Jedi holocrons were polyhedral, usually with six or twelve facets, but Azix had seen them with twenty, or as many as one hundred. The temple on Tython had one such, an ancient repository of Jedi knowledge that hovered, thanks to anti-grave assist, in a place of honor in the front hall.
Sith holocrons, however, were always pyramids. Sometimes four-faceted, sometimes five, their sharp angles were framed in gleaming brass or gold and they pulsed crimson within.
"Why do they make them like this?" Azix wondered aloud, staring at the holocron Rye had retrieved from the dreaded basement archives. "Is it for the aesthetic? Everything a Sith does has to be scary and extra?"
"Much like the patterns of brightly colored reptiles and insects, Sith Holocrons send a message with their appearance," Rye said. "Dangerous – proceed at your own risk."
"Thanks. That's so reassuring." This holocron had five facets, and just looking at it was making Azix's stomach turn somersaults. He carefully reached out and poked it – the facet under his fingertip felt like glass, heavy and cool. Sigils Azix couldn't interpret were etched into the glass. "What are these, spells?"
"That's Old Sith," Rye told him. He leaned over Azix's shoulder while Azix poked and prodded the holocron. "And sigils of ownership."
"Let me guess. It says, 'Abandon hope, all who enter here'?"
Rye gave him a dry look. "It says, 'Who would govern The Force must first bring themselves to heel.'" He pointed to a different facet. "This one says, 'That which moves invisible, ever-present, within all things, also unites all things – the one who governs it shall have infinite dominion.' And this one says, 'Against all petty tyrannies, The Force overcomes. Neither pestilence nor misfortune, nor envy, nor maleficence may triumph over the one who is served by The Force. Even against the greatest of tyrants, which are called time and death, The Force is the implacable ally, offering infinite power and infinite knowledge to the worthy.'"
Azix frowned. "That… you know, it's spooky how much it almost sounds like Jedi philosophy, but not quite. Like a… a dark reflection."
"The first Sith were Jedi," Rye reminded him. "I'm sure there's more in common between your traditions than there is different."
"It's all about power and dominance," he murmured, turning the holocron with the very tips of his fingers, as if loathe to touch it any more firmly.
"It's about freedom," Rye argued, and Azix shook his head.
"Right. Freedom for yourself, while putting everybody else in slavery."
"Slavery was a tradition of the ancient pureblood species. It was a cornerstone of their economy, and when the Dark Jedi arrived to subjugate them, they turned it to their purposes. The Empire began as an Oligarchy, and that structure – the common folk bound to support the passions and pursuits of the priest class – remains. The one who made this holocron, Lord Sirrut, was a renowned scholar in his time but he has largely been forgotten since. The information in this holocron is largely archival – he was preserving the learning of his day against the possibility that the Empire may fall, and the Sith may need to reconstruct their own teachings. A wise precaution," Rye noted, "Since that has happened more than once."
"If he felt that way, he might not be very receptive to you taking things over," Azix pointed out, and Rye smiled.
"Nonsense. I'm another archivist. I will retain everything he wished to be retained. Preserving the history of the Empire is my purpose as well."
"How'd he die?" Azix was staring at the barbed, cuneiform script that, according to Rye, proclaimed that whoever mastered The Force also mastered death.
"No one knows. The Sith Temple where he presided was attacked by aliens who had been resisting Sith rule for several decades. They saw it as the epicenter of the oppression they struggled against, having no real concept of the true size of the Empire, and committed many pilots to a suicidal bombing run. Lord Sirrut was seen by students to retreat into the catacombs beneath the temple with many of the temple's most valued artifacts. He never re-emerged, and his body was never found. Most assume he chose to become one with The Force after hiding the artifacts away, perhaps to ensure that, when the aliens took the planet and the temple, they could not pry the secret of the artifacts' location from him. After they were driven off, one of his colleagues, Darth Ored, was able to locate and retrieve the artifacts."
"What happened to the aliens?" Azix asked, though he was fairly certain he knew the answer.
"Wiped out," Rye confirmed. "And that temple was abandoned. But some evidence suggests that they might have been relatives or an offshoot of the Falleen."
