harvester. Do you read?"
"Loud and clear, captain," Kay'l replied formally. In the back of his mind, he half-wondered if this man had had any better sleep than he'd been getting.
"Your mission to Corun must be delayed. You are to head to sub-space, code 5-5-193 immediately."
"On what purpose, captain?" Kay'l asked, trying to sound more skeptical than he was surprised.
"The frigate Norfast is under inspection. Your assistance in our search would be greatly appreciated... non-negotiably, of course. We will transmit further orders when needed. Out."
Letting a brief sigh escape his lips, Kay'l spun in his chair back to the controls and buckled in. "Well, at least we won't get too lonely," he mumbled.
A5 whistled behind him.
"What? I didn't say anything. Just get buckled in. Alright?"
The sight Q'elmaric was greeted with as the airlock doors flew open was less than reassuring. Amongst the smoke and hiss of re-pressurization, two robed silhouettes strode forward, their emotionless guile greeting the beleaguered welcome party of seven as coldly as automated droid protocol. Only a half step in front of his cohort, Q'elmaric felt an emptiness in the back of his throat that almost belied terror; for he knew that by now there were no secrets that could stay hidden even if he desired them to. Even an escape pod could not protect him from the collateral damage of unkempt ignorance now. Gauging the two from their look, neither had likely seen the light of day outside their meditation chambers; Q'elmaric did not doubt that what little if any emotion they had experienced would not unravel itself for a good period of time.
Overwrought with pressure, the captain swallowed hard, still unable to suppress that feeling. He knew he must either speak up now or be interrogated moments later, but he could not find the words to greet these crew could see them clearly now: one was veiled in black and red linen, her pallid skin disturbingly inhuman. The only touching on her that expressed any self thought was lush, somewhat uncomplimentary violet lipstick, and Q'elmaric doubted the concoction was meant for anyone but an unwelcome, 'sincere' enemy incapable of restraining itself. The other figure, notably more barbaric in appearance, and half the height, looked more like the former's furball sidekick rather than a Sith Lord's apprentice. Nevertheless, his complexion was as dark if not more brooding in stature than the female's.
Slowly reaching a halt a few feet in front of them, the disciples lowered their gaze and appeared to start meditating. An instant later, both cocked their heads directly at Q'elmaric, causing the captain to flinch and shudder. They held their gaze for a few moments longer before the captain found the courage within himself to speak."Welcome aboard the frigate Norfast. If there is anything I can do for you do n-"His sentence was severed in mid-air. Q'elmaric braced his neck with his hands, feeling the air within his lungs freeze as the female shot her hand up. "Silence!" she whispered, her cold voice glorifying what faint description the Twi'lek had come to understand from past employers as uncompromising hatred; then her eyes darted elsewhere, and the vice dispersed. She looked at her counterpart, who had also noticed something in the dull, motionless corridor. Moments passed, but whether they were minutes or seconds it came to the point where Q'elmaric could not tell, nor wanted to.
"Is... something the matter?" Q'elmaric asked hesitantly, his voice almost breaking at the last syllables between gasps for breath.
Ignoring him, the female turned and croaked some guttural language of squeals and growls, to which the fuzzball beside her replied with its more pronounced, articulate vocabulary. Q'elmaric trembled as if someone had clawed at a chalkboard. Perhaps it was better that he did not know what they were saying. Somehow, the captain still found his thoughts thrown off track by the female's appeal, despite heavily doubting that she would not sooner kill him than speak to him casually. If she understood the meaning of the word 'informal,' to begin with.
Moments later, she returned her gaze to the captain, addressing him in the Twi'lek's own language, "Where did you last leave port?"
"B-Baranor, my-"
She returned to her counterpart's language of cries and snorts, though this time the furball did not respond, and instead walked down the hall, bobbing from side to side due to its staggered size, looking like it owned the place. Q'elmaric did not dare roll his eyes, though he wanted to. Instead, he brought them up for an instant; but no sooner did the female wrap her right hand around Q'elmaric's throat, lifting him few feet above the floorboards.
