As he stood at the foot of the Ebon Hawk's landing ramp, both blasters still smoking from recent use, Carth had a bad feeling about this.
He had, in fact, nursed that bad feeling all the way from the Endar Spire, when it blew up and started this whole thing. Had nursed it ever since he met Ren Olharr, who was far more skilled than any soldier he'd ever met and yet seemed so unsure of her place in the world. It was something he expected to see in a child, not a full-grown woman in her mid-twenties. The mission left no room for doubt, though, so he served at her side, saw her grow in strength and skill, and tried to bury his growing misgivings.
Until the debacle on the Leviathan, where Admiral Karath whispered a final, damning secret in his ear. Where the Dark Lord of the Sith confronted them, and, laughing in his cold monotone, revealed the true identity of the sarcastic soldier-turned-Jedi.
He hadn't know what to expect, even as they escaped Malak's grasp but were forced to leave Bastila in his clutches. Ren Olharr had been quite unresponsive as they recovered the last Star Map, doing very little except fight and sleep. She talked to no one, not even Mission or Jolee, and practically kicked HK-47 and Canderous out of the cargo hold. Buoyed by the sudden revelation of her identity, the former hadn't minded very much; the latter took up residence in the starboard crew quarters where he regaled Mission with tales of Revan's strategic brilliance and utter ruthlessness.
If he had hoped to bring the old Revan back simply by talking about her, he failed. Ren Olharr continued to go by that name and drew in on herself, focusing on the fight to come. Tension coiled within her, unleashed immediately on those who stood in her way. Korriban had provided many who thought this was wise, with the Sith Academy rising up in arms after Ren strode out with Uthar Wynn's mutilated corpse and hurled it into their midst. Even the deaths of every Sith student on the planet, however, failed to release the wary pressure building up inside. Carth had been almost glad when they'd been stranded on the Unknown World. Preoccupied with fixing the ship, he hadn't been there when Ren intervened in the power struggle between the One and the Elders by taking the One's head from his shoulders. He'd also been absent when the three Jedi slaughtered their way through the temple and deactivated the disruptor field. Something important had happened there involving Bastila, but none of the three Jedi talked. Only Ren's stormy countenance - a sight made familiar over the last few days - and Jolee's grave expression hinted at the depths Bastila had fallen to.
Once the Ebon Hawk was spaceworthy and free to fly again, the Star Forge was their final destination. Ren had ordered every single one of them to check their equipment and prepare for the worst fight any of them had ever been in. Carth's Republic Mod armor received strengthening alloys and Canderous insulated his Mandalorian battle suit against electrical damage, a sober reminder of the dark side powers they faced. Blasters were upgraded for stopping power and energy capacity, and Carth even caught Zaalbar honing the edge of his ancestral blade.
Then they were ready. Or so they thought.
The initial landing was a nightmare. There almost hadn't been a landing zone; Dark Jedi and Sith troopers flooded the pad, locked in ferocious combat with the Jedi Knights sent ahead to secure the area. The Ebon Hawk's guns were of no use with the combatants so tightly mingled together; he remembered arguing with Canderous whether or not to open fire anyway, and while the Mandalorian was shouting something about acceptable losses and untenable situations, Ren simply hit the ramp release and dove out of the ship.
He'd seen her slim, petite form fall from the ramp. Both lightsabers blazed to life before she hit the ground, and when she did an invisible hand hurled the clustered Sith into the hangar walls. She charged straight into a knot of Dark Jedi, blades spinning and hacking, and disappeared from view.
Canderous had sworn vigorously in his native language and grabbed his ludicrously-oversized rifle before jumping off the ramp. Carth had hastily set the Ebon Hawk down on the newly-cleared landing pad and left the ship just in time to see Canderous and Juhani exit the hangar. He'd meant to follow them, but Jolee had accosted him.
"We have enough to do here without looking for more trouble!" The old Jedi had shouted, deflecting a blaster bolt with an elegant one-handed sweep.
"But Ren-" Carth's distraction nearly cost him his head, and only a quick dodge saved him from a disruptor blast. He fired back and didn't miss.
"Has to fight her own battles. You saw her; every Sith in this crate wouldn't stop her. She'll be fine," Jolee cut down an overeager Dark Jedi, and with a gesture hurled the dead woman's still-ignited lightsaber into the back of one of her comrades. "We, on the other hand, need a hefty dose of luck to get out of this one intact."