Azix sighed heavily. The artifact pulsed in front of him, and a vein in his temple was beginning to throb in sympathy. "Okay. I guess… are you really sure about this, Rye? If he resists, what are we supposed to do?"
Rye's light-etched hand settled on his shoulder. "Before you discuss passing the torch, bring me into the conversation. Tell him you need him to talk to an archivist program. He needs to tell you how to digitally connect the holocron. That's first. All right?"
"Yeah, right, I got it," Azix muttered. He swallowed, mouth suddenly bone dry as his hands hovered over the holocron. His hesitation stretched.
"He wasn't known for being cruel," Rye said, and Azix startled, yanking his hands back from the device.
"What?"
"Lord Sirrut," Rye clarified. "If you're concerned about what sort of Sith you'll encounter. According to the information I have, he was very intelligent, meticulous, and not prone to temper. Tell him you're Sith too, a new apprentice serving your Lord in the archives, and you've been given this project as a test. He was a teacher, he should help you."
"Right," he muttered, and framed the device with his hands again. "Sure. How do you open these things again?"
"Surely you've opened Jedi holocrons before?" Rye said. "The way you channeled the Light then, simply channel the Dark."
"Simply," he repeated, throwing Rye a sidelong glare. He settled in, exhaling deeply, and tried to let himself sink into a meditative state.
As much as he hated to admit it, once he was in the proper mindset, he could feel the holocron in front of him. It only needed to be touched by the darkness in his own heart, and it would open for him, facets parting like the petals of a flower to expose the gleaming core within. His own recalcitrance insisted that he reach for the Light first, but the flame in him was weak and fluttering and wouldn't respond to his call.
Grief welled, genuine, sharp like a knife in his chest. He lashed out at the holocron with it. /Open, you forsaken thing, just OPEN./ Part of him didn't really expect it to respond. Perhaps he hoped it wouldn't, that it would confirm his wavering hope that he was still a Jedi at heart and refuse him access.
There was a soft click, and the sides of the holocron unfolded from one another. Crimson light swelled up and swallowed him whole, and he found himself in the environment that had been designed by Sirrut – a replica of the temple where he had worked, most likely, built of marbled stone on the side of a mountain. A fair-sized city spread out below it. Azix stood on a winding set of carved stone steps, precariously narrow, that climbed the mountain face to the temple landing. Wind pulled at his clothes, and he steadied himself, then began the climb upward.
It was a mental landscape, but it had been made to trigger the same sensory experiences as a physical one. It brought back memories of climbing stairways on Tython, often carrying buckets of water or sandbags for weight, shoulders bowed under the yoke. There was no extra weight now, but by the time he reached the landing his calves burned. He stood there, aware how out of place he must seem in his borrowed jumpsuit and old knit sweater, and looked for any sign of the holocron's guardian. A few primitive Imperial shuttles were parked on the landing, which was a vast courtyard of stone that had been cracked and softened at the edges from decades of use. Reliefs depicting hooded and cowled Sith masters framed the immense, open entryway which was too dark for Azix to see further than a few feet in.
He huffed. "Hello?!"
His voice echoed off the stone and was dragged out into long, howling threads by the wind. There was no reply other than that distant mockery, and he hunched his shoulders, irritated, and struck out for the entrance. There were more steps there, wide and shallow, and he took these two at a time as he passed under the overhang and into the cooler shade of the main hall. Statues lined the open space. Massive depictions of Sith were flanked by the naked, bowed forms of slaves which were common in Sith artwork. The slaves had vaguely defined features that suggested they were not human, but it was difficult to be more specific with the roughness of the carvings. Azix's footsteps echoed, underscoring a distant, atonal howl – he had heard similar noises in mountain caves, caused by the wind blowing over openings in the rock. It made his balance feel strange, and he stumbled, swerving, as the howl became a ringing in his ears.
Azix stopped moving and shook it off with a growl, and the ringing subsided, though it didn't vanish entirely. He continued into the depths of the temple, exploring the shadows. There were rows of open doorways, hallways leaning deeper into the temple, but none of them felt right, so he continued straight until he found a set of staircases branching both up and down.