"You will take this seriously, captain. I would sooner end your life than see it ruin the empire my master has created." Her tone was even, crisp, and demeaning.
Q'elmaric croaked his acceptance, his voice barely audible to his own ears, much less his men around him, "Yes, yes, of course." He felt the cartilage in his neck suddenly jerk under the strain.
"Good," she whispered in his ear, a faint smile piercing her lips which Q'elmaric's blurred eyesight barely noticed. Then, dismissing him in disgust, she dropped him and headed down a different direction from her accomplice. "Shoot first, and don't ask questions, captain. The Jedi we seek will not show you a second breath's mercy."
"J-Jedi?" one of the men exclaimed, instantly bringing the whole welcome party into chaos. Q'elmaric pawed at his throat, lying on his chest, feeling the effects of internal bleeding consume him. Despite being only footsteps away from the medical room, no one dared offer him help until countless minutes later.
Patiently, Zaithla'in stood erect, her stance frozen as she gazed with ominous, discerning eyes at the fickleness of chartered space before her, from the prow of the Valin Harvester. Tucked away in one ear, there was a tiny black disk; and beside the cylindrical copper hilt at her belt the Twi'lek appeared unarmed.
How predictable: The Corellian VI had yet to show itself, she mused. Quickly approaching from the distant speck of Baranor, the Norfast had already received her Republic-marked shuttle flawlessly. Everything seemed to fall into place, for the moment. And yet she felt chaos.
How this could be did not coalesce. Even she was not as arrogant as to assume all ends, but this delicate matter disturbed her, was frustrating beyond belief. At one final moment the likes of which she had trained decades for, she knew she was mistaken, yet knew full well nothing could be done to one effect without compromising another.
The still walls of her meditation chamber only intensified the pain; any action or wasted movement only made it worse. Whatever disturbance she felt would seize quickly and not let its objective breathe.
Suddenly, something changed: Zaithla'in's eyes darted towards it, sensing its presence. Dropping out of hyperspace, a ship dropped down just above the Valin Harvester, then leveled out at two o'clock, matching speeds. To the lax eye, the Corellian VI would have looked like an extension of its command ship, following its exact movements like it was tied on a string. Zaithla'in nodded curtly in what looked like self reassurance, then put a finger to her ear.
"Open a channel with the Corellian VI," she said. No one replied; it was simply assumed that someone would hear her and have it done.
A voice finally came through, though the connection was filled with static.
"This is the Corellian VI. I've got a problem with the video link, so this old thing will have to do."
"It is no problem," Zaithla'in reassured him. "I do not want a record of this conversation. This is Lord Zaithla'in. What is your crew, captain?"
"Just myself and a droid, si-... er, ma'am." There was a long pause. "I've got the cargo safe and sound - just tell me where to drop it."
"No, captain. This is no longer about the cargo you carry," Zaithla'in intoned. "From now on you have a different assignment."
"Well, as long as credits flow my way-"
"-Do not doubt my word, captain, or you will find yourself on the short end of it."
"What?" Kay'l said, startled. "See, that's the type of talk I don't like."
Zaithla'in's eyes slid wide open. "There are few people as willing to insult my compliments as you are. You will obey my authority, captain."
Wrapping his arms behind his head on the pilot's chair, Kay'l grinned. "What – is that some kind of open threat?"
"May I remind you in whose presence you are in, captain," Zaithla'in demanded, raising her voice. "Who is this, anyways?"
Kay'l considered his options with a mischievous smile, then put two hands on the microphone and bent down to it, looking at the peanut gallery for comments. The droid didn't look like it objected, so breathing in deeply, he whispered, "Your worst nightmare."
A long silence passed through the faint static. Kay'l thought he heard heavy breathing.
