Author's Notes:
Chapter 2 is here. As always, feedback is appreciated. Thanks!
Chapter 2
Time check: 3 weeks, 9 hours, 8 minutes, 14 seconds before the Triumph
The construction site looks abandoned. It is a simple matter to climb over the front fence and into the jungle of concrete and metal. Skeletal frames of unfinished monuments jut out amongst us. From time to time, red pipes snake across the floor, belching steam.
"What is this place?" Mysteel wonders aloud. She points to stacks of metal pipes, concrete and sacks of cement. Behind them, rows of transparent tanks froth with murky liquid. Stamped signs hanging on their tripods read 'Property of Czerka Corporation'.
"Most likely an unfinished fuel refinery," I remark. My body remains tense. Scaffolding creaks mournfully as the wind howls. It sounds like a warning. A calm before the storm.
"There," Mysteel whispers after a few moments. She points to a set of stairs leading to the tunnel. We descend and see the entrance is barred by heavy metal gates. The arch is rimed with rust and mildew. Cool dark blackness beckons beyond. It is the most welcoming sight I've seen in a while. We pad near the threshold.
There it is again. The dread. My otherworldly senses are trying to alert me. Trying to warn me of an unseen danger. I look around. Ground, walls, gates. Nothing visible...
Wait. The walls. The walls! They are emanating an energy signature. Very faint, but detectable.
I stop my approach, grabbing Mysteel by the shoulder before she can fall into the trap.
"Hold! Something's not right."
"Wha-"
Too late. I hear the telltale whine of thermo detonators arming.
The inferno throws us several meters high and thudding back to ground level. The concussive force is painful but the heat is excruciating. Excruciating like touching a miniature sun. Clothing smokes and molders. Skin crisps and burns.
I roll onto my back, groaning. The world is a riot of colours and sound. Nothing makes sense. I feel blood pounding through my temples. Every breath feels like a searing dagger through the lungs. Aftershock.
Mysteel is shaking me, trying to slap me out of my torpor, trying to pat out the residual flames. I force myself onto my feet. My eyes focus once more. Realization makes my heart sinks. The tunnel has collapsed but that is not the worst of it.
Dark shadows descend upon us. It is our tormentors. They encircle our position, chanting their obscene cant. Targeting lasers flare angrily.
"Bastards," I growl. I count six of the repulsive things. Manageable in normal circumstances but our injuries are grievous.
"This is it then," Mysteel sighs. She sounds bitter but not defeated. My companion throws her hands out wide, shouting to the skies.
"What are you waiting for, Rev? You have us dead to rights! Come out! At least have the decency to look us in the eye when you kill us!"
There is no response. Just the endless hissing of soulless abominations.
"Fine then," she says bitterly. We share a look and nod in understanding. No quarter taken or given.
Our blades ignite.
The storm is unleashed. Plasma bursts, torrents of them are vomited from the sky. For a moment, it looks like the heavens are raining blood.
We become swathes of gold and purple, swiping wildly over a crimson canvas. Blades riposte and parry, straining muscle to new heights of alacrity. Salvos are beaten back, sent spitting into the ground or knocked howling back into the sky. We become the moment. Waves upon waves of fury smash against us, but we hold the line.
I hear a muffled cry and turn fractionally. A plasma shot has scorched Mysteel's leg but she bites down to pain and keeps her furious rhythm. My inattention costs me a shot to the arm. My lightsaber falters, almost allowing another barrage to impale my chest.
"We can't keep this up," she gasps.
"Neither can they," I grunt. I point to the belching stacks of smoke jetting out of the drone's exhausts. "They're close to overheating. Just hold out a bit more."
My companion nods, sweat pouring down her brow.
Seconds pass. The impasse gradually tips in our enemy's favor as more shots get through. I grit my teeth and fight on. Adrenaline pumps, numbing the lactic acid burning in my muscles. Forcing just a bit more speed to keep death at bay. A defiant cliff face screaming against entropy.
None shall pass. None not pass!
Mysteel redirects a shot perfectly. It strikes the attacker's undercarriage, the weakest plating. Coolant tanks spark and explode. The machine shrieks down to earth like a tiny comet. It explodes. A mushroom cloud blooms out in a conflagration of metal. We scatter to avoid the whipping debris.
The surviving drones emit binary spurts of outrage. They are angry. I see one approach out of the corner of my eye. Something metallic emerges near its port nacelle. Instinct makes me leap to one side just as the particle whip crashes down. It splits earth, flash heats sand to glass. I roll then break into a run, scrambling to find cover.
Two drones pursue me. They unload salvo after salvo of punishing plasma fire as I flee. Chunks of cement are blown off from balconies, bulldozers are reduced to slag. I plough on, one arm above my head, barely able to keep ahead of the onslaught. One of the buildings catches my eye. It looks complete, lined with brick and reinforced metal bracings. I pivot to the right and hurl myself through the closest window. Wheezing, I scramble behind a set of metal crates.
The drones outside fire blindly, puncturing holes into brickwork. The building shudders in agony at the onslaught. Rubble thuds down on my shoulders. I keep my back pressed to the crates, blinking rapidly as dust clouds clog my lungs. My cover is crumbling. Entire mouthfuls of it have been chewed off by their ravenous weapons. It is only seconds before I meet the same fate.