He chose up. At the next landing, he chose up again, and continued to climb until he could go no further. The top floor of the temple was given over to lightsaber combat training. There was an indoor and an outdoor courtyard, each lined with fountains carved in the shapes of predatory beasts. The fountains spilled clear water into their basins despite the temple's abandonment. But of course, none of it was real – not the temple, not the water, not the wind – so Azix resisted the urge to slake his thirst. He walked the perimeter until he found a spiral stairway tucked into an alcove and followed it up, because of course the local Lord would have his residence at the very pinnacle of the temple. The Sith obsession with displays of power would hardly allow otherwise.
There was a door at the top. It was covered with gears, levers, and other mechanisms that seemed to form a very complicated mechanical lock. This would be Lord Sirrut's office. Doubtless there was a trick to unlocking it, but after running his hands over the mechanism, pulling and tugging at the levers, he couldn't determine what it was. Azix drew his lightsaber and tried to plunge the blade into the door, but the plasma refused to penetrate. Even when he tried to melt through the locking posts, they remained impervious, and he was forced to sheath his saber, thwarted.
"It's a fucking riddle," he muttered, examining the mechanism again for any clues as to how to open it. "Rye could figure this out." He traced the levers and gears, following their interactions with his fingers, until he finally found the spot where they all seemed to intersect – a rectangle of clouded crystal set into a metal frame near the center of the hinge-side of the door. He tried meditating on the Dark Side, channeling into the crystal, but that didn't seem like the right technique – the power filled the space inside, but it couldn't work the door. The mechanism was conductive. It needed power…
Abruptly, Azix knew what he was supposed to do. He recoiled, pressing his back against the uneven stones in the wall, rubbing his palms on his jumpsuit. "No," he muttered, taking a few pacing steps, casting about wildly for another solution. "No, no. NO. I can't do that. I can't. I don't even know how. FUCK. There's gotta be another way." He wracked his brain, but no other way presented itself.
His memory was a traitor, showing him images of knobby claws, an immense gray hand, and the sensation of screaming panic lit by the crackle of lightning.
/You know how. You just want to forget./
"No," he growled, sliding down to sit on the steps with his face buried in his knees. "Stop. STOP. Think of something else."
He remembered surrender and sadistic joy, the feeling of power coursing through him and grounding itself in another person. He remembered how that kind of death felt in The Force, like shattering into a million fractal pieces, an utter shaking-apart of the soul.
A voice that sounded like Vitiate's whispered in the back of his mind. /You know how./
"I won't," he whispered. "I won't do it. You can't force me."
/Then you'll never leave here. You'll live in this wasteland, scavenging for candy bars until you starve. Without Rye, you go nowhere. You have to open this door for him. There's no other way./
"I'll explain it to Rye." Azix's voice cracked on foolish optimism. "He'll understand."
/What? That you put your squeamishness over his life?/
"I can't." He choked on a sob, nails digging into his knees through the sturdy fabric. "I can't. He'll understand that I can't."
/Yeah. Sure./ The voice sounded like his own now, but bitter, soaked in regret and anger. /He'll understand. You'll live together until you die of starvation and exposure, and he'll care for you, and rub your shoulders while you die slowly. He'll let this go, and you'll slip away from him forever, leaving him stranded here and helpless. Happily ever after. You have no excuse except your own fear,/ it snarled at him. /A Jedi wouldn't be this selfish, and a Sith wouldn't be this squeamish./
"I'm a JEDI," he insisted, smacking his forehead against his knees, trying to jar the growing sense of panic loose. "I am a Jedi. I don't use the Dark. I'm trying to follow the code."
/You're fallen and in collusion. Sit here until you rot./
The pressure vanished. The throbbing ceased. Azix lifted his head and contemplated the door, sitting there perfectly innocuous, looking much less threatening than most of the architecture he'd already gotten past. It was a rather cheerful color, he noticed, teal, with gleaming copper fittings. Highly conductive.
/You know how./
Feeling oddly weightless, he stood up and pressed his hand to the crystal panel. He reached out and sensed the way the facets would channel power to the contact plate, which would unlock the door. It was an obstacle meant to keep non-Sith from accessing the holocron's wisdom. He had known that challenges like this would appear. Digging in his heels now just showed his lack of commitment, when he'd promised Rye he would try.