Zaithla'in put a hand to her forehead. Why this being resisted her dominance - none-too-lightly augmented by her deft grasp of the Force - did not make sense.
"What? By regulations and contract listings you already know my name, unless, perchance, this is not the affiliation I'm actually working for..."
"You mistake this association, captain, but nonetheless be content with knowing that you will be compensated by either myself or your employer. Your orders are to escort the Norfast and assist with transport when its load is ready to be transferred. You do have a prison chamber – do you not?"
"I've... I've got a makeshift version of an old Mandelorian prototype - enough to carry and incapacitate most unstable materials, but nothing too serious."
"Good. We need you to stabilize a sentient before being transferred to our ship. It is a precaution only, but should your skills be further required, we will send word."
"Very well, I'll help you along with this. But I should remind you that my contractor does not like late shipments, so this better be well compensated."
"Do not worry, human," Zaithla'in said, easing back into her casual voice. "It will be. Valin Harvester out."
Zaithla'in sighed, looking down in disbelief, then composed herself, and returned to watch the stars outside her chambers.
From on top of a pipe half-concealed by the corner of the room's air duct, Varon breathed in deeply and focused his thoughts into a trance, feeling the guest's presence immediately. He was being watched.
The room was suddenly dead silent – which could have been a fortunate coincidence, for Varon did not take long to centre himself in it. The instinctive senses prowling about the upper levels echoed off the stainless steel walls with deafening clarity – almost like these figures advertised their presence rather than concealed it. This singular peace of mind, however, afforded Varon little else to picture, for amongst their consuming hate, few other thoughts reigned free enough to dissect.
What truths, breaks of thought, these Sith discovered would have to suffice, Varon concluded. There was little else to do than wait. And he knew that any wait would not be agelong by any means.
Short minutes later, the metal doors slid open again, and a small figure staggered forward, his brooding thoughts interrogating the room before him. It sensed something amidst, that much was clear.
Something breathed.
A tool dropped to the floor with painful clarity from the a corner of the room, holding Varon's breath as the creature came to investigate it. Terrified, and knowing the inevitable, the Rodian soon after revealed himself from his hiding place, and even from that distance Varon could see the glint of sweat on the alien's brow, feel its constricted breathing. Whistling in delight, the furball slowly walked over to it, the flash of a lightsabre, the hilt clutched between clumps of dark fur, seething from one outstretched hand.
Varon knew it was now or never, and wasted no further time, dropping to the floor on one knee and hand as his robes flew out from under him. The glint of stainless Corath in his open hand drew the furball's undivided attention, for the moment; the Rodian was forgotten.
Relaxed, and attentive, Varon held his eyes firmly on the creature, circling it with soft, deliberate steps, until both of them saw no point in negotiation. The furball's black marblish eyes widened, and in its hands, a vibrant streak of red crystalized energy pulsed forward. The time for words had both passed and ended.
Varon's eyes did not waver, and his green sabre pulsed with its near-limitless energy. Both took strong, steady stances. The fur around the creature's pursed lips folded, and if not for the humming of both weapons, Varon would have heard gentle purring from the back of its throat.
With a flicker of Varon's eyes, the creature suddenly turned, sensing the decoy. The Rodian's blaster discharged; the furball felt it coming in time and brought its lightsabre to its guard instinctively. Too instinctively, for it did not recognize its error until its head bounced about before its feet.
Varon sighed, and surrendered a smile to his enemy before disengaging his weapon. Turning to the Rodian, he saw that his opponent had been skillful indeed; the blaster fire ricocheted into the firer's face, killing his friend. Unfortunate, but necessary, the Jedi accepted. Varon moved on, out the hallway. The cleaning crew would certainly demand an explanation that he didn't have.
