A/N: Thank you to Guest for the review! Good catch with the Celestial and the Mortis connection; it may very well prove a major turning point for both Jedi and Sith alike...
Adjacent to the gleaming spires and towering monuments of Coruscant's Senate District sprawls the Federal District, the home of law, of efficiency, of taxation and trade and regulations and bylaws and every other minutia attended to by the army of underpaid bureaucrats who call this place their own. Dominating the plateau-like cityscape of the district rises its most imposing feature, however, and its most formidable tenant: The ziggurat-esque headquarters of the Republic war machine, the Republic Center for Military Operations. A fortress, Obi-Wan knows, where few Jedi set foot and fewer are welcome. It is the soldiers and commanders who rule this place, the stewards of the former Judicial Forces and Sector Fleets who, even with the rise of the clone army, still dominate much of the Republic's fleet.
These are not the unwavering, perfectly-obedient clones here. These men have their own traditions, their own officers' hierarchies, and it is men like Grand Admiral Tarkin who can call them his own—not the Jedi. They are loyal, but they have their opinions. And plenty of those opinions have less-than-stellar regard for the commanding position the Jedi Generals rapidly took in the opening phase of this war.
"I don't expect the warmest of welcomes here," Obi-Wan says to Bail Organa as the Alderaanian senator swoops his airspeeder in towards a beckoning hanger. Just getting clearance to land took a whole ten minutes, and that was with prior senatorial authorization for a meeting with the Special Weapons Group and this rising Director Krennic. "There's plenty of clone troopers here, but the old Judicial Forces always had their own way of doing things. They and the Jedi didn't always, or even often, see eye-to-eye."
"They'll listen to me. Senate approval will supersede any snide looks they throw your way," says Bail as he maneuvers his speeder into the hanger. He looks to Obi-Wan and grins. "Besides, they wouldn't want an unfriendly word at the Senate's next budget meeting. This war's making some of these men and women rich off of the overtime pay."
Obi-Wan chuckles. "Times like these I tell myself it's a good thing the Jedi are self-funded. We can say whatever we want."
"Nothing too bad about me I hope, Master Kenobi."
"Oh, only the best, I assure you."
This is not the Senate Bureau for Intelligence's inoffensive, even boring, auspices. Here solid duracrete, rigid discipline and protocol, and zero tolerance for stepping outside of the approved lines dominate everything in sight. The hanger itself is a den of lions: Two squadrons of V-Wings hang on ceiling racks while a trio of gunships line the left wall alongside refueling tanks. To the right a whole team of flight support personnel dash back and forth in emergency operations drills as two petty officers bellow. Formidable to the point of impressive, thinks Obi-Wan, but there's a lifelessness here that is too loud to ignore. Qui-Gon would hate it. The Force seems averse to places like this, places where the natural ebb and flow of the day fade and automata-like regimen rules supreme. Necessary for the military, maybe, but the war is a necessary evil as well—and the sooner that is over, the better.
A uniformed public relations official flanked by two rifle-armed security guards in blocky grey Judicial Forces armor meet Obi-Wan and Bail as they disembark. "Senator Organa," the PR man barks. No VIP treatment here. "Master Kenobi. Per your pre-arrival directions, please follow me to your approved meeting."
A command, not a greeting. Bail says little as they wind through the labyrinthine hallways; Obi-Wan says not a word. He can feel the stares from the guards behind him. The Jedi are war heroes, but they are also celebrated in the media, their deaths mourned, their sacrifices lionized. The clones are put on posters and trumped up as the protectors of the Republic. Many of these men, on the other hand, have simply been forgotten; when they are killed in the line of duty, Coruscant does not slow in the slightest. Kamino's labs and training facilities shoved aside the old Judicial Forces faster than any Separatist army ever could have.
A turbolift drops them deep into the bowels of the installation. Security sensors sweep visitors and personnel alike the moment they step out into another series of hallways. A checkpoint: Obi-Wan offers up his lightsaber to the guards without complaint. He's surprised they didn't demand his weapon earlier.
At last they reach the Special Weapons Group's offices, a honeycomb-like series of staff rooms arranged another turbolift descending deeper into the base. Obi-Wan can only imagine what sort of activity is going on down there.
"In here, please," the PR representative says as he ushers Obi-Wan and Bail into a secure reception room. An attractive Togruta secretary bids them to wait until she hears a confirmation on the other side of a secure comm. Then through another series of doors and finally, finally, they meet the man in question himself.