Carth glanced back at the trail of bodies bearing lightsaber burns, and then at Mission and Zaalbar frantically attempting to keep from being drowned in a tide of gold armor. Decision made, he emptied both guns into Sith backs and rummaged for reloads.
The fight had taken at least an hour, and of course it felt longer. Everyone felt it; Mission's arm was scarred by a lightsaber, Zaalbar was limping from a shot to the leg, and burn marks showed all over the droids' plating. Carth himself had taken a disruptor shot to the chest and was pretty sure he had a few cracked ribs. Only Jolee remained mostly untouched, his robes only sporting a few burns, but now that the Sith forces lay dead or dying everyone had room to breathe, recover, and reflect on their struggles.
The Sith had poured through for the first few frantic minutes, but their ranks had eventually thinned to a trickle, and then even those few stopped coming.
"Where is everybody?" Mission wondered. "I'm kind of hurt; after all that effort and crappy shooting they just give up on us?"
"It's Ren," Carth said quietly. "They're trying to slow her down, weaken her for Malak."
Jolee leaned heavily against one of the Hawk's landing struts. "Flyboy's right. Malak wants to kill her himself, and he knows her death will win the battle for him. Hell, he'll win the war." The old man laughed bitterly. "But the way she is right now, he'll be lucky if she doesn't take his head off the moment she sees him."
Carth turned to the old man. "You knew, didn't you?" Mission flinched, probably expecting him to spew hatred and vitriol, but he was too tired for that. "You knew all along that she was Revan."
Jolee nodded. "Yes, I did. I didn't tell you because it wasn't my place."
The pilot shook his head. "Not that. I'm...well, I'm not over it but I'm more interested about how Revan hid her identity. There aren't any images of her face, just the mask."
Jolee wagged a finger at him. "You young people love your symbols. The mask was to render her identity unimportant, so that people would hear her message: that the Mandalorians needed to be fought. Or so I'm told; the Shadowlands don't get the Holonet. And the Jedi Temple is basically closed off from the rest of Coruscant. I doubt anyone outside the big old castle knew her face before she put on the mask."
Carth shook his head in disbelief. "But someone should have seen her. Someone should have known."
"Ha!" The old Jedi snorted. "People did know, but by and large they were Jedi. The Council knew, of course, but the Jedi who knew Revan the best either died during the wars or turned to the dark side with her.
But," and here he waved a finger again for emphasis, "you have to understand something: Revan wasn't trying to keep a secret. She didn't care who knew her name or her face, it was never important if somebody knew what she looked like under the mask. It was all about a way to focus the public's attention on a symbol so that they would forget the person and see only the message, that's why she changed her name too. Her identity wasn't the issue. This whole 'mystery' was just a side effect of all that."
Carth thought about it. If he had to be honest with himself, he was mostly angry because he hadn't known. Ever since the pod had crashed to Taris with him and Ren inside it, he'd known that there was something no one was telling him. The feeling had never gone away, and when Karath had passed on the truth with his dying breath he'd felt betrayed and vindicated at the same time; angry at such a monumental secret but also fiercely triumphant that he'd been right to feel as he did.
"And let's be honest," Jolee continued, once he was sure Carth had processed that thought, "the Jedi Council's more responsible for this secret-keeping business than Revan ever was. Of course they needed to be for their plan to work; couldn't have people realizing the Dark Lord of the Sith was walking around without any idea who she was."
"But now she does, right?" Mission questioned. "And she's fighting Malak instead of helping him, so she's good again now, yeah?"
Carth shook his head angrily. "It's not that simple, Mission-"
"There you go again with the rampant paranoia, Carth!" Mission threw up her hands. "It's really getting old! Just because Admiral Asshole jumped in bed with the Sith doesn't mean everyone is plotting behind your back to betray you! We know Ren; we're her friends. She wouldn't do that to us."
"Sith don't have any friends-" Carth began, but Jolee raised a hand.
"What I worry about," the old Jedi said slowly, "is whether or not she decides she wants revenge for what the Council did to her. Because if she does-"
The rest of his sentence was cut off in a gasp as he doubled over. Mission rushed to steady him.
"What's wrong? Jolee? Jolee, are you all right?"
It seemed that he was, for the old Jedi waved her away, managing to stand upright again. His eyes were graver than ever.