Meeting the accomplice was easier than he expected, and his unlit lightsabre was still in his loose hand when their eyes met only paces from the cargo hold. Brooding, stormy dark eyes, a portent of many past victims' luck to come, bore into him. Unfazed, Varon held her stare, reaching into her eyes and peering into the conflict within, as she struggled to do the same. Sensation changed to feeling, and blurred to compassion for the other, towards what they likely thought, what they would enviably choose. What they believed, dared, imagined, followed to the point where their actual sight betrayed perceived bearings.
Energy gathered, knitting closely amongst their opposite natures. Finally, the female broke the silence with a haughty beckoning, "I see now why Zaith did not send herself for you, Jedi."
"A mistake she will not make again," Varon assured, calmly readying and adjusting his composure as casually as a middle-aged man would spot an occasion.
She grinned feverishly, and brought her sabre to her hand in suit. "I suppose you know her from a past engagement, then?" she inquired inattentively, drawing her hands forward. "A debt that's never been paid?"
"I am the emissary of a larger faction than you infer, my dear," Varon said decisively, closing in.
"Then forgive my lack of words - scum!"
Varon held his stance, bringing his blade up just in time as she leaped forward and leveled the brunt of her lightsabre at his neck. Parrying and deflecting both beams of light to his side, Varon slid out of the deadlock and struck at her shoulder; cautiously parried. Staggered, she went on the defensive, backing away throughout Varon's vigorous head-level strikes with an unsure touch to her bearings. Her sense of pride was thrown out the window, much too quick for her liking.
The clash of both blades against each other worked into its own rhythmic beat within Varon's senses. His movements became continuous, timed, dancing and playing out a well-known melody with his assailant with deft precision. The female knew where and how to defend, that he would give her; but repeated motions quickly caught her off guard, and pace. The instant she learned the movement and composed her own counter-addition, Varon came at her from another angle, twisting his body to domineer from every prospective strength, every point of thought. Yet she was not as poorly matched as being unable to keep his pace. She was finely trained; and from her pale, impulsive facade leaked no trace of weariness. Varon looked like he would tire first.
The Sith took one step back in defence; then both stood back reflectively, their outstretched blades humming in anticipation. Varon let his eyes fall slightly, relaxing his senses; his adversary breathed in frustration, waiting for an opportune moment. Sensing Varon was losing his desire to fight, she pressed on with an upper-cut; Varon twisted the blow away, spinning his blade between his fingertips lithely, following her wherever she endeavoured. His feet rhythmically walked backwards, surrendering (and timing) her arduous advance.
The next blow he saw coming, identical as the last series. Switching his grip, Varon held her blade at shoulder-height, pressed forward, and rang his blade across hers, towards her fingertips. Unable to react in time, the female could only drop her blade and back away, preferring her intact hand over an unbroken weapon. Pulsing green energy burnt through the Sith's lightsabre with a heart-jolting concussion. The female lost her balance and fell to the floor, the senses in her left hand seemingly shot for an instant. Varon looked unfazed through it, and nonchalantly walked up to her, his eyes bearing down like a master's to a nervous slave.
She looked back at him, frightened, but also with an antagonistic scorn. Fight had not all left her.
Varon let his guard drop, and put the weapon at his side, his eyes still fixed on her. "You know this Zaith master of yours well?" he asked.
It was a long moment before her lips cautiously, resignedly parted. "She is my master."
Sighing, Varon knew there was only one amiable option left. "You will take me to her," he said. "I desire an audience, almost as much as you desire your life right now."
The female recoiled; still bent on believing the lies she had been told of Jedi's deceptive tact, Varon mused. Locked in a hopeless situation, however, she found she had little choice in the matter.
"You want me to do what?"
The static-filled intercom flashed to life again. "You heard me. There's a docking air lock right off your portside. You are to get this Jedi on board."
Kay'l couldn't help reaching for his collar, and looked back at A5. Outrunning an Exchange partner, besides the risk involved, would be worse than begging to have a bounty on his head, and ship. He had little choice. Dealing with Jedi, even subdued ones, usually brought out the worst of all situations. And where there were Jedi, Kay'l did not doubt he'd just as certainly find Sith.