Orson Krennic is anything but imposing in Obi-Wan's eye: Just an average-looking, young-ish human man with the first touches of gray in his hair and the hint of creases beginning to mar his long face. His office is military utilitarian, all gunmetal gray steel and rectangular white lights and form-fitting upholstery. Behind a wide desk stretches a series of monitors, all of them now replaced with buzzing static given the arrival of visitors. Whatever the Special Weapons Group is up to, Krennic has no intention of sharing the details with a senator and a Jedi.
Krennic swallows when they enter. "Senator Organa," he says. His head never lowers or turns away, but Obi-Wan spots his eyes wavering between the two of them. "Jedi Master Kenobi."
"Director Krennic," says Bail.
"You seem unsettled," Obi-Wan adds.
"No, no, it's—the meeting was unexpected is all. On short notice."
"Our apologies," says Bail, "but time is of the essence. We have a number of things to discuss."
Krennic frets and steps behind his desk. He clasps his hands behind his back, raises his chin a tad, and says, "I'm unaware of what my efforts might have produced to warrant a senator and a Jedi's attention. This is war. Like the rest of the Republic navy, the Special Weapons Group is committed to—"
"It's your predecessor we want to talk about," Obi-Wan interrupts him, taking a seat. "Her and your staff."
"Director Rann? I'm afraid I can't say much beyond our professional relationship."
"You were promoted rather recently to your position of leadership," says Bail. "Director Rann had served as head of the Special Weapons Group for years. It's now impossible to contact her, and even any trace of her leadership seems to have vanished. It's as if she simply disappeared and you took her place."
Krennic furrows his brow. "Your point, Senator?"
"A former agent of the Group was disavowed under Rann's leadership," Organa continues. "A man named Tenwin Enman. He made some trouble rather recently, trouble of the illegal sort, the kind of trouble that does warrant our coming today. I want to hear everything you know about the man, why he was disavowed, and your group's procedures for cutting ties with former staff, especially in light of both his and Rann's removal. The last thing any of us can afford during a time of war is rogue personnel with access to critical security infrastructure running amok."
Krennic shakes his head. "Rogue? There's nothing rogue about this division, Senator. We have delivered innovations and breakthroughs that have kept our military in this war, that empower our forces on the front lines every day in every battle. If you want rogue, you—there's nothing more to it."
Obi-Wan has watched him the whole time. The man is no actor; his emotions are clear: Krennic is afraid. Not of Senator Organa, not even of Obi-Wan, but of someone else, someone with real power. He's holding back, and no matter how much Bail presses him, he won't reveal what they need to know.
That power marches through the office door a moment later. Flanked by a whole squadron of guards enters Grand Admiral Tarkin, his jaw set, his eyes looking past Obi-Wan and Bail and staring knives into Krennic. The Director shrinks before him. "My apologies senator. Master Jedi," says Tarkin as he steps up to the desk. His stare never breaks. "Your presence is unnecessary for this meeting, Director Krennic."
"Tarkin," Krennic says through gritted teeth. He lowers his voice, but Obi-Wan can still hear his next words to the Grand Admiral: "The Vice Chair promised me autonomy. That I would report to him and the Chancellor alone."
"Your department is under the military's authority," Tarkin rebukes him. "The Republic military that is now under my command by the Vice Chair's own emergency authorization. You do report to Amedda, Krennic—through me. That will be all. You are dismissed for now."
Smarting from being dismissed from his own office, Krennic storms past Obi-Wan and Bail without a word. As he reaches the door Tarkin adds, "I will summon you later, Director. I am expecting a report on your project's progress."
Krennic does not look back. He merely clenches his fist, smacks the door's controls, and wades out.
"I beg your pardon, Tarkin, but we had a meeting with the director," Obi-Wan says once the door is closed and they have privacy once more—they and the squadron of guards still forming a half-circle around the grand admiral. It is not just a security detail but a message: Obi-Wan and Organa are on Tarkin's turf now. "And, excuse my interpretation of events, but I thought you were out leading an offensive up the Rimma Trade Route. If memory serves, you promised to conquer from Yag'Dhul to Sullust."
