Prologue
82 years before the Battle of Yavin
Light burst out from behind the northern hemisphere of the rust-colored globe that was Zigoola, chasing oceans of shadow across the surface of the planet and then its three tiny moons, until it bathed the sleek chrome hull of the approaching starship in the advent of a new day.
Piercing in its intensity, the dawn temporarily dazzled the sight of Darth Plagueis, who flinched away from the transparisteel viewport that he'd been peering through. His eyes scrunched shut and he raised his massive hand to pinch the bridge of his long plateau of a nose between thumb and forefinger. As the sun-conjured specks of blindness danced from his vision, he turned back to regard the approaching world.
Though technically fixed within the galactic plane designated by cartographers as Wild Space, Zigoola, its trio of satellites, and the scarlet nebula that unfurled behind it, lazed close to the threshold of the Unknown Regions. Its location was relatively unique among planets: situated within a realm of space that was far from civilized, far from the reach of the Galactic Republic. For this reason, it was an ideal repository for the Sith order, which had been operating in secrecy for a millennium.
To Plagueis, Zigoola would have been a perfect choice if not for the fact that the major shipyard world of Mon Cala was a veritable stone's throw away.
More than once during the standard century that comprised his apprenticeship under Darth Tenebrous, Plagueis had cautioned his Master to transfer Zigoola's vast Sith archive to another location, perhaps another planet, moon, or even a space station—something more controlled, more defensible, and more remote. But while Tenebrous had listened patiently, he'd remained steadfast in his support of Darth Zannah's original decision to utilize Zigoola.
Bane's apprentice certainly had her reasons for selecting the world, though Plagueis remained unconvinced by them: entrenched as they were in tradition and history, specifically regarding that of the infamous Darth Revan, for whom her late Master had all but deified in his reverence.
The fact that Revan ultimately played a hand in crippling the Sith's efforts at the time by reverting his allegiance to the Jedi was apparently of no consequence to him.
The ship's journey was almost complete. Plagueis noted that Zigoola's surface or, rather, the complex miasma of gasses that was its bloodstain-colored atmosphere—likely the result of long-term exposure to the particles of the neighboring nebula—had swelled to encompass the entirety of what was visible through the viewport, bullying aside the void of space and silver pockmarks of distance stars.
Following Plagueis's observation was a slight tremble that rippled through the length of the ship, alerting the Muun to the fact that the vessel had punctured the planetary atmosphere and was making its final descent. By all rights, Plagueis should not have detected the turbulence, nor would he have had he been an ordinary Muun. The vessel was equipped with cutting edge technology, courtesy of his prosperous alliance with a quiet subsidiary of Santhe/Sienar Technologies; equipment of the sort that maximized luxury and minimized interruption. The ship's hull had been retrofitted with prototype internal dampeners so refined that Plagueis could have directed the ship through the asteroid field of the Cron Drift itself without waking his pittin—figuratively, of course; Plagueis's allergies compelled him to limit his interaction with most animals.
But an ordinary Muun Plagueis was not, and his attunement to the Force—honed thoroughly over the past hundred years—afforded him physical sensitivity exponentially superior to that of mundane sentient life.
A second after the jostles ceased, a synthesized baritone gave voice to that which Plagueis had already experienced:
"Lord Plagueis, we've breached atmo. ETA: approximately two minutes."
"Thank you, Four-Dee," said Plagueis, wryly. He didn't bother pointing out that the Force had alerted him to such things even faster than the registration of the droid's own high-speed processes. Eleven-Dash-Four-Dee preferred to observe such niceties and had once explained to his master that while such intonations may seem redundant to the Muun, they were nonetheless an essential facet of the droid's function and would only cease if Plagueis deliberately adjusted his subroutine matrix. The idea had both horrified and offended Plagueis, who had since then tolerated Four-Dee's unnecessary reminders and alerts.
He understood that kindnesses were a critical part in the foundation of friendships.
"You're welcome, sir," responded Four-Dee, the acknowledgement devoid of vocal inflection. "Should I notify Lord Tenebrous?"
Plagueis's yellow eyes darted from the viewport to regard the angular durasteel body of the droid that had served him and his Master for decades in an official capacity as pilot, navigator, and medic. But more important to Plagueis were Four-Dee's services in unofficial ways: for almost as long as he'd been a servant of the Sith, Four-Dee had been confidant, companion, and friend to Plagueis himself.
But to Tenebrous, the droid was nothing more than a tool; an expendable asset. And while Plagueis might have found it within him to indulge the droid's habits, Tenebrous had not—and perhaps could not. His Master styled himself neither minimalist nor maximalist, but instead an 'essentialist'—and had historically reserved little patience for unnecessary prattle, particularly from the non-sentient.
It was only by Plagueis's intervening advocacy that Tenebrous hadn't tampered with Four-Dee's subroutines himself.
"No, that won't be necessary," answered Plagueis, as he locked gazes with the droid's photoreceptors—the glow of which was not unlike the yellow eyes of a Sith. How appropriate; little did Tenebrous realize that the droid had more in common with both of them than most beings could fathom. Plagueis placed the palm of his massive hand—which he'd been told more than once resembled a particularly large and unsettling spider—on Four-Dee's cold shoulder. "I'll get him."