This was not a good thing.
"Very well, ma'am. Proceeding to docking air lock..."
Kay'l shut the intercom off, and sighed. "Well, any suggestions?"
A5's answer was near unintelligible, something involving trash heaps and onboard blaster fire. Shrugging, he turned back to the cockpit, and focused on a good landing. "I'm going to regret this..."
"This won't work," she told Varon emphatically, walking to the air lock station. One guard was nearby: a gesture of Varon's hand, and he lay unconscious on the floor. They would have to ride out the implications of his resurgence later.
"Move or even think of contacting anyone and your throat will be slit faster than you can think," Varon whispered coldly, though not harshly. "Otherwise, don't worry, my dear. Leave the rest to me."
She rolled her eyes, smirking. Why she was doing this was beyond even her understanding.
The air lock opened moments later, revealing a roughly-dressed pilot on the other end, twin blaster pistols in hand, aimed towards the ground. His face looked resolute, though his image was far from threatening. Nothing compared to what the man was regarding on the other end.
Varon held the female by the shoulder, her hands tied in front of her. His green lightsabre blade wavered about her neck. Kay'l tried to hold a faint smile, but the sight of the beam of green energy, and of its likely skill in its master's hands, battered his hopes of a warm welcome. Not that he had expected one, anyway.
"Well, uh, welcome. I am Kay'l Nadarin, and this is the Corellian VI," Kay'l stammered, searching for something to say that wouldn't drop him into a hole too big to get out of. "Step... this way."
The female looked at Varon from the corner of her eyes; he had made a suitable impression already. Shrugging, Varon dropped the blade from her neck and let her walk forward. He did not doubt her treachery, but when he planned on returning her to her own ship, there seemed little point of betraying him all too soon.
"Let's make this quick, shall we?" Varon said, meeting Kay'l as they passed through the ship's doors.
"Just leave the driving to me," he returned, naturally gaining some composure. Kay'l gestured to the seats in the main hold. "I can't say I know much about keeping Jedi locked up, so I hope you've got it under control."
"Oh, don't worry about us at all," Varon said, biting down a smile from his lower lip. "She'll be no trouble until we dock on that Harvester-class."
Nodding, Kay'l smiled and began to turn away, but stopped early, his eyebrows in a frown. "And, well, there's just one thing on my mind... sorry for asking. But... Sith use red lightsabre crystals, don't they?" he asked, turning from the female, who stared curiously at Varon, to Varon in unsurity.
Varon shrugged, unvexed. "Commonly, yes. The beginner levels are always given the colour red because it conflicts with the three favourite choices of the Jedi. This crystal, however, is a special one I've picked up in my travels – stronger in some ways, as not all energy cells have the same precision, efficiency and such. It's hard to understand, but I could tell you later if there's time."
Kay'l nodded hesitantly, then replied after a short pause, "Well, I'll get these engines running in no time. Should be a cake walk." He knew that 'later' to a pilot always meant never, though he couldn't quite get around what Varon had just told him. Probably a lie anyway. Lightsabres had never interested him much, always seemed like they were the ultimate weapon in any situation, as well as, of course, being the most difficult to master. The concept of one being any better than one beside it astounded him. Of course, it made sense: energy had to come from a source, and better crystals should augment its potency. Strange that he had never thought of it that way, he mused. He decided not to mention it to A5, and put up the coordinates immediately.
When Kay'l had gone, the female rolled her eyes, cursing silently. "You stole that, didn't you?" she accused. "So you have the two crystals as shipment."
Varon smiled to himself, then turned back to her with a dry face. "You have much to learn, my dear. –What is your name, anyways? You certainly can't like my calling you dear, do you?"
She glared at him sarcastically. "Why? Do I interest you now?"
"Certainly," Varon said, wisely leaving it open.
"You? A Jedi?" She almost laughed, demeaning him.