"I'm fine, but I don't think we can say the same for Ren."
Darth Malak, Dark Lord of the Sith, stared down at the ruined hole in his chest, then toppled down onto his side. The metallic prosthesis replacing his jaw thumped against the durasteel floor, but he made no other sound.
Before him, Ren Olharr stood, her robes burned and scarred beyond all recognition. The cyan lightsaber still hummed in her hand. She looked at it as if seeing it for the first time and deactivated it. Then she followed her enemy down to the floor in a flutter of white.
"Ren!" The shout burst from Bastila's throat as she rushed to her friend's side. Juhani and Canderous were right behind her, their bodies bearing the burns of Malak's fury.
Bastila gently turned over her old friend's body and gasped at the damage. She'd been impaled through the abdomen; the edges of the wound were charred and scorched by the lightsaber's beam.
"She looks bad," Canderous observed neutrally, but there was a touch of regret in his voice.
"Shut up," Bastila snapped. He was right, though. The compressed beam of energy had torched Revan's stomach and probably more of her vitals. The cauterizing properties of a lightsaber meant that there was no danger of exsanguination, but it also meant heavy internal damage caused by the touch of the plasma beam.
The steel beneath her boots lurched, nearly toppling her over Revan. Canderous nearly fell, but somehow stayed upright, letting out a curse in what was presumably Mandalorian.
"This place is falling apart," he snapped, "we need to get out of here."
He was right about that, too. Bastila brushed a lock of raven hair out of Revan's face, then stood up. With a gesture of her hand, Revan rose into the air until she floated a meter off the ground.
"Juhani," At the call, the Cathar Jedi exerted her own grip, maintaining the comatose Jedi's gentle levitation. Bastila released her hold; with another call to the Force Revan's lightsabers hurtled into her hands from where they lay on the cold durasteel grating. Bastila hooked them both to her belt and turned to follow her comrades, then hesitated.
The body of Darth Malak, once Alek Squinquargesimus, lay unattended and unmourned. Bastila felt a pang of grief, mixed with regret. At the last, he had been a monster twisted by the seductive power of the dark side, as terrible as any terentatek or creature of Sith alchemy. How different he was from the kind, brave Jedi Knight who had so believed in freedom and justice that he had defied the entire Jedi Council for his beliefs. She'd worked so hard to keep Revan from the darkness again that the woman had started to look like a cornered womp rat every time Bastila walked by. She'd lectured Revan endlessly from her pedestal about attachment and passion and everything under the suns...and the entire time she'd had no idea what she was talking about.
Had it been like this for Malak, she wondered. Did he know what he was getting into, did he realize the grip the dark side was gaining on him? Did he accept it, or did he delude himself into believing he was its master -
"Oi, princess!" Canderous shouted over another rumble, "I'm not dying here, so get your osik together! You can brood on the Hawk!"
The haze of her memories and musings blew away like a cloud of dust disturbed by a brush. She shook her head, and in that motion saw a small glint of metal lying by Malak's hand. Once again the Force brought a lightsaber to her, the smooth contours and elegant curves fitting easily into her hand.
"Come on," Canderous growled. "Play saber collector when we're not all about to die!"
If he was right many more times, Bastila thought, she might actually have to kill him. Then she took his advice and followed him out the door.
As he shut off the tractor beam console, accomplishing his mission and eliminating the only reason to remain on this vile weapon of mass destruction, Obi-Wan Kenobi suddenly got a very bad feeling about all this.
He knew where the bad feeling was coming from; knew it as well as he did its source. His old apprentice was on the station, and even a cursory examination of the Force showed that Darth Vader had neither forgiven nor forgotten the duel on Mustafar.
It had been many years since that duel, and Obi-Wan was all too aware that he would not survive a second one, nor did he really desire to. The galaxy had become such a dark place, and he had never feared death. It would not be so bad to lay down his cares and go to join all his fallen brethren, so long missed. But there were still two things he had to do: ensure Luke escaped the Death Star and investigate a new Force signal, a strange ripple in the current that simply would not go away.
It wasn't a dramatic disturbance like the death of Alderaan, nothing on that scale of loss and suffering. In fact, it was nothing more than a niggle in the back of his mind, but the reason it stood out was because it felt familiar. There was nothing on this colossus that should incite that feeling, and that alone warranted a further look.