Four-Dee gave the approximation of a nod and returned his head to the primary viewport, manipulating the ship's controls with two of his four hands. Plagueis turned and stepped through the cockpit's hatch, his rancor-leather boots echoing off the bulkhead as he navigated the miniature labyrinth of corridors that led to the closed door of his Master's quarters.
Plagueis reached out to rap a knuckle against it, but the door came alive, hissing and sliding back into the frame, opening Tenebrous's domain to him, and enabling him hear his Master's immediate beckon:
"You may enter."
Amused by his Master's subconscious habit of occasional theatrics, Plagueis dropped his arm and stepped through the threshold. His eyes swept across Tenebrous's sanctum, gleaning whatever insight he could about the man from the room.
The piles of holoreaders juxtaposed nicely with the stacks of ancient tomes—books with actual paper, paper from actual wood, wood from real trees—but offered Plagueis nothing new: his Master's voracious appetite for reading was something that Plagueis both respected and shared. The lack of holoimage or portrait of any kind, too, was nothing new: his Master's existence was solitary and this, as well, was something Plagueis shared—though not without difficulty. Various weapons adorned the otherwise empty walls; instruments of death ranging an impressive spectrum from vibroblades to battleaxes to blasters to grenades to lightsabers. These stood testament to Darth Tenebrous's one and only outlet: his love of combat. But even this was something that Plagueis had heard Tenebrous rationalize cleverly over the years. Such sport enabled him to maintain his elite fighting prowess, as all Sith were compelled to do by Bane's dictum, and it offered him an opportunity to efficiently vent the bloodlust that Sith training inspired in most of its adherents. Such opportunities periodically exploited, Tenebrous argued, prevented one from devolving into a rage-filled psychopath.
This was commensurate with Bane's law, Plagueis knew. The days where the Sith were nothing more than the grandiose mass murders of the Republic's history texts were long over.
Perhaps the most peculiar practice that Tenebrous indulged was his habit of not making his bed, something that his apprentice did not share. Plagueis observed that the sheets and comforter remained ruffled and haphazard and while though he often imagined that this was nothing more than an act of spite against some long dead parent, Tenebrous had explained that he rejected bed making as an outdated tradition initiated and perpetuated by vain and insecure elitists, citing the fact that rearranging the dressing to be more aesthetically pleasing made it neither cleaner nor more comfortable.
Petulant, perhaps, but the reasoning was sound. And to Tenebrous, reason was the standard by which all actions were measured.
"If the sight of it torments you so," murmured Tenebrous, "feel free to make it yourself."
Plagueis turned; Tenebrous was seated in a reading chair near the door, perusing a datapad.
"I would, Master," began Plagueis, accepting the obvious challenge, "but since I don't sleep here, what reason would I have to make it?" He paused and then quickly added, "Unless you're commanding me, of course."
The Bith's massive bulbous eyes—abyssal in their blackness—betrayed nothing, but his mouth quirked what passed for a smile among his species. "At last, you understand. But of course, it's not an order. There would be no reason for you to act in this case and therefore there is no order on my part for you to do so."
Plagueis moved deeper into the room to face his seated Master, standing straight and clasping his arms behind his back.
"You've always had a reason behind your orders, my lord," said Plagueis, equal parts observation and platitude.
Tenebrous's finger stopped moving over the datapad and he lifted his head to regard his disciple. "Exactly, my apprentice. How fortunate are you that I am not the sort of Master that plagued our order in the millennia before: arbitrary, capricious, even treacherous. Such a habit should enable you to place your trust in my orders, my plans, and my designs—if you haven't already."
"Any doubt I might have had was expunged years ago," assured Plagueis. "Your methodology is inspirational to me, as both Sith and scientist. Before, I hoped to emulate you in the areas of swordsmanship and Force mastery. But now I seek most of all to imitate your intuition and judgment."
Tenebrous was still for the span of a few seconds before returning his gaze to the datapad and allowing his finger to resume its scrolling motion. "You've been a most capable disciple all these years, Lord Plagueis. I'm sure you'll get there, eventually."
Plagueis detected the slight emphasis on the final word, likely intended to be registered twofold: first as a reminder of Tenebrous's own supremacy—his ostensible superiority in the elements of the Sith that Plagueis had mentioned; and second as a threat to not challenge the claim any time soon. Plagueis opened his mouth to respond, but reflexively glanced to the weapons that littered the room and then to Tenebrous, sitting relaxed and seemingly unperturbed by the fact that he was in his apprentice's potentially murderous reach.
Surely there was a reason for that, too.
"Eventually," said Plagueis in decision, nodding.
"And the reason for your presence here?" queried Tenebrous distractedly. "Which I assume is neither a social call nor indulgence of your obsessive need for cleanliness?"
"We've breached atmosphere and—"
Tenebrous's sharp exhale interrupted Plagueis and his Bith Master's head shook slowly. "You're picking up your droid's ill habits. Or do you think that I somehow failed to detect the patently obvious?"
