The False Sith

Part One: Pretender

Chapter 1

3637 BBY – New Adasta, Ziost

Unique, every time. The way the energy rippled from his fingertips, almost as though it were alive - a living, breathing, surge of electricity that would spiral out of control were it not for his direction, his superior willpower, nudging it gently through the Force and into his victim.

He felt it pour into her. Others might've focused on the light emanating from the pureblood's lightning-racked body, or perhaps the sound of the woman's screams as the pain overwhelmed her. Not him. He didn't see his victim crumple to the floor, didn't hear the sound of her lightsaber fall uselessly to the cold stone beneath them. No, all he could feel was their spirits, bound and connected by the power he brought to bear. There was no other feeling that could match this exhilaration: to hold another's life in the palm of your hand.

Suddenly, almost by reflex, he severed the connection. The pureblood woman collapsed to the ground, unmoving but alive. The crowd of Kaas citizens that had gathered around them burst into half-amused whispers, chattering like crows.

He did not notice. He only heard the voice of his master in his mind.

Lord Rend … why do you hold back?

Ten Years Prior

"Pain is the least dignified method of tutelage. Wouldn't you agree, my apprentice?"

Tosin wanted to respond to his master. He wanted to agree, to effuse, to exclaim with brilliant concordance whatever his master wished him to say; before he could, a jolt of lightning from the masked Darth turned all the words in his mouth to ash.

"N-no more," he managed to gibber. "Forgive me, Darth Siphon, please!"

"There is nothing to forgive, child. Only a lesson to be taught." The Darth's words echoed from behind her golden mask, distorted by a voice modulator.

Another blast of electricity surged through his body, starting from his chest and then reverberating out to the rest of his limbs. He crumpled, knees slamming against the carpeted floor as he struggled not to keel over completely. There was a moment when Tosin thought he wouldn't have the breath to cry out anymore, and yet the agony spurred his screams on as he spasmed helplessly in his master's private office.

"Do you understand where you erred, apprentice? What you did wrong?"

Between gasps for air, Tosin pleaded, "I … I did as you instructed, Master. I eliminated the administrator."

The Darth paced forward and back; Tosin could feel the eyes behind the mask, watching his every move, examining him for every subtle trace of deception, every tell or signal that he spoke false. "You were to end the administrator's family as well."

"I did, Master! I did!"

Siphon's voice turned cold as ice even through the modulation. " … do not lie to me."

The tone of Siphon's voice was unmistakable. His master knew what he had done. There was no use in lying, no chance of success, no hope of deception.

"What was your mistake, apprentice?"

Wincing through singed eyelids and struggling to maintain what dignity his master deigned to afford him, Tosin spoke. "I spared the daughter."

The words came quickly then, quick to justify, to rationalize, to make the Darth understand. "She is not even ten years old, my lord. Her family is dead and she knows neither why or by whom. She poses no threat to you or your plans. I made sure of -"

Lightning blasted forward and Tosin convulsed like a rag doll made to dance by a maniacal puppeteer.

"You held back. You showed mercy." Siphon's voice echoed with contempt. "There can be no mercy, apprentice, just as there can be no peace. They are lies, designed to keep you dormant, compliant … weak."

Tosin's entire body crumpled to the floor. All he could do was nod his agreement; his voice barely broke the silence as it left his mouth. "I understand now, Master. I do."

"Do you?" asked the Darth. "I'm not sure I'm convinced. I think I will need … a demonstration."

"Anything, my master," Tosin said without thinking. "Anything."

3637 BBY – New Adasta, Ziost

Lord Rend didn't understand why after all this time, his natural instinct was still to stop just before hurtling over the edge. Hadn't he proven to Darth Siphon that he had what it took? Hadn't he quashed any last vestige of compassion, of mercy from within himself? His spirit already bore the burden of too many deplorable deeds. What was one more life to that list? Why did he still hold himself back?

The woman before him was a Sith, after all. The Lord Visaj, infamous for her savagery in battle against the Republic. She more than most should know the consequence of her defeat. She would not have shown him any mercy had their roles been reversed. She doubtless had committed as many atrocities as he, perhaps he might even be doing the galaxy a fa-

No. No. There is no need for rationalization. There is no need for justification. This is not how Sith should think. This is not how Sith should act! Peace is a lie! There is only passion! And only through total victory can my chains be broken. Only then will I be free! Free of everything!

Lord Rend raised his hands. Violet energy coalesced around them, crackling with erratic bursts. He had but to push forward ever so slightly … and then he watched it soar through the air, slam into Visaj's unconscious body.