Suddenly the barrage diminishes. I hear the whine of plasma venting. Overheating.
The window of opportunity is enough. I point two fingers at a mountain of broken rubble. Chunks of masonry hover up with a groan of protest. I gauge the distance and hurl my hand in an overhand gesture.
A wall of rock pelts the drones in a miniature meteor shower. Shards ricochet wildly, denting amour, puncturing holes. Several rattle into air turbines. The drones shudder as their plating is flensed from their bodies. One emits a strange coughing sound. The other begins venting black smoke. The hail passes but the damage is done. They jerk for several seconds like marionette dolls then collapse into the ground, circuits sparking.
I rise tentatively, wiping dust and sweat from my brow. An eerie quiet has descended amidst the carnage. Mysteel is nowhere to be seen. That is worrying. I take a shuddering breath and walk out the ruined building.
It is only when passing the chewed-up wall that I hear a faint whirring.
I twist instinctively. A drone is perched on the top of a broken pipe like a vulture. It leaps, tentacles slicing in a frenzy. I bring my lightsaber up to block. Too slow. Pain flares as it rakes me on the shoulder. Blood spurts out, red and vivid.
I try to stagger away but the drone pursues like a bloodhound. It looks bulkier than the rest. Retrofitted for close combat. Tentacles crackle with lightning, stabbing and slicing at flesh in a metal dervish. It is fast. Horrifically so. Muscle memory kicks in, replacing cold calculation. My blade sparks and spits like boiling cooking oil, barely holding the storm at bay.
A mistimed parry leaves me overbalanced, vulnerable. The drone leaps in, mandibles clacking. I dodge a disemboweling strike only to receive a stinging slash to the thigh. My stance falters.
The drone presses in. It senses blood. Weakness. More strikes slip through my defenses, puncturing skin, exposing muscle. My body begins to resemble an anatomical diagram. Another thrust. Directed to my face. I grab the thicket of blades before they can gouge out my eyes.
Pain jolts through every nerve in my body from the electric feedback. Teeth shatter from convulsions. I reel back, clutching my scorched hand. The drone's thrusters flare. It charges me like a wild Rancor. There is a sickening thud, the crack of metal on bone. I fall onto my back, choking blood. My blade clatters to the ground.
My tormentor is on top of me, blurting binaric cant. Tentacles grapple my arms, hauling me upright. Mandibles spit scalding oil against my face. I struggle weakly, twisting from side to side against the inevitable. It is no use. Against a machine's infinite endurance, the flesh is weak. Darkness closes in.
"Duck!"
My head obeys before properly registering the significance. Mysteel crashes into the drone. They tumble and roll several meters, a riot of thrashing limbs. Mysteel manages to slip on top. She plants her blade through one of its bulbous ocular lenses. The wretched thing emits a screech. It flounders, flops then falls still.
I struggle to my feet and give her a nod of gratitude. Mysteel doesn't see it. She is too busy trying to pull the lightsaber still embedded in the drone's faceplate.
"Damn it, not again," she groans. One of the tentacles twitch.
"Look out!"
Too late. A talon stabs into the meat of her shoulder. Mysteel shrieks. Electric discharge courses through her body. I hear gibbering nonsense behind her, the death throes of a machine too stubborn to die. Mysteel yanks her lightsaber free. She turns and slices the drones faceplate off. Clean off. A half melted motherboard sparks and sloughs to the ground. The machine goes limp. The tentacle slides off her shoulder. Dead. Finally.
Mysteel collapses in convulsions. I trudge towards her to offer aid.
Cold metal pricks the back of my head. I freeze. A harsh blurt of laughter chills my soul.
"[Mockery] That was amusing meatbag. But it is all you get."
I bite my lip, resisting the urge to scream, to lash out in fury. So close. So close. I could practically smell the free air. Or perhaps that was just arrogance. The wishful thinking of a fool who should never have attempted this endeavour in the first place.
"[Command] Turn around. Slowly."
I grudgingly shuffle to face the assassin, arms raised. My eyes stare down the barrel of a plasma rifle. Dead to rights. The assassin's ocular implants flare with deadly intent. A twitch of its finger will leave me a smoking pile of sludge.
A calmness descends upon me. Acceptance. The act of defiance was futile, but sometimes defiance is all you have. I close my eyes and wait for the shot that will spray my brains across the ground.
"Stand down, Forty Seven."
That voice. So quiet, so in control. I both hoped and dreaded to hear it before the end.
I feel the muzzle of the rifle being reluctantly withdrawn.
"[Compliance] As you wish…meatbag."
"Look at me, Exon." says the voice.
I obey Revan's command.
Time check: 3 weeks, 8 hours, 54 minutes, 31 seconds before the Triumph
Let me tell you what I know about Revan.
Few are as knowledgeable on the subject although I flatter myself in thinking so. Truthfully, my knowledge of the man would be less than a brush stroke of the whole picture.