"You may have been distracted with your—"
"My sensitivity to the Force is not so tenuous as to be blunted by this," reprimanded Tenebrous, lifting the datapad. He glared at Plagueis for a moment before lowering his hand. "Your bond with the machine has perplexed me from the beginning, but your susceptibility to its influence—your use of platitudes, observation of trivial niceties, and unnecessary inclusionist tendencies as they relate to the droid—frustrates me."
Plagueis clenched his jaw in irritation but endured the criticism in silence. Tenebrous became quiet and continued his inspection of the datapad. Plagueis was initially wary of leaving, but grasped that his Master would not have verbally dismissed him—there'd be no reason to vocalize it, since the Bith was apparently immune to distraction. He began to step out of the hatch when Tenebrous's voice caused him to stop before his boot touched the floor.
"As your Master," began Tenebrous, slowly, "I am bound by Darth Bane's authority to prepare you for the galaxy, to purge you of weakness. Whether or not you allow yourself to realize it, your friendship with the droid is unnatural and potentially symptomatic of a larger, more dangerous issue. If you continue on your present course, such habits will doom you. Mark my words."
His Master inhaled deeply. "But I will do my best to aid you in this matter, Lord Plagueis. I'll emancipate you from the automaton: the droid is to remain in the ship; we'll conduct our business alone. And should you try to resist me on this, I'll not just erase certain subroutines—I'll terminate him entirely, from software to hardware."
Plagueis's grip on the frame of the hatch tightened and his raised leg began to quiver as adrenaline pumped liberally through his system. His Master had issued a death threat to Four-Dee and Darth Tenebrous never made threats he wasn't prepared to enforce. The Bith had a personal kill count in the triple digits; sentient, organic life that society viewed to be infinitely more valuable than any machine. The time had come where the affection of the apprentice for the object would not be sufficient to dissuade the Master from destroying it; indeed, that affection would likely be the cause of the destruction.
In a millisecond that spanned a lifetime, Plagueis considered ending the threat at the source. Killing Tenebrous. There were options—the weapons that lined the interior would be the most logical choice. Safely outside Tenebrous's quarters, Plagueis could hide behind the durasteel bulkhead and use the Force. He could rip the array of vibroblades and battleaxes from their mounts and mutilate his Master as the Bith reclined in his plush chair. He could maneuver the blasters as though they were puppets on marionettes, setting Tenebrous in their sights and manipulating their triggers—reducing his arrogant Master to nothing but ruined gore as he threatened from his throne. He could summon the grenade and pull the pin simultaneously, squeezing it with the Force, detonating it in his Master's face before the callous Bith could conjure Force shields sufficient enough to repulse it.
He could even snatch the lightsabers from the wall and incite them in a dazzling display of coordinated telekinesis—as Darth Traya was alleged to have done in her battle against Meetra Surik, the so-called Jedi Exile, thousands of years before—utterly dismembering the haughty Master who threatened Plagueis's only friend—
A tremor—not in the Force, but felt through it—snapped him out of his lethal contemplation. The ship had landed.
Suddenly and completely aware, Plagueis stepped out into the corridor and raised his hand to his damp forehead. The Muun squared his shoulders and made his way back to the cockpit as he heard his Master rise from the chair.
Plagueis's discipline compelled him to drive away his treacherous thoughts, and he mentally snarled at himself for becoming so enraged by Tenebrous's goading threat. This was exactly what the Bith had expected and sought—a vulnerability to exploit, to dangle as insurance against his increasingly powerful apprentice. Truly Darth Tenebrous was not only a Sith Master, but a masterful Sith.
Then, an epiphany—
A realization not unlike Zigoola's dawn, in its full potency.
Just as Plagueis had been goaded into action, just when he'd actually considered multiple, immediate avenues of ending his Master's life—an action that, in hindsight, Tenebrous had been almost certainly prepared for—the Force itself had intervened, allowing him a moment to come to his senses. Had Plagueis committed himself in reality what he had pondered in theory, he'd very likely be dead.
Yet the Force stopped him. More accurately, from a certain point of view, it had saved him.
Plagueis halted just outside the entrance to the cockpit. He knew that the Jedi had long espoused a philosophy that hinted towards a seemingly ridiculous belief: that the Force was more than just an energy field. That it was, in some respects, sentient. That it was a phenomenon that guided, directed, and maneuvered both beings and events towards a mysterious end.
That it had a will.
The scientist within Plagueis had long incited him to scoff at such a notion. But now, he wasn't sure. Was it possible that the Force could be both tool and god? It seemed unlikely, even farfetched—but Plagueis could not help but feel as though he had just experienced the saving grace of some ethereal protector. He vowed to ruminate over this further.
His thoughts briefly returned to Tenebrous. Plagueis recalled specifically the Bith's casual expectation that he and his apprentice would one day be equals. Plagueis knew that that day was fast approaching, and comforted himself with the conclusion both Master and pupil had reached:
Eventually.
But until then, Plagueis could wait. For there was still work to be done.