Do or do not, his Jedi masters used to say. There is no 'try'.
Azix reaches within himself. He found the anger, the fear, the part of him deep in his core that was still curled up and screaming. He unlocked the doors inside himself and let those emotions flow free. They stole his breath, rattled his bones, and made his fingers crackle as he drew a shivery breath.
"I hate this," he whispered, pressing his palm to the crystal. "I hate you." Tears welled, and he blinked them away, breath hitching. "You did this to me."
This time, it wasn't Nollok Jen'kari he pictured. This time it was a darkened city, shambling hordes, and cruel laughter carried on the wind. A black and ultraviolet chasm swirled above him, radiating malice and hunger, driving him to do terrible things, evil things, to kill and violate and drink in the thrill of it. He had been utterly powerless and choking with power at once, and he had reveled in it like he was drunk.
He remembered a trembling voice. /Stop. Please stop. Please…/
He slammed his fist into the crystal panel. Electricity spilled out of his skin, crackling and crawling along the mechanisms, making the copper hum as the gears began to turn and the locking bolts drew back. He gave a gasping sob, pouring his grief, his sense of violation, his rage into his fist. It was so easy – the feelings were there, waiting. All he had to do was relax and set them loose and the power just thundered out of him. The door shook, the fittings rattled against their screws, and the frame lit up with a blue-white glow as electricity coursed through it. The last mechanism disengaged with a clunk, and the door swung open, still crackling.
Azix dropped to his knees, sobbing in great, heaving breaths. Now that he'd let things go, they refused to stop. Sobs wracked his body, and he struggled to hold them back, to get control of them, fingers dragging across the stone floor as he shook.
"This is not generally how my students come to me."
/Fuck,/ Azix thought, and dragged his arm across his nose, swallowing in an attempt to speak. That would be Lord Sirrut, and he was making an ass of himself. Not a good start for a negotiating position.
His luck being what it was, it promptly got worse as Sirrut approached. He was barefoot on the cool stone, black, bone, and silver rings on his pale toes, robes swishing against the floor. "Hello, Jedi," he said softly. "What brings you here?"
"… I'm not a Jedi." Lying was the first thing Azix could think to do. But Sirrut chuckled, fabric dragging in silken whispers as he folded his hands in front of him.
"Then your behavior outside my door is even more inscrutable. Why would you insist to yourself that you are a Jedi, if indeed, you are not one? It's pointless to deceive me," he said. "I know more than you realize. I know that you are a Jedi, fallen or on the edge of falling. I know you did not come here for your own sake, but for someone else. I know that you must ask a great favor of me, and you worry that I will not consent. Only the fine details remain hidden from my sight. Come." He turned, padding across the stone. "Sit. I've made some tea that should suit your palate."
"Is it spicy?" Azix sighed, defeated, and Sirrut laughed.
"No. A mild white tea with mint and honey. You should find it quite refreshing. Please."
When Azix looked up, the Sith Lord stood next to a pair of overstuffed couches grouped around a fireplace carved with relief images. Sirrut was tall and slender. His hair fell past his hips, silvery-white, and his skin was as pale as Azix's, with black markings that could have been natural or could have been tattoos. Azix couldn't place his species immediately. Umbaran, perhaps? The marks were short, angled lines above his eyebrows and across his cheekbones. His eyes were pure, undifferentiated black, which Azix didn't think was common in Umbarans, but then… it might have been because he was Sith. He wore long robes in charcoal gray with silver and white under-robes and accents. Loops of beads carved in bone and interspersed with teeth hung from his neck, and more strands were looped around his belt. Each bead was carved with a cuneiform symbol, that wicked-looking language of the Old Sith. The letters looked burnt into the bone.
Sirrut gestured to the couch across from him. Then he sat, gracefully shaking his sleeves back from his fine-boned wrists, and lifted a burnished copper teapot to begin pouring into matching molded cups.
Feeling strongly like he was in a dream, Azix crossed the room and sat on the couch.
"Thank you. This is much more civilized. And now we have time for a serious discussion."
"I…" Azix swallowed. "Rye… he needs to talk to you. I need to know how to invite him."