"And I shall deliver the trade route to the Republic and its citizenry," says Tarkin without missing a beat, "via the gallantry of my ships, my soldiers, and my officers. Unlike you Jedi with your hands-on attitude, I know the value of stepping back and allowing my subordinates freedom of operation. I have trusted admirals and generals leading the charge. I am Grand Admiral now; I have whole theaters of war to oversee, operations that require a broader, larger view of the galaxy. The kind of view one cannot even begin to look upon on the front lines."
"Funny enough, I've never had that problem."
"And see where that strategy has gotten us. Three years of war. Three years of a stalemate at best, a losing effort realistically. It is time for change. It is time for true leadership, a real hierarchy of command. Military discipline and strategy. Not the whims of faith and Jedi heroics," Tarkin says.
Bail clears his throat. "We're here on senatorial authorization, Grand Admiral. That authority—"
"Holds no rank over military authority on a military installation," Tarkin finishes. "In particular, military authority that has been vested in me by Vice Chair Amedda. Military authority to supersede that of both the Senate and—" he looks pointedly at Obi-Wan—"the Jedi Order."
"Then perhaps you'd like to answer our questions in Krennic's place," says Obi-Wan. He has never liked Tarkin, but his dislike for the man is growing with each word that spews out of the veteran officer's mouth. His promotion has only served to inflate his ego and ambition beyond any reasonable level. He's an officer, not a lord clinging to his fief. "I'm sure you can tell us why a formerly-disavowed agent of the Special Weapons Group was conspiring in a corruption ring right here on Coruscant. I'm sure you can also fill us in on the details of how Krennic came to fill his position of leadership, and where his predecessor went."
As always, Tarkin wastes no time in replying. "I'm afraid I am unable to help you, Master Jedi," he says. "Might I remind you of the definition of 'disavowed.' Whatever the fate or motives behind the supposed agent you claim to engage in corruption, it is not the responsibility of the Republic military. Former staff are free to pursue their lives as they see fit. If they choose poorly, the consequences are theirs and theirs alone. As for Rann, her performance was not tolerable. She was dismissed from duty and left for the Rim for personal reasons. Beyond that, her dismissal followed all appropriate regulations and policies."
His intent is clear: This is my house, and you will take what I give you. No more. "I want a full report on that dismissal," Bail says.
"So you will have it, in time, when we can spare the resources," says Tarkin, his level tone of voice implying that "in time" could mean anytime between tomorrow and the heat death of the universe. "If that will be all, then this meeting is adjourned."
"That will not be all," Obi-Wan speaks up, rising from his seat. "We have questions, Tarkin. A senator was conspiring against the interests of the Republic, and now he is dead. One of this department's former personnel was involved. And I have questions beyond that, questions regarding just the sort of people and organizations this division is in cahoots with."
"I have explained all you need to know, Kenobi. If you require more, you can seek further information through appropriate channels," says Tarkin, taking a single step towards Obi-Wan. "If you are unaware of the urgency of our war effort, then might I remind you that a trivial meeting such as this is unimportant compared to the lives of our soldiers being risked right now against the Separatist armies. Perhaps in your Jedi towers it can be difficult to see those sacrifices, but be assured that here we know just what price is paid in this war." He turns his back to Obi-Wan as he moves to leave. "I will send staff to see you escorted back to your vehicle. That will be all."
"Tarkin!" exclaims Bail as the grand admiral leaves, but Obi-Wan grabs his shoulder.
"Let it go, Senator," Obi-Wan says. Nothing they can do here. Tarkin has complete control over his subordinates to the point of enforcing their silence, as Krennic's reaction showed. And the grand admiral is not wrong: Mas Amedda handed him military power to rival that of the Jedi Council. He can command fleets, move armies—and shut down any release of information if it strikes his fancy. They will get nothing more here.
That doesn't mean, however, that this is over. Obi-Wan has had enough practice at this sort of negotiation: When diplomacy fails, it's time to try the next tactic. He'll get to the bottom of whatever is going on with the Special Weapons Group, with or without Tarkin's cooperation.
Perhaps Count Dooku has given her free reign to roam about the base now that she has, in his words, "embraced her feelings," but Sae hardly counts that as a privilege. The Ziost installation is sullen and lifeless; only administration droids and a loose patrol of combat units hanging around the sensor perimeter constitute any kind of company to dampen the constant battering and howling of the tempest raging outside. Droids and Taron Malicos: Sae almost prefers her former cell. At least in there she had the energy gate between her and her fellow Sith acolyte.