Vader was moving, slowly but inexorably like the black thundercloud he existed as in the Force. In contrast, the other feeling was stationary. It wasn't exactly close, but in the opposite direction from Vader. Perfect.
He started moving. With luck, this would draw Vader away from Luke and prevent the Dark Lord from the inevitable realization a little longer. Anakin always did have tunnel vision.
Beneath the nightmarish visage of his helmet, Darth Vader's burnt lips twisted in a snarl.
His old master had never lacked for courage; had old age and senility softened the Negotiator's steel resolve? Possible, but unlikely. A better explanation was that this was a plan, executed with trademark Kenobi subtlety.
Well. It wasn't as if he didn't have the time to spare, or the confidence in his abilities. Kenobi was nothing but an old man now, and he, Vader, had become the second most powerful being in the galaxy.
Lips now bared in anticipation instead of hate, the Dark Lord went in search of his prey.
There hadn't been any schematics available, so Obi-Wan let the Force guide him through the bowels of the steel monstrosity, taking service corridors and maintenance elevators to remain unnoticed. He could still feel Vader's presence as the monster strove to hunt him down, but he had a comfortable lead and could fit through the smaller spaces the Sith Lord could not.
The path he chose saw him switch between service tunnels and automated lifts at no real discernable points, dodging mouse droids with consummate ease. The Force guided him and gave him certainty, refreshed him when he grew tired, so it was absolutely no surprise to him when a seemingly-innocuous side corridor opened up into a massive room, sporting a matte-black sphere that exuded sinister intent.
That, however, was not the object of his scrutiny. The elusive Force signal was strong here, and further inspection revealed its source: off to the side stood a gray cylinder, not unlike a bacta tank but considerably smaller. It was set at an angle so that the back of the device loomed away from the base. He'd emerged behind it, so a quick circle was needed to ascertain just what he was looking at.
And then he remembered. This device felt familiar because it was...or rather the person inside it was. But he and Master Yoda had left it in Bail Organa's care, so what was it doing here on the Death Star? How had it escaped the destruction of Alderaan?
There was no time for those answers; Vader was closing relentlessly, his aura tinged by a new malice.
Obi-Wan placed a hand on the pod and opened himself to the Force. Life flowed through him, all-engulfing. In his senses, the pod glowed with a gentle light, impenetrable to all but those who immersed themselves in the light of the Force. He allowed the light to radiate from him, channeling the current into the pod until a metallic click sounded. He stepped back, and the clear hatch opened upwards but slowly, as if oddly reluctant to relinquish the person it had protected so long.
Now open to the world for the first time in who knew how many centuries, the pod revealed a young woman: slender, with short raven hair cut so that long bangs framed her face. She wore the tunic and brown overrobe of a Jedi, but in a style so antiquated even the Jedi, long respecters of tradition, no longer used them. He'd seen that style before in recordings of the Mandalorian Wars, but they were four thousand years past.
Power radiated from the woman's slight frame, a power so great it nearly staggered him. Only Anakin had ever had this much sheer presence in the Force, such raw evidence of existence. She shone so brightly in the Force that she seemed to have been there always, a constant amid the ever-changing tides of life. And yet all this tremendous Force-sensitivity had been absent until the pod had opened.
How long had she languished within this container, and why had she been interred within?
His musings were interrupted as something hissed below him, and Obi-Wan looked down to see a previously hidden hatch open in the bottom of the pod. Two lightsabers rested in the secret alcove, along with a small box and a very old-looking datapad. Any further investigation was forestalled as the woman gasped and shot upwards, chest heaving in frantic breaths.
They were gray, but a bright gray, almost silver. Currently they were fogged with the slow ascent into awareness, but something told Obi-Wan they were normally bright with intelligence and cold barriers against any attempt to fathom their owner's thoughts.
Then they widened, and immediately the old Jedi Master found himself pinned to the nearest wall, a hand closed around his throat.
"Tu quis es?"
Despite being pressed against a bulkhead and having his air circulation cut off, Obi-Wan remained calm. It was not for nothing they'd called him the Negotiator. He raised both hands slowly, in a gesture of peace.
"I'm sorry, I don't understand you."
The gray eyes were wild now, swirling with confusion and disorientation. They searched his face desperately, then narrowed quickly. The wild torrents of emotion were replaced by something else: a mechanically-precise sense of calculation that chilled Obi-Wan's spine even as he struggled to process the sudden change in the woman's Force-presence.