He watched as her crimson eyelids flew open to reveal renewed pain and horror as her entire body wracked with electricity. He watched as she screamed, piercing the air with a soul-shattering cry of despair. He watched as her eyes rolled backwards into her skull, her terrified expression permanently etched onto her face.

He could not help but shudder within himself, even knowing the victory he had secured for his master.

They were right. There is no peace. Not even in death.

The crowd watched for only a moment longer and then dispersed, back to their routines.

Lord Rend straightened his robes and left without another glance at the smoking corpse and the gathered crowd he left behind. The citizens of New Adasta were used to violence amongst the Sith hierarchy - the battle between Rend and Visaj would have seemed a spectacle rather than a calamity; it had been intense but brief, and left little collateral damage other than the additional scorch marks and saber-trails that now painted the market square.

As he departed, Imperial security forces made their way to the site. Lord Rend picked up his pace, though not because he had any fear of being arrested; at this particular moment Imperial Security served no greater function than that of janitorial staff. No, he needed to report his progress to Darth Siphon, and that necessitated a degree of privacy.

The buzzing of his communicator urged him to speed into an abandoned alley. Upon activating it, a cascading aquamarine image of Agent Hallian Quen appeared before him.

"What do you want, agent?" asked Rend, struggling to keep the impatience from seeping into his voice.

"I am delighted to see you're still alive, my lord. I trust that means Lord Visaj is defeated?"

"Utterly," replied Rend.

Quen smirked, the sniveling expression on her face evident through the holo. The auburn-haired woman was in her early thirties, boasted a freckled complexion, and possessed the build of an underfed child. Lord Rend had always found Quen much too sycophantic for his taste, but Darth Siphon had found use for her. Supposedly the sliver of a woman had been instrumental in the Darth's ascent years ago; Rend had no choice but to offer her a measure of deference.

"I'll report your success to Darth Siphon," continued Quen. "In the meantime, she wants you to rendezvous with Lord Andora and intercept a group of mercenaries heading to the Trade District at Langxi. Coordinates and profiles are being transmitted to you now."

"Objective?"

"It's Darth Orthas' hired muscle," came the reply. "Guess."

Orthas. A Sith pureblood Darth, who held the unique opinion that only the pure of blood could become true Sith: a view more extreme than even that of traditionalists among Sith society, content to allow humans into their ranks. Much of the Imperial hierarchy debated whether Orthas would join the pureblood Lord Ikoral in that Sith's foolhardy attempt to purge the Empire of alien species, though ultimately the former decided against it. He and Siphon were diametrically opposed in every way, from Imperial politics to Dark Side philosophy. Still, violence had not erupted between their two factions until Darth Siphon had slain his most promising apprentice…

Orthas answered with the Kaggath.

"Extermination then," said Rend. "It will be done."

"My lord, you're the only Sith I know that doesn't sound thrilled at the prospect of wanton slaughter." The agent chuckled at her flimsy joke before lowering her voice slightly. "By the way … have you heard? The latest rumor going around Sith Intelligence is that Orthas' pupil managed to remove Darth Siphon's mask and our illustrious Darth simply could not stand being seen."

Rend grumbled. "Is this what Sith Intelligence trades in nowadays? Pointless rumors and idle gossip?"

"When it's interesting, yes. What do you think is under that mask, anyway? A decrepit old hag? Or perhaps she simply has a terrible case of adult-onset acne."

Rend's eyes narrowed. "Are you sure the Darth would appreciate these wild and pointless speculations, agent?"

Quen ignored him. "You know what? Maybe she's the most stunningly beautiful woman you've ever seen. That could be how she's been so successful. Every battle, she pulls off her mask, and everybody expecting to see a hideous old crone is stunned by her mesmerizing beauty."

"Quen!"

Finally, the agent returned to her senses. "Hmm? Oh, fine. Good luck with your mission, my lord. Quen out."

Rend let an exasperated grumble escape his lips as the image of Quen vanished and he tucked his communicator away.

Still, there was something Quen mentioned that caught his attention. The prospect that their master would kill just for being unmasked was a possibility Rend had not previously considered. Would the Darth do such a thing? He had to admit, he had been surprised to hear that Orthas' apprentice had died at Siphon's hands - his master was well-known for relishing and prolonging suffering, pain, and humiliation. Even had she wanted the disciple dead, she would have sent one of his underlings - perhaps Rend - to do the deed in her name, on her behalf. Murder by her own hand, particularly that of a weaker opponent, seemed out of character.

The possibility churned in Rend's mind for a moment before he forcibly diverted his attention back to the task at hand. He had already wasted too much time indulging Quen's ridiculous contemplations. He had a new mission.

It was time he got started.