"Do I interest you?" Varon wondered. "Certainly you do, of course. A Sith would never have followed me to this point, would she? Perhaps my interest is in your indecisiveness."
"Hah!" she grinned, then started scowling. "You think I don't want to return to my own ship and then kill you? You help me more than you know."
"Why, my dear, is the question. Without a lightsabre, you're hardly in the position to kill me, and you've already failed this Zaith master of yours. What penalties do you expect to bear from that?"
"Zaithla'in," she corrected. "Remember that name."
"It does have a ring to it," Varon mused. "In an hour, that name will be yours, I imagine. Or perhaps I could commandeer this ship right now and take us into uncharted territory if I'm truly worried about him."
"Her. You should be," she chuckled. "You'll see."
Varon sighed. "No, girl, I shouldn't. If you can't tell me anything more than my report told me – a black Twi'lek with many tentacles, a violet sabre, and talented capabilities, then I see no point in keeping you entertained." Not much of a conversationalist, he mused.
The female scowled. Recollecting her memories, she could picture almost every aspect of Zaithla'in that would amuse if not assist Varon – her stride, tone, humour, pride, and even a darker palette of her arrogance. She stayed silent, and Varon turned the other way. Let him discover them for himself, she brooded, if he is truly so divine. Although she could not deny that flicking desire to help this whelp however was necessary, if it meant Zaithla'in's death. Zaithla'in had been a key figure to her childhood, and had raised her in the ways of the Sith, but even she had told her to show no respect to those who are not strong enough to defend themselves, no matter how close they are. And though Zathla'in had not killed her for failing in the past, the penalties had become increasingly intolerable. Some harsher punishments, she recollected, for slight misdemeanours appeared to be only for Zaithla'in's pleasure. She respected her master, but had no compassion for her. And increasingly, this Jedi was beginning to amuse, and surprise her. Perhaps her loyalty to him would get her further than she had committed.
Less than five minutes had passed since they docked with the Valin Harvester. A large clamp latched on to the port side, shaking the small armed transport at an angle, bumping Varon into a wall, and knocking A5 to the floor.
"Seatbelts, Jedi," the female groaned smugly, her hands resting on her thighs like an entertained passenger. Varon didn't respond, only looked at her as he straightened himself and waited for Kay'l. Disturbing beeps and whistles from the cockpit broke both of their lines of thought; metal banged about, Kay'l's curses were more than audible throughout the ship, and even when the droid was upright again, he had to shut it off to stop it from screeching at him.
Shaking his head carelessly, Kay'l emerged out of the corridor, his hands stained with grease. He went to the sink, risking the chance of the Jedi turning on him. Running his fingers through a towel, he turned to Varon. "Well, mission accomplished, at least. There were quite a few requests for yourself on the comm-link, sir."
"I'm sure it can wait," Varon replied nonchalantly. He saw where this was going.
"They found your fur-creature friend in one of the Norfast cargo holds, his head severed. Though last time they checked, you were a woman," Kay'l noted, fixing his eyes on the Jedi.
"This is a good ship you have, Mr. Nadarin. Last time I checked, it was working for the Republic on a mining project, on the other side of the galaxy. I hope you haven't lost your touch," Varon nodded his respects, then turned to the door. He held there a moment. "If nothing else, you still have a chance to change your ways. I can pay you more than this Sith will ever manage, her life soon to leave her, anyway, and grant you amnesty from whatever business you're running right now. There's a task I need a hand in, if your blasters are ready."
"Now, hold on. I'm alrea-"
"You don't want trouble, I'm sure. So are you coming? I could force you to get this ship out of here, and keep our enemy alive, if you'd prefer."
The glint in Varon's eyes overwhelmed him. How everything had escalated so quickly, he could not imagine. The female also stared at him in disbelief, but also saw determination in his features unlike anything she'd known before. Perhaps this was their moment of change.
"What will you have me do?" Kay'l asked.