Then, agony.
White needles of pain stabbed his temples, and the world around him blurred and became incomprehensible. His throat ached in pain, but he could not even hear himself screaming. For a long moment he wallowed in torment.
Then hands were gripping his head, pressing away the pain. Cold relief swept over him, hitting almost as abruptly as the pain had. Jedi training kicked in and he banished the remainder of his discomfort, straightening up again.
The woman stood before him, eyes wary and chest still heaving with exertion. He frowned; was she unwell?
"I'm - I'm sorry," she began haltingly, and Obi-Wan was surprised to learn he could understand her now, but more immediate of a concern was the way her eyes began to mist, jerking in and out of focus. "I - where am I? Who are you? You're a Jedi, but this isn't-" She took a step forward and then tumbled forward, arms flailing. Reflexes still sharp, Obi-Wan deftly caught her before she hit the deck.
"Are you quite all right?" he began to ask, then saw the closed eyes and heard the gentle, quiet breaths of sleep resumed.
There was no time to let her wake. Vader approached, blocking the main entrance, but there was no way Obi-Wan could escape the way he came, not with an unconscious woman in tow. He frowned, turning over all his possible options and then attempting to concoct a viable plan. Soon he had one, bereft of his preferred traits of caution and elegant subtlety. It was a bold idea, relying on sheer audacity and quickness of execution.
It was, he thought regretfully, a plan Anakin would have liked.
Abandoning his maudlin contemplations with a rueful shake of his head, Obi-Wan used the Force to call the contents of the box to his hands. He slipped the datapad and the small box into the woman's voluminous robes. The lightsabers he held in each hand, noting that they had not been built by the same person, before clipping one at random to the woman's belt and gripping the other one in his hands.
Fury boiled through Darth Vader's mind, lashing against his carefully-constructed barriers of control as he approached the entrance to his quarters. After all the old man had done to him, taken from him, he had the gall and the nerve to violate one of Vader's private sanctuaries?
His saber was already in his hand and lit as he reached out with his mind, preparing to open the door with his mind when it hissed open, revealing a brown-robed figure with something slung over his shoulder. A forest-green lightsaber hummed in his hands.
Obi-Wan!
Vader snarled, stepping forward to close the distance. He was halfway to Obi-Wan when the old man hurled the viridian blade at him.
Old fool! The Sith Lord growled in delight, deflecting the impromptu spear with a contemptuous sweep of his arm. Perhaps senility really was creeping in. He swept forward menacingly, savoring his impending victory -
And then saw only a flash of brown as Obi-Wan was somehow hurtling over his head in a spectacular somersault. Vader tried for a vertical cut to slash the Jedi Master out of the air but missed. The old man hit the floor heavily but kept his feet and raced for the door. The Sith Lord closed in pursuit, but as Obi-Wan passed the door a lance of blue light stabbed out, humming sweetly. The access controls exploded in a shower of sparks, and immediately the door began to close.
A growl of hatred escaped Vader's throat and he redoubled his efforts but the cumbersome armor slowed him down, and he only managed to reach the sliding doors as they closed shut in his face, a final galling denial.
He threw back his head and screamed, anger and spite blackening the Force. The crimson beam of his lightsaber plunged into the durasteel doors, thickened and reinforced for absolute protection. The barriers designed to defend him now stood in his way, unyielding and uncaring.
Vader drove the blade against the doors with all his considerable strength, forcing the beginnings of a circular cut. He would not be denied again. He would find Obi-Wan.
Do you hear me, old man? I WILL FIND YOU!
Obi-Wan fled the Dark Lord's private sanctuary, head ringing from the shout of pure fury released into the Force.
He was panting heavily; though the woman was a light burden he was old, and the acrobatics hadn't helped. He supposed he should be grateful, though; the old Ataru techniques had never deserted him and had most likely saved his life.
He spared a moment to offer a silent apology to the woman, or whoever had created that lightsaber. It would no doubt end up as another one of Vader's trophies, but at least it had served a good purpose: saving their skins.
Sirens blared, a cacophony of insensible noise. That wasn't good; had Luke and the others been found? Still, he could do them no good here, and he trusted Solo to keep them alive until they could regroup at the ship. That would be the best place to deposit his unanticipated companion and keep her safe. Then he would need to lure Vader away, an act that would certainly cost him his life.
There is no death, but there is the Force.