The Rise of Syn Anderson
Chapter I: A Master's Fate
Panting, Syn Anderson overlooked the damage he had caused. Bodies, some without limbs, others with gaping, cauterized wounds, were everywhere in the Committee Hall. Blood, still fresh, was coming down the marble halls in small rivers. Several Committee seats had been smashed and broken. Every now and then, a gurgling noise was heard from one of the Committee members. They had come, finally. The groveling politicians had finally found the courage to attack him openly. They had become lowly assassins. Syn grinned humorlessly. It was time.
Out of nothing, it seemed, he arrived.
"You know why I am here, Syn."
Syn about-faced instantly, and was surprised to see him there. A rival. A cousin. A rival's protégé. He had never thought he would have come to try to mark the end of his reign. Of his era. Patrian Horilles.
"You too, Patrian? No matter. You shall fall, like all the other fools here," Syn hissed.
"I cannot let you continue like this, Syn," Patrian replied calmly. "You have caused far too much suffering for people everywhere. I will see you dead for your conquests, your burning of worlds, the murder of my Master."
Syn chuckled. "Suffering? Conquests? I have brought peace, stability and order. I have replaced chaos with obedience, war with harmony. My people are mine, and neither you nor any Jedi puppet will take that away from me. You intend to stop me? I, who has cheated death, who will live forever. I, who has brought the galaxy to heel and has brought unstoppable domination? No, dear Patrian, you, not I, will fall here today."
Sorrow spread across Patrian's face. Ever so slightly, Syn was taken aback. "You mean – no, this can't be true, can it? You really thought I could be brought back? Back to the light? Look around you, Patrian. What can you possibly offer me?" Patrian didn't say a word.
"So be it. Do you know, Patrian, that your power could have been truly great if I had taught you, instead of Tyrric? You had much talent. Your natural affinity to the Force was amazing. But it is too late now. We all make our choices, Patrian. In the end, I am a god. In the end, you are nothing."
Almost immediately, Syn was at Patrian's side, lightsaber ignited in his left hand, a tool of so much terror over the last decade or so. Curved hilt, intense red beam. A master's weapon. Patrian ignited his own purple lightsaber just in time to block Syn's first wave of attacks. He parried as best as he could, but he knew what was coming. Despite his age, Syn was still the greatest lord of the lightsaber the galaxy had seen in many centuries. He had introduced a magisterial new form, combining the best of existing techniques, in the Archides style, a truly magnificent innovation of which only he, and his apprentice, had knowledge. Patrian had trained intensively preparing for this battle, but the lightning fast movements, fuelled by the Force, made him lose ground. One step, two steps. Patrian was on the defensive, and it was only a matter of time before he struck the killing blow. A strike of Force Wave blew him to the ground, and he was at Syn's mercy.
"Did you really think you could beat me, little Jedi?," he said, contemptuously.
Patrian looked around for something, anything, with which he could defend himself. Syn laughed, a malevolent, obsidian laugh. His golden eyes shone brightly. "Nobody or nothing shall help you now, boy. It is over. Even though I respected your father, you shall understand that I cannot let you live. You are simply too dangerous. Die well."
As he raised his lightsaber, Patrian was blinded by the sheer power coming off the weapon. He turned away his head and all he heard was one shot. Waiting to die, he opened his eyes after a few moments, and saw Syn Anderson, the great dictator, the conqueror, God, Sith'ari, if you believed the legends, with a hole the size of Patrian's fist in his chest. After a period which seemed to last a lifetime, he fell over, a heap on the floor. Dark energies surrounded his body and, just like that, his body was gone, and only his robes remained. Patrian looked up to find the shooter, to defend himself, and scanned the balcony above the assembly. The tall, handsome, young figure of Jonah Nercin arose. Patrian felt his heart pound, and a pang of fear erupted in his chest. He had jumped out of the frying-pan into the fire.
The master was dead, killed by the apprentice, in ancient Sith tradition. Jonah held a small sniper rifle, not bigger than his own forearm. Patrian saw his lightsaber, but knew that as soon as he would try to get it, Jonah would smoke him. An eternity passed. Jonah stared at Patrian, without blinking; pondering, weighing his options, thinking about what to do with this Padawan who had almost interfered with his plans. Then, just like that, he grabbed his rifle and ghosted out of the room. Patrian let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
An eerie silence filled the room. Light came from the glass dome above the trio, diffused through the exceptional scenes on the superb ceiling. Scenes of wars, past and present. Scenes of triumphs. Scenes of hunting. It was Syn's gift to the Committee, crafted by the very best of this time. A statue of the great Liberator himself stood in the center of the Committee. He held a lightsaber in one hand and a chart in the other. A map, with the most important planets in his career. Manaan, his birthplace. Lehon, where he started his tragic fall. Malachor V. Serocco. Dantooine.
Patrian wandered out of the hallowed halls of the Committee, out into the streets. The same silence. For the first time in a very long time, Patrian could smile. A small squad of guards had come up to the entrance. Patrian looked up at the Committee Hall. It was a monumental performance of exquisite architecture. Two colonnades of pillars lined the Hall, depicting yet other scenes of Syn's rise to power, his victories, his ancestors, and other legendary figures. Malak, the Sith Lord before him. Revan, the Sith Lord who found redemption, but had gone off to fight another threat and thus left a vacuum for Syn to exploit. The Exile, who had saved the universe from the Dark Triumvirate, who were sculpted beside her. Traya. Sion. Nihilus. A small building next to the Hall commemorated the Battle for Coruscant. A golden shrine, complete with a shrine which consisted out of Hurikane crystals and platina stones, taken directly from the Treasury, not a mile south of the Hall, with on top of it Syn's own battleship, the Rakatan, which he built himself.
It was a fitting scene for a change in leadership. For a change in the direction the galaxy was taking. The guards stopped. They itched for a command. They bristled with energy. Patrian would need men like these.
"Spread the message. The dictator is dead. Tomorrow we start rebuilding."
It was over. It had only just begun.