His origins are completely obscured. The majority of his exploits are sealed behind classified archives and obfuscation. For every achievement I've heard in his short career, ten more will remain unsung. Such is his way.
What I do know is that I have never met someone so singular, so driven. If he has oathed himself to a task, it will be completed. No matter how trivial. No matter how impossible. Vandar said it best.
If he has decided to save you, you will be saved. If execution is his intent, you are dead. If the crime is beyond forgiveness, pray. Pray that death takes you first because Revan will punish you. He will punish you so hard, your unborn children will be paying him reparations.
From a distance, you could think of him as human. Up close, you realize how inadequate that categorization is. Pale skin frames a somber face, sculpted like a statue of mournful antiquity. His hair is black, black like a widow's shawl. The effect is cadaverous, reminiscent of staring at the subject of an open casket.
Sand and grime cakes the edges of a rough-spun robe. Practical but unremarkable. Nothing to denote rank or victories. Many of the Order succumb to pride, embellishing their clothing with laurels and chaste silver. An artificial bearing of nobility. Not this one. His majesty is of a different magnitude, one derived from countless campaign experience and grueling sacrifice.
Then there is his eyes. So intense, so perceptive. They reflect a soul that has witnessed the abyss and experienced reality in all its cruel and infinite malice. To bear his scrutiny is to have every fiber of your being judged. Nothing escapes that gaze. It sucks secrets from its victim as easily as a leech sucks blood.
He walks towards me. His gait is careful, considered, a demonstration of control. I hold no illusions at how futile our attempts of resistance were. Every aspect of this exodus was predicted and accounted for. This encounter was just another cog in his plan. Nothing is ever done on a whim.
"Brother."
I say the word calmly. In truth, a tumult of emotions rumbles in my gut. Relief, dismay...fear.
"Oathbreaker," he replies.
The word makes me wince. Necessity has numbed my capacity to feel shame. Yet that damn label still manages to stir regret. Out of the corner of my eye, I see poor Mysteel being cuffed and collared by Revan's wretched droid.
"I'm surprised that the council sent you, given our past history."
"It took a lot of convincing."
I stare at him. Was his loathing for our action so deep that he personally had to swing the sword of execution?
"What do you want, Revan?" I ask eventually.
"Answers." He takes a step forwards. I instinctively back away and he halts. "I want to know why you have forsaken the Order, Exon. Why did you and Mysteel betray me?"
"No, not you," I croak. "We would never betray you."
His dark eyes bore into me, sifting through my voice for deception.
"What then?"
"Isn't it obvious?" My voice is incredulous. "Atris is mad. The High Council is scarcely better."
"They are trying to enact reformations," he says evenly.
"They are ruining the Order's soul," I retort. Bile fills my throat with every word. "You know what they're doing don't you?"
"I've heard rumors."
"Rumors." I laugh, choking out the word. "Oh they are much more than that. Atris is rounding us up, imprisoning us. Everyone she considers a radical or threat to her position. Dissension is punished. None are allowed to argue against her 'puritan values'. Outrage is being smothered under the guise of heresy."
"Precautions," he states calmly. "The last thing we need is another civil war. Exar Kun's shadow still looms deep."
"Exar Kun." I spit the name out like a curse. "Force, it always comes back to him doesn't it? The High Council thinks everyone of us is an Exar Kun in the making. One misstep and we will end up like that thrice damned traitor."
"The new guidelines have merit," Revan argues. The fervor in his voice is unmistakable. He truly believes what he says. "We need more oversight. Too many Knights have forgotten how to exercise restraint."
"Not like this," I snap. "Not when we are berated and brought to heel for simply speaking our minds." My fists clench. "I've known Knights who are punished with disjunction for refusing mind probes. Disjunction, Revan! Tell me that isn't the sign of a tyrant."
Revan stares at me motionless. I take a breathe, letting my anger subside.
"This paranoia," I continue. "It poisons the very air we breathe. Atris has infected us all with her madness. We glance at our backs every day, wondering when her agents will brand us as traitors for simply condemning her conduct. It is no way to live."
I study Revan's face. Looking for a clue that my words have elicited a shred of empathy. His face remains stony. Unreadable.
"Surrender now and I guarantee you and the other traitor a fair trial," he says tonelessly. "You have my word."
My shoulders sag. It is no use. My words haven fallen on deaf ears.
"We were never brothers, were we?" I ask bitterly. "I was foolish to believe otherwise."
"You're wrong, Exon." He points to the lightsaber belted to my side. "I forged that blade for you. What is that if not a symbol of our brotherhood?"
I look away, not knowing what to say. He takes a step closer, sensing my defeat. A hand reaches out to grasp my shoulder.
"Let's go, Exon. I will help you and Mysteel get through this."
I roar and butt my head into his.
Revan clutches his face, dazed. I reach out. The familiar weight of my lightsaber slaps into my palm and flares to life as he staggers back. I rush forwards, snarling. Too slow. Revan ducks the thrust and sweeps my feet from under me. He rolls clear and ignites his own blade as I clamber back up. We glare at each other, circling.
"Make no mistake traitor," he growls. "There is no coming back from this."
He lunges at me. I brace myself. Stance wide. Guard up.