"I don't sense any other being outside this holocron," Sirrut told him black eyes gleaming with amusement. "Who is Rye, and why do you care for him so much?" He extended two slender fingers and pushed Azix's saucer toward him so smoothly the surface of the tea barely shuddered. It smelled delicious, and Azix found his suspicion melting away as he reached down to take the round cup between his hands. The warmth was immediate and soothing, seeping into his palms. He sipped, and found that the mint and white tea leaves created a refreshing taste that was both hot and cool at once, and Sirrut had added just enough honey so that the sweetness wasn't overpowering. Something in his shoulders unknotted.
"Rye is an Artificial Intelligence," he murmured into the edge of the cup. "That's why you can't sense him. He's a digital program that runs the archives for one of the Sith Temples on Ziost that's been turned into a museum."
"Ah, a historian program," Sirrut said, sounding intrigued. "Do continue."
"There's been a cataclysm." Azix swallowed again, but the tea wasn't really helping to wet his tongue. "Ziost is dead."
Sirrut paused with his cup halfway to his mouth, then gave a solemn nod. "I see."
"Rye and I are... survivors, in a way. We need to get off this planet. Rye knows a way off, but he's insisting we save as much knowledge as we can. He needs me to take his program, with all the history he's accumulated and saved, since we can't realistically carry the physical artifacts. He wants your help. Is there a way a digital program can interact with this holocron? There has to be a way to download information, right?"
"Of course there is. And I will be happy to speak to him. AI's must have come a long way since my day, to be treated with such consideration," he remarked. "I'm sure your friend will be fascinating. I am opening the holocron's dataport now. I presume he can handle things while you're in here with me?"
"He has active droids that he uses… he should be able to figure it out," Azix said, privately crossing his fingers for luck.
"Then, while we await him, let's talk about you. What is your name? I am Anaasi Sirrut, Lord of the Sith, as I'm sure you are aware. Who are you, Jedi? What brought you to Ziost? Don't tell me it's been conquered by the Galactic Republic." He arched his eyebrows with dry delicacy.
Azix shook his head. "No. We tried, but… no. It was… Emperor Vitiate of the Sith. He devoured everything living on Ziost to fuel his own power. The Jedi heard that his spirit had manifested on this planet. We came to destroy him. We'd tried before… but we failed that time and I guess we failed again. I survived because my shuttle was above the cataclysm, departing, when it hit. We were knocked out of the sky. I was the only survivor."
Sirrut drew in a breath, settling back against the couch. "I have heard rumors, whispers, of such rituals that can strip a planet of all life. Your friend survived because he is not biological. Correct?" At Azix's nod, he continued, "Then Ziost is stripped of life even down to the most primitive single-celled organisms? A world cannot recover from that kind of destruction."
"There's only one thing left," Azix said, breathing the scent of his tea. "Monoliths. Sithspawn. I don't know if there are any other living survivors, but they've been hunting me since I crashed. One attacked the temple recently. It's important to Rye to preserve his archives, in case these things come back and destroy more of the museum."
"And I presume this museum is where my holocron ended up. I suppose that's slightly better than being hidden away in someone's private collection, or destroyed," he allowed. "Though I am surprised to find you championing the archivist's cause. The Jedi are seldom proponents of preserving history when it's ours." He eyed Azix over the rim of his cup.
Azix felt profoundly tired. "Look," he said. "Rye's already read me the riot act over how often the Republic tries to wipe out Sith history and artifacts. Can I not get the same treatment from you? I'm here 'cause I agreed to help."
"Has he now?" Sirrut's eyes lifted, and he took a slow sip. "I may like this AI."
Azix rolled his eyes. They sat in silence for a few long minutes, and Azix began to wonder whether he would need to try to disentangle himself from the holocron to go get Rye plugged in. Then there was a soft scuffing noise on the steps, and Rye appeared in the open door.
Seeing him was a shock. In this mindscape, he didn't appear the way he did in the outside world. He looked like a REAL pureblood… so real Azix jerked and sloshed hot tea over his hand, hissing softly as he set the cup down and wiped it off on his knee. His skin was richly crimson, and so were his hair and eyes, but there were variations in the color that hadn't existed outside the holocron. And his clothes looked like real fabric, black and red with metallic red accents, sith robes complete with a cape that rippled behind him as he strode into the room.
He stopped before reaching them and bowed to Sirrut. "My lord, I beg your hospitality. I am Rye, of Ziost."
Sirrut inclined his head. "With the face of a pureblood and the dress of a Sith. I suppose you're going to tell me that, in this century, it isn't a deathly insult for a computer program to play so far above his station." Though still soft, his tone took on an edge of venom, and Azix suddenly remembered he was probably dangerous, scholar or not.
"I humbly beg your pardon, my lord," Rye replied, with more deference than Azix had ever wrangled from him, or imagined to. "My shape and form were chosen by my makers. My position as archivist was over artifacts of the Sith. As such, they made me to look like one, to better hold the attention of visitors and guests, and to speak authoritatively about the history of the Empire. Since it is very clear that I am no more than a holoprojection, and since I cannot leave the temple, Sith of my time did not perceive an insult. I can assume other garb, if that would please you, but I'm afraid I don't have another face."
"Are there no Sith Lords who could have presided over such an institute of learning? Where have they gone," Sirrut demanded, still quiet, but with steel, "that a glorified droid has taken their position?"
Azix fully expected Rye to snap back, or maybe to grovel and make obeisance, though he really hoped he wouldn't… he'd come to appreciate, and respect, the AI's spine. But he was pleasantly surprised when Rye raised his head just enough to give Lord Sirrut a dark smile.
"They have moved on to bigger and better things, my lord. The Galaxy is wider and more wild than you left it. Knowledge and glory beckon at the far edges and we have been at war with the Republic for some years, a war we are winning. I presume that Azrahix has told you of the destruction of Ziost. It is a tragedy, but it was not the Republic's work. Our Emperor has turned on us, but the Empire remains strong, vital, and conquerer of a thousand systems and species."
Sirrut seemed to take his measure. After a long moment, his posture relaxed. He gestured toward Azix's couch and Rye bowed in gratitude before moving to sit next to him. As he moved, his robes and cape shimmered away to be replaced with a set of crisp black pants, gleaming boots, and a long, tailored jacket over a high-collared shirt, the sort of thing a professor or a docent might wear. He settled beside Azix, and Azix was startled again that the couch dipped under him, that in this reality he had WEIGHT and WARMTH and he could feel both as naturally as he could feel the air he thought he was breathing.
"Your companion did mention the destruction of Ziost," he said. "But he hadn't quite got 'round to his name. Azrahix?"
"Tsuva," Az supplied grudgingly. "Yeah."
"Not a Jedi Master. I struggle to credit you with knighthood."
"He's newly knighted. Shortly before coming to Ziost," Rye explained. "My lord, the history I protect is threatened. I need your help, and I'm afraid that what I must ask is extreme."
"You can't take the artifacts, so you need the information. You want me to give you my program." Sirrut sipped his tea.
"With respect," Azix said, grinding the word out through his teeth, "a planet has died. Millions of your own people."
Sirrut raised delicate, silvery brows at him, black eyes unreadable. "I understood that, thank you."
The acidity of his tone made Azix's blood boil a little, but Rye was there now, so he decided to take the wiser path, drink his tea, and shut up.
Rye reached over and squeezed his shoulder. Actually squeezed it. Again, Azix almost dropped his teacup, but this time he managed to avoid spilling anything. He was so used to Rye's presence being ethereal that being touched by him was startling – he kept expecting, at most, a vague tingle. Now it was his fingers that were tingling, numb at the tips, his heart tripping over itself. He didn't want to analyse those sensations.
"Forgive my friend," he said. "Jedi are so concerned about the corporeal. Lives, homes, planets. My focus is something more lasting and so much more fragile. The Republic has stolen our history from us many times in the past. We rebuild, of course, because that is who we are. However, through the dictates of my program, not to mention my own personal beliefs, I am compelled to save as much of our history as I can in any way I can. The sithspawn that were created and left here by our erstwhile Emperor seem determined to grind what's left of Ziost into the dust," Rye told him. "I can't guarantee the safety of any artifacts. The temple has already been attacked once. I need to back up as much data as I can pull and take it somewhere safer. You understand."
"And your pet Jedi?" Sirrut reclined gracefully and took a sip of his tea. "How does he feel about this?"
"He wants to live," Rye said simply. "So do I. Tit for tat, as it were."
"Hm." Sirrut looked unimpressed. "But you'll forgive me for wondering if you can control him."
Outraged, Azix opened his mouth. Then Rye squeezed his shoulder, and he remembered that they had a goal here, and shut it again. But Sirrut's knowing smile made him reconsider his cooperation.
"I see," the Sith Lord said, and sipped his tea. "Very well, Rye. Explain your plan to me."
"We can't transport my memory core off-world," Rye said. "It's far too bulky, and not exactly made to be portable. I need a way to take, not only my own program, but also all the information I can collect from the artifacts that are here, including other holocrons, somewhere it can't be destroyed. Traditional memory storage can't give me what I need," he said meaningfully, his jewel-red eyes fixed on Sirrut's depthless black.
"You want my holocron." Sirrut's eyes narrowed minutely.
"Just temporarily," Rye assured him, even though they had discussed no such thing. "I need a grophet-back ride, to be honest. But I can offer you a great deal in exchange for your assistance. Everything I need to bring with me would be accessible to you: centuries of new knowledge, literature, and history. All the information is yours. Plus, yours would be the only holocron guaranteed to survive the destruction. I'll try to get Reclamation to come back for the others of course," he assured the Sith, "but the Sithspawn seem drawn to the power of Dark Side artifacts, and there's no telling how long it would take them to retrieve the rest. You are the first I have asked," Rye said softly, "and I chose you for a reason, my lord. I believed that you would see the value in what I am trying to do. Once we part ways, and I can find a new, more suitable vehicle for my program, you and I would be archival twins. You would be the keeper of one history, and I the keeper of the other. In this way, we can further guard against the destruction of Sith knowledge by the Jedi."
"You make a compelling argument, little one," Sirrut said. He took a long, contemplative sip of his tea. "But I have no way of verifying that it is true. And I cannot sense your honesty because The Force does not flow through you."
"For what it's worth, I'm forbidden to lie to my masters," Rye said. "And all Sith are my masters. I can show you the code for it, if you like."
"Well, it's good to know there are some restrictions," Sirrut said haughtily. "I would hate to think the Empire had allowed artificial creatures to run amok."
Rye's spine straightened, and he shook his head. "Never, my lord. My purpose is to serve the Empire and preserve it against its enemies. If I can truly be said to have life, then that would be my life's mission. And to ensure that the Jedi never accomplish their mission to wipe the Sith from the face of the galaxy. Sorry, Azix," he added in a dismissive tone that implied he wasn't sorry at all.
Azix gave him a sour look and just shrugged. "I figure we can hash that out AFTER we get off this rock."
Sirrut snorted. "And the Jedi, I'm sure, is as good as his word."
"He certainly seems to think so. But he has everything to lose if he perishes here, in a Dark Side nexus, where the Light is beyond his reach. So I think he'll stick to our agreement," Rye said, giving Azix a steady look. Azix wasn't sure, but he thought he read /go along with this/ in the set of his mouth and the intensity of his gaze. Rye needn't have worried – Azix knew how to shut up while grown-ups were talking. Raised in a Jedi temple and now the youngest member of the Sixth Line, that was pretty much his entire life. Besides, he was feeling languid. The tea might not be real, but it was the best thing he'd drunk in a week.
/Not the youngest anymore,/ he realized, and his stomach twisted painfully. He put the teacup down a little too hard - it slipped through shaking fingers at the last moment.
Rye blinked, shifting focus. "Do you think I can taste this here?" he wondered. "Do you mind?" Azix shook his head, and Rye scooped up his abandoned cup and tipped some tea over his tongue.
His eyes went wide.
Azix half-smiled, waiting for his reaction – mint was a strong flavor to be the first taste of anything, and the menthol in it added additional sensations. It was sort of like feeding a baby a lemon just to see their faces scrunch. How would that information be translated to his program, anyway? Somehow it managed to translate to Azix's own senses, sending signals to his brain that said /tea, mint, honey/. But Rye had no reference for mint or honey, so how would he interpret those signals…?
The cup hit the floor and shattered. "Kill him," Rye snarled.