"Is that him?"
"Let's hope so."
"He doesn't look like a Sith. He looks like some minor king from a Republic system."
"That must be his Valkorian guise. He ruled a second empire in the Zakuul system."
"One wasn't enough?"
"Apparently not."
Dessel pulls back from the shuttle window as Zannah crowds closer for a better look outside. He has the same lurid curiosity she does about the man who has walked up to greet them, but he's trying not to show it. He's playing this cool so as not to alarm her. But while she's not looking, Dessel straightens his uniform nervously. You don't meet a Dark Lord—THE Dark Lord—looking shabby.
That they are finally here is as intimidating as it is improbable. Everyone knew this mission was a shot in the dark. A last-ditch effort that was the only solution the fractious Dark Council Lords could agree upon. Amid all the finger pointing and infighting, all conceded that unity would only come from an outsider. No acceptable leader would emerge from among the current options. So, the ruling Lords agreed to seek an alternative in the form of an elusive, mythical, wild bantha chase type fanciful risk. Because that's how desperate things are back home.
The Sith have a long tradition of strongman leadership, of ambitious cruel men who rise to the top of the heap and impose their iron will on all below. This is the only way the Sith have ever prospered—when they entrust their fortunes to a single man's vision. Authoritarian rule is their comfort zone. For they are a hierarchical society of Masters and Apprentices, of patrons and servants, of elites and common folk, and of numerous gradations of caste in between based on ancestry, species, and origin world.
His boss had taken him aside before Dessel left to speak soft orders under his breath. Don't come back unless you find him. If you can't find him, just defect. To the Republic? Dessel had been horrified at this treasonous advice. To anywhere, his boss replied. You don't want to be here while we simultaneously fight the Republic and a bloody civil war. I'm going to find him, Dessel had replied staunchly. Find him and I'll train you as a Lord myself, his boss had promised. And that inducement alone made this lunacy worth the risk.
They gave him a ship and loaded its memory banks with all the extant navigational data of the Sith military. But Dessel had ignored all that technology and let the Force guide him. That's how they ended up here . . . wherever here is.
"Vitiate called himself the 'once and future Emperor,'" Dessel remarks as he reaches for the elaborate velvet lined case that contains the saber he has been sent to present. He plucks out the ancient ceremonial weapon and turns it over in his hands. It has been the symbol of ultimate sovereign authority since time immemorial, since as far back as the days when the Sith Empire existed in complete secrecy hidden from the Republic. If the Sith had crown jewels, this saber would be it.
"Once and future Emperor-what does that mean?" Zannah asks, glancing back over her shoulder.
"Let's hope it means he will be our leader again."
"What's he doing here all these years later?"
"I don't know," Dessel admits. That is the part that makes this situation so uncomfortable. Because none of it makes much sense. "I'm not even sure where 'here' is."
"We're in the Force."
Yes, he knows. But this is not the World Between Worlds and it's not a mutual vision. This is something very different. Dessel can't place the mental feel of this location. It's not Dark and not Light. It just . . . is. Just like the man outside their ship just . . . is. It's very disconcerting.
Zannah is still peeking out the window as he stalls some more. "I thought he would be more impressive. I expected him to be red. And taller. He's shorter than I expected," she observes, sounding disappointed.
She's probably had girlish fantasies of a big strapping warrior, Dessel thinks. He chides, "Looks can deceive."
"Yes, Master," she tells him cheekily like she always does when he corrects her. He and Zannah are not Master and Apprentice. They both have the Force but he's not a Lord and she's . . . well, she's female. Plus, they're colonials, so neither of them would ever qualify for the ranks of the Sith elite who receive actual Force training. It's why he's relegated to serving as an errand boy for the staff of the Dark Council. Zannah is only here now because he refused to leave her behind.
"Why did he leave again?" she asks, momentarily tearing her eyes from the window.
"No one knows. It was many, many centuries ago. Supposedly, he just walked away one day."
"Why would he do that?" she puzzles. "Who walks away from power?"
"I don't know." Dessel speaks aloud his growing misgivings now. "Zee, I have a bad feeling about this."
"Bad because he's the real deal? Or bad because he's just some dude and we've come to the wrong place?" she jokes. Zannah's not the worrier in the family, he is. She plays the role of irreverent to his straight man. "Well? Which is it, Des?"
"Bad because we're about to be killed," he answers softly. His eyes find hers so like his own. "Do you sense it too?"
"No," she answers immediately. And that gives him encouragement. Zannah is intuitive by nature. Her Force talents are very cerebral. "But take your own sword, not just the one for him," she advises. "No one can beat you with a sword."
He appreciates the vote of confidence, but sword skills won't matter. "If he's who I think he is, he doesn't need a sword to kill me."
"Just take it. We are the Sith and we never come in peace."
"Amen to that," Dessel smirks as he reaches to deploy the shuttle ramp. Enough stalling. It's time to do this. He takes a deep breath. Then he grabs the fancy ancestral sword he's supposed to present and clips his own homemade weapon to his belt like she suggests.
"It will be fine," Zannah assures him, suddenly sounding far more mature than her sixteen years. "He was our leader."
"Leaders don't leave," Dessel grumbles under his breath.
"He was our leader," she responds firmly.
"Let's hope he's still our leader," Dessel worries. Zannah now reaches for her own weapon, but he preempts her. "Stay inside."
"But—"
"If he's everything they say he is, he's dangerous."
"So are you," she pouts. Then, she lifts her pert chin, boasting, "And so am I."
"Not like him. Zee, if I get in trouble, take off. Don't come to my aid. Get out of here. Save yourself."
"But—"
"That's an order. Better one of us dies than both of us. Go anywhere and start a new life."
She pouts some more, looking like the mulish teenager she is. But she defers. It's as insouciant as ever though. Zee bows her head in mock subservience. "Yes, Master."
She makes him smile. He's a serious guy, but she always cajoles him to come around. Something about her girlish impishness always charms him. Right now, it calms him. "Wish me luck?"
"There's no such thing as luck," she groans at his corny joke. But she walks into his arms now for a quick, hard hug. "Go be a hero, Des," she tells him. "Save the Sith."
He whispers back, "I love you, little sister." Then he marches down the shuttle ramp to meet his destiny.