Fellow Sith. Huh. She even thinks it on her own now, and it does not strike her as odd. As odd? Abhorrent, ghastly, monstrous—what does she care? Frankly, Dooku was right in what he told her as she bled her lightsaber crystal, drawing out the familiar yellow and replacing it with that scarlet red color that now burns and roils every time she ignites her weapon. It's not her fault that she's here. Not really. The Jedi sent her on her merry way to Ossus. They were happy to throw her into the teeth of that doomed mission. It was Skywalker's stupid discovery on Empress Teta. Why didn't he go following his own threads? Why toss Sae and Tamri into that meat-grinder?
Because it's just as Dooku said: They didn't care. Skywalker is valuable. He's a war hero. Sae was just another Jedi. Tamri was just another girl. Skywalker is irreplaceable; anyone can be substituted in Sae's place. They probably haven't even noticed her absence.
Well, screw that. And to hell with them. Tamri was irreplaceable, even if they told her to get over it. She never told them the one word she'd happily say could she go back in time: No. No I won't die for your idiotic aims. No I will not throw Tamri's life away to satisfy your curiosity. No, no, no. If she'd said it then, she could've taken Tamri with her and run off to some beach or prairie or forest or other place where the girl could've had her fill of plants and flowers and all that other puttering around she did in the Jedi Temple garden, and Sae could've pulled that anxiety off from around her neck long before it ever tried to choke the life out of her. She wanted nothing more than to die then, did she not? Now she does not care. Life, death. Whatever. Jedi, Sith. She's not stupid enough to think Dooku cares about her as a person, but even if he simply sees her as a tool, in the end, weren't the Jedi just the same? And if that's the case, then why bother feeling anything about leaving them?
What a mess. Frankly, she should just stow away on the next Separatist transport to drop in here and fly away to some remote nowhere in the Outer Rim, but she can't even muster the energy to do that. Charting her own path is too exhausting; too painful. It's easier to let someone tell her what to do. Even if that someone is Taron Malicos.
"Hey," says Malicos as she passes him in the base's lounge. With no other biological occupants, they're the only two people making any use of this sorry excuse for a relaxation room. "Hey."
"What?" Sae mutters. Despite submitting to Dooku, she has no love for Malicos. His ship fired on Tamri; he is just as culpable in her death as the Jedi are. But for now, she can work with him. For now. She knows—and she imagines he knows, too—that their peace will not last forever. There will come a time when they take up their lightsabers against each other and only one will walk away alive. As for when that will be…well, the Celestial has so far contented itself primarily with tormenting Sae about the past, rather than gifting her any further visions of the future.
Malicos finds a crumb under his seat and tosses it at her. "Go feed the beast."
"What are you even talking about?"
"Go make sure Pella didn't chew her fingers off or something. Dooku wants her alive, for whatever reason."
Ah. Pella Starseer. The Padawan Dooku supposedly has locked up in another cell. So far he has not allowed Sae any more information about her than that, but Malicos apparently has other ideas. All the better. Sae is bored from pacing around this facility, and there's nothing to do outside other than freezing to death in the storm. Dooku has locked down access to the Celestial's temple; he allows Sae access to it only by his will—and that's when he's even here, and not taking care of official Separatist business—and doesn't allow Malicos to see it at all. Whatever future it has showed him, it must shake the galaxy.
Fine. She tromps off to the dungeon lethargically, her shoulders slumped, her eyes half-closed. Just passing time. Life going by lifeless minute after minute. She would prefer Dooku throw her into a battle, even one against her former Jedi comrades. Action would at least occupy her, take her mind off of things. Keep her from dwelling. Keep the demons at bay. But, of course, he must know that. Here she dwells, and with every passing moment she divorces herself further from the life she once knew and settles into the vacuous new existence that destiny provides. In the silence and lull she can curse everything that once was, and the multiplicative effect of her damnations builds a wall around whatever light is left with her, bricks rising higher and higher with each passing day.
The dungeon is cold stone and bits of prefab steel to keep the base's foundation secure. Here the old cave system the base is built upon now provides over two dozen cells for what Dooku hopes could be the start of his own order. Hpmh. Sae hopes he doesn't make her partner with any of them if he's successful. The last thing she needs now is someone tailing along behind her. She knows just how painful that can get.