"Get to the detention floor, and take whoever's alive. With our guest here, that should be no problem for the two of you. From there, either haywire their ship or disable their firepower – and communications, more importantly. Leave the company to me."
She nodded at her mention. "You truly intend to take this ship down almost single-handedly?"
"No, of course not," Varon refuted. "The Sith is all I'm after. You'll deal with our escape. If that's still one of your priorities."
"And what makes you think I'd want to escape a ship I am second in command to?" she asked, prying into whatever flaw in his argument she could think of, though she truly didn't care for that power, after her failure.
"Training," Varon said. "Without a master, or any idea of how to lead – and assisting an enemy in mutiny, what makes you think the crew would such as fear you?"
Her silence was the only sign of faith he would get.
"Good. Now what button opens this door?"
"Panel to the right, top-left," Kay'l said. He looked at the female, who just as blankly returned his gaze. Both had no idea how, or why, anything now is as it is.
Dry smoke seeped in through the open hatch and into the air lock as the iron door severed and disappeared into all four neighbouring walls. The brown robes about Varon slowly vanished into the white smoke, and the air lock doors in turn closed behind him, leaving Kay'l and the female to find their own path once the way was cleared.
Varon felt the air around him begin to thin. Smoke twisted and writhed about below him, containing a mix of oxygen, hydrogen and argon that somehow managed to crystalize or remove certain unwanted (illegal) toxins. Varon removed the lightsabre from his belt, and turned it on, bringing it from his side to his front with both hands. The instant the doors in front of him opened, he did not doubt there would be a modest party just waiting for any reason whatsoever to shoot him, whether or not he was being brought in or accompanied at all.
Outside, the blue and grey tones of the hexagonal hallway reflected a smoky white sheen, but soon cleared once the fog had thinned. Through the reflection, he could see a few guards, blasters raised, waiting for any sign of movement, to fire. Varon hid himself behind one of the door's corners and waited.
"You can come out, Jedi," a middle-aged captain called over the thinning smoke. A dozen guards surrounded the air lock, and each knew full well that Varon had entered, via video link, before the camera had been destroyed by his capable hands. They stood still, fingers locked on their blaster triggers like a falling man would to a cliff face. Slow, steady breaths. Calm, pensive concentration. Rigid nerves.
Varon thought quickly. Half a score of blaster fire was too much to deflect at once. The instant he moved would spell his death. Sighing, he readied his mind, steadied his compassion, soothed his heart. There would be a time for decisiveness, and another for patience.
Laying perfectly still, he thought he heard a boot graze the metal floor.
"Well, only one way to find out," someone said, chuckling at his own words.
An instant later, Varon heard a heavy tapping come towards him.
Grenade.
Opening a palm, his lightsabre in the other hand, Varon spun into the centre of the air lock, his robes twisting about effortlessly. His eyes glared wide open, searching for a target, ah, yes, right behind the captain, whose features had suddenly become cold and frightened. No sooner had blaster fire unsettled the corridor than an explosion tore most of the company apart, leaving only two alive behind a screen of smoke and dust.
Varon flicked off his lightsabre, sacrificing protection for complete silence: its dull hum would give him away too easily. He preferred the subtle approach, and the least bloody. A click from behind told him that the other two were coming; he had little time left.
Gradually, the smoke cleared enough for him to spot the remaining two, and their weapons. One he could handle by Force-moving the blaster out of from his grasp; the other who'd open fire almost immediately could be killed by deflecting his own blaster fire. It was no sooner thought than done.
By the time Kay'l and the female were on the other side of the docking hatch, a cloud of smoke and the scent of discharged, smoking flesh had spread about the corridor. Varon was nowhere in sight. Shaking her head, the female picked up a blaster and stared into the distance, at the nearest intersection which rested slightly further from them than the extent of the carbon scoring had reached.
"Follow me," she said at length, and casually turned down a smaller passageway, taking the lead.