Only one cell is energy gated now, the furthest to the left at the end of the prison block. It's dark down here at the end, only a single light providing an unnatural white glow. Sae trudges up and leans against a rock, peering in through the humming orange energy grid. This cell is deep—it runs far into the rock with plenty of space. Roomy. And there's something in there all right, something stirring at the bottom of the rear wall. Scowling, Sae deactivates the energy grid and steps inside the cell.
It's not something but someone. Malicos was right in his description: Pella is less a Padawan than an animal now, a huddled, scab-ridden mess of a girl curled in the fetal position in the darkest corner of the cell. Her platinum hair is a filthy mess; her arms are covered in self-inflicted scars, both from her teeth and nails and from rubbing up on the hard rock. Shackles bind her wrists and ankles and link into the stone. When Sae takes a step nearer, small eyes peer out of the darkness. Irises she can just make out as green. The whites so streaked and tired they may as well be red.
Shit. Different ways to break down different Jedi, Sae supposes. Maybe she should feed the beast.
She returns with a tray of food. Nothing spectacular, but hopefully it'll at least keep the girl from biting herself. It's a little cruel to keep her penned up like this, Sae thinks. Maybe the isolation and the loneliness pulled her down into the darkness, but for a kid…and she looks hardly older than Tamri. Younger, actually. A Jedi, perhaps, but clearly not one who has thought this path through like Sae. Just a Padawan learner. Is Dooku really going to get a strong Sith out of her?
Sae sets the tray down and turns her back to the girl. A moment later a force slams into her back and a chain constricts around her throat. It's a feeble attack, the strength pitiful, weak, but Sae is unprepared and she falls face-first onto the rock. Pain flares on her face and her anger sprouts. Without bothering to see the attacker now pulling at her neck in a pathetic attempt to choke her, Sae grabs the first foreign object she can find wrapped around her—a hand—and jerks it forward. The pressure on her throat slackens. Sae loosens herself from her attacker's grip, tumbles away, and without looking unleashes a full blast of the Force at point-blank range.
Pella launches back into the rock, crying as she strikes it and crumbles into a heap. She scurries away as Sae rises up before her. "The hell are you doing?" Sae shouts as Pella curls into a ball. "I was getting you food, you idiot! You want to attack someone, attack Malicos and do me a damn favor. Stars above." She points at the food now scattered all over the ground as she exits the cell, Pella still cowering in her corner. "You better eat that by the time I come back. Or I'm not getting any more."
She moves to reactivate the energy gate, thinks better of it, and waves her hand at the girl. The shackles snap open and clank harmlessly on the ground. Pella sniffs and rubs her hands and feet, looking up warily as if her newfound freedom is a trick. Sae shakes her head and groans. Damn Malicos, she thinks as she activates the gate. Useless git. She has to take care of everything around here.
The wonders of sleep are matched by few other reliefs. The waking world's attack on the mind is relentless: With every hour and day comes a new assault, sensory, psychological, physical, emotional. It is enough to put the strongest of wills to the test. To retreat behind the door of unconsciousness, to let the mind wander and unfold, to let imagination veer about and dream, to leave this cruel world behind and set aside its savagery, if even for a fleeting night, is an unrivaled gift. Such a simple thing taken for granted—until life attacks with such fury, such rage, such aggression, that to wake from welcome slumber is to become anew.
It certainly feels that way to Tamri. She wakes to the hush here in polar Telos, snow drifting in lazy-morning pinwheels, the clouds sleepy-eyed gray in their stratus blanket. Blazes, how long has she been running? Korriban, Ziost, Mirial, the asteroid base, Yurica Tath's lab—when has she even been able to wake up like this and not immediately fear for what was coming next? Hit after hit after hit. She feels as if some ethereal giant has at last taken its foot off of her chest and given her a moment to breathe. Breathe in, out. Just breathe.
She closes her eyes and lays her head back down. This whole room is hers. Oaken walls. Holographic fire in an old-stone fireplace. Mattress like maternal arms, blankets of sea foam-soft cushions bubbling around her, soft and warm. She wants to forget. Wants to fall back asleep, to go back to that other world where the horrors that this waking realm can inflict recede into the low tide and the sandy shores of the subconscious reveal themselves beneath a never-setting sun. Oh. If only.
But she has a few things going right. She is still alive. Simple, maybe, but that's been far from a guarantee ever since Belderone. She's free. And she's safe—maybe not all that safe, given that she's marooned on a Separatist world, but safer than in captivity or under fire. This is her life, she supposes: Finally she looks at the simplest of reliefs and respects them.
So be it. It's what she has to work with, and to work she must go.
Someone laid out a change of clothes near the door—Kesh? No more ratty medical gown, at least. Snug trousers and a close-fitting, warm undershirt with a fur-lined jacket that clings to her arms and chest; winter weather of a fashion Tamri can't identify. A good fit. The inn is silent save for the thump of a clump of snow dropping off of the roof and the snapping blaze in the fireplace, this one with real flames and real heat. She looks around at her surroundings with a vision she lacked in her exhausted state from before. The little marks of culture—more colored paper lanterns like those from out on the street dangle from the ceiling, reds and purples and oranges. Tiny plants sprout in planters situated upon mounts at the bottom of the staircase. Immaculately cultivated, these—here a boreal hydrangea from Kijimi, there a miniature polar maple from Ando Prime. Tamri smiles. It's a nice feeling to recognize these little things, even if it's just naming plants she's studied before. It makes her feel strong. Capable. At least there's one thing she can do, even if it's just amateur exobotany.
No Kesh in sight. No Avea. Curious, she wanders out the inn's back door towards the rising steam she saw the day before. As she expected, it's hot springs: A cluster of hot water pools lay about the back of the inn with several Ando polar maples, these full grown, rising above them, red leaves drifting off of the branches to tumble down with the snow. Crimson on white and gray; a touch of color to shade the palette. Beautiful.
Now Tamri is not alone, however. In one of the pools—naked, as best Tamri can tell—rests Avea, the Echani woman submerged up to her neck in steamy water, her eyes closed, head drooped back onto a rock, long white hair lost in the snow behind her. She doesn't open her eyes when Tamri approaches. "Whatchu want, Jedi?"
"Hi," says Tamri, standing behind her and suddenly not knowing what to say. It's been so long since she's talked casually to anyone besides Sae—really since Kuat and Eno Cordova—that her ability to socialize has atrophied. Not that socializing was ever her strong suit to begin with. "I, uh, wanted to talk."
"So talk."
"Er—sure. I wanted to thank you—"
"Why don't you relax? You sound like you need it," Avea interrupts her. Still without opening her eyes she points to one of the other pools. "No one else is using it."
Tamri bites her lip. "I already got dressed."
Avea snorts. Only then does Tamri see a pile of clothing on the ground near her. "Humans and your weird ideas of privacy. Just stand behind a tree if you must. No one's looking."
That sounds all kinds of wrong, but she's not lying: No one is here. Plus the water looks inviting, and when has Tamri ever had the time and opportunity to do something as innocent as dipping into a hot spring? Certainly not on any of her sojourns with Sae through the underworld. Fair enough, then. She slips behind one of the maples, peeking out every other moment to ensure no one is spying on her as she undresses, crouching low to the snow. Then she hurriedly slips into her own pool, clenches her teeth against the sudden heat and…and…
Relaxes. Oh, it is nice.
She slumps back, her head against the snow, looking up at the gray sky. So peaceful here. Quiet, still. She doesn't want the moment to end.
Avea ends it for her. "Now," she says, "what did you want?"
Tamri sighs. Oh well. "I…well, Kesh said you hired her, and she freed me, so…I guess I have you to thank for getting me out of there. Out of the Tath base. Lab. Whatever it is."
"Hmph," murmurs Avea. "Lotta good that does me."
"Look, I'm not running. Kesh said she hoped I could help, and I will. I will help," Tamri presses on. "I do need to get back to the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, but I'm not going to leave you before I pay my due." She lets out a long breath. "What exactly were you trying to get out of there, anyway? Kesh said something about an AI, but we were going pretty fast, and it was all a bit of a blur."
Avea looks over at her with a face of suspicion. Then she leans out of the pool—Tamri looks away, blushing—and props up on her arms in the snow. "What's your deal, Jedi?"
"Huh?"
"I mean why did the Taths have you in the first place? Kesh was talking crap about midi-chlorians and gene sequencing, but hell if I know about any of that."
"I don't know. I was captured by slavers and I guess they bought me for a big lab experiment. That's all I really know. What's your, ah, deal?"
Avea scoffs. "Captured by slavers. Clearly not Anakin Skywalker we're talking about here."
"No. Sorry."
She sighs and slips back into her pool. "You're really sticking around, huh?"
"I said I would. I'm not going to take advantage of what Kesh did for me."
"Fine," mutters Avea. "What's my deal? You know anything about Eshan?"
"The Echani homeworld? Not much."
"This place—Telos's polar restoration zone. It was arranged thousands of years ago by experts from my people, right down to the cultural bits. Little lanterns and stone statues? Us. Bit like home," she says. She looks up at the sky. "Home right down to the arrogant-ass Arkanians lording it over everyone. There's a rumor back on Eshan—more than a rumor, really, been circulating for thousands of years—that Arkania created the Echani people by mixing Arkanian and human DNA. Beats me if it's true or not, but given what my people look like and how the Arkanian noble houses have their hands in all of our shit, it just might be. The noble houses that include the Taths."
Tamri looks on as Avea continues: "I was a member of the Echani Shades. Commandos. Government-sponsored assassins, really; we mostly killed people our higher-ups didn't like. My husband, Bal, was also a member. The Taths liked him, so they made a deal with our leaders and poached him as an indentured servant. He couldn't say no, because the Arkanians wield way too much influence, and they'd probably have sent killers after me if he'd turned them down."
"Oh," Tamri says carefully. "Are you…trying to rescue him?"
"I was. He's dead now, though. Got killed on Taris. Supposedly by a lightsaber. Right around when the Holonet's favorite war hero, Anakin Skywalker, was on Taris. Hm."
Tamri looks away. Oh no. The last person who a Jedi should be around—clearly Avea has reasons for not trusting her. "I'm sorry."
"Why? You didn't—screw it, never mind," says Avea, a hint of irritation inflecting her voice. "Anyway, this isn't all a revenge drive. My nephew, Sem, was a biologics researcher back on Eshan. Taths liked him too. Guess what? They also got him. A few credits move and Eshan bows to Arkania, just as it's always been. I do want to get him back. Problem is, I have no idea where he might be."
"You think he's here?"
"No. Not based on what Kesh has said, at least," she says. "But that AI? Kesh says it's linked into the Taths' systems and comms network. If anything might have personnel listings, that's it. So I want it. I want to take it apart until it tells me where my nephew is, and then I'm going to go after him. If that's too much for you, then get lost."
Tamri looks down into the steam. "It's not too much. And it's a good reason to fight," she says. "Where's Kesh come into this? You said you'd paid her. She just turned on the Taths for money?"
"Kesh? She's a Selkath."
"I can see that. So?"
Avea looks at her with a doubting expression, as if to question her intelligence. "You ever been to Manaan? Selkath planet?"
"No. I just know it's an ocean world."
"It's a dump. The Selkath hit their peak four thousand years ago when they controlled the medical market on the back of a substance called kolto. Then the Republic discovered Thyferra and its bacta, Manaan was left in the dust of history, and the rest…well, that's also history. Point is, anyone who has a hint of anything tries to get off that world. Kesh lucked out and did, only to find out that her benefactors are scummy Arkanian nobles who abuse her and threaten to send her back to her home if she steps out of line. Surprise—she wants a real life. It was by luck that I even found her in the first place," Avea says. "Not that that excuses her for the current predicament. Maybe not so lucky after all. I should never have paid her half up front. Idiot."
Despite her aggressive introduction and less-than-civilized language, Tamri thinks, Avea's far brighter than she lets on. The woman knows her history, her politics, her cultures. And her reasons for scheming against the Taths are as good as any—even if it just was simple revenge for her husband's death, it would be enough. And Kesh…Tamri doesn't have the right words for that situation. She can't leave now, she knows. Even if she was committed before, she's certainly committed now. "So what's the plan, then?"
"Shit if I know. Kesh screwed it up," says Avea with a sigh. "Figure something else out now, I guess. If you're sticking around, feel free to come up with some ideas regarding how to infiltrate a secure installation that's already alerted to Kesh's abandonment and your escape."
Tamri has no ideas. But she can't say that out loud, not when she owes these people. Not when she's committed to seeing this through. So instead she fights back her doubts, swallows her indecision, and says, "We'll figure something out. Make a plan. It'll be okay."
"Yeah, I've heard that kind of hope-y crap before," murmurs Avea. "I hope you're at least good with a lightsaber. Always did want to see one of those in real life."
"Er, about that…I lost mine some time ago. A bounty hunter on Mirial—"
"Fu- y'know, let's just stop. Gods. A Jedi with no lightsaber. What the hell's gonna go wrong next?"
Tamri closes her eyes and focuses on the water. Warm. Nice. You're alive. Safe. Free. At least for now, but it's something. She's spent far too much of her life wondering just what would go wrong next. Now she needs to let it go. Let it go and keep going. That's all she can do.
Cry havoc. Let loose the darkness.
Savage pulls the hyperspace lever and the nimble Crimson Dawn attack ship drops out of hyperspace. The terrestrial world of Bimmisaari blooms before the ship on the viewscreen, brown and blue and green and white polar caps. A gaggle of freighter traffic and transports cluster in orbit over the humble Separatist world on the border of Hutt Space. Amid them is a particularly large freighter, a blocky Baleen-class bulk transport a half-kilometer long that slowly chugs towards the orbital inspection stations. Despite being a Confederate world, only a single frigate and a few systems patrol craft defend this world, a small planet known for little more than a few high-tech exports and a commanding position in controlling trade between Hutt Space and Separatist territory. Neither side has any interest in disrupting that position, and Bimmisaari is too far away from the front lines of the Clone Wars to attract a Republic incursion.
All the better, Maul thinks, that he cares neither for Separatist nor Hutt interests. At least not for any Hutt clan but the one that owns the big bulk transport advancing slowly towards the planet—for it is not just any freighter but an Anjiliac-owned ship, and its cargo is something to behold.
"What now?" Savage says from the copiloting seat. "We're here. The Hutt and Black Sun ships are five minutes behind us."
"Patience, brother, patience," urges Maul. "We have drawn no attention. All we must do is wait for our freighter to get within range beyond the scant few military ships they have. Then we unleash chaos."
Savage scowls. "I don't see the point. This planet is worthless."
"It controls a major trade lane."
"Between the Hutts and the Separatists. Who cares?"
Maul smiles. "You have much to learn about strategy," he says. "The point is not the damage we do today. Bimmisaari has a senator in the Separatist Senate. When he learns of his world's fate, he will make noise. Dooku will either have to respond or ignore him and incur his wrath—and Dooku cannot afford to respond when he is on the offensive against the Republic. Moreover, I have learned that the Republic has a major offensive planned up the Rimma Trade Route. Dooku will be occupied. Bimmisaari will burn. And the Separatist Senate will know they are vulnerable—that Dooku is not invincible. Even more, they will realize, as we set fire to world after world, that Dooku cannot—will not—protect them. They will learn that their fearless leader cares more about his crusade against the Republic than he cares about the well-being of his member worlds. And then what do you think will happen?"
Savage shrugs. "Resistance?"
"Exactly. Hence why we must have patience. You will see. For now, let us watch. The fireworks are about to begin."
The bulk freighter advances past the meager military fleet. Only four Anjiliac men crew the doomed ship—fanatics who bought into the Hutt clan's campaign against the rival Hutts and who were quick to align with Maul's interests. A necessary sacrifice. They should be delighted that they will go out in such a glorious fashion.
After all, their cargo is death. Maul knows one thing: It does not take many credits to acquire the means to kill millions. Space travel has existed for thousands and thousands of years, going all the way back to—and before—the Rakatan Infinite Empire that preceded the founding of the Republic by five millennia. In all that time, stronger and stronger weapons of war have been developed. Yet even those many thousands of years ago, sapient species had the means to devastate entire worlds.
In fact, they have had them since before they even learned to travel the stars. Back when the first sapient species managed to split the atom.
How easy that is now. How devastating it remains. And how cheap it is to afford.
Maul brings up the freighter on the secondary viewscreen just as its front bay doors begin to open. "Now," he breathes, "it begins. Cry havoc, and set chaos free."
The bay yawns open, and out into the vacuum of space spills not the millions of tons of fabricated goods as listed on the ship's register but over five hundred nuclear missiles. As soon as they're free from the ship's hold, the warheads' targeting systems activate, their thrusters ignite, and they rocket towards the planet. A dozen veer off towards the nearest orbital station, which—suddenly aware of the danger—opens up with its point defense cannons. Streams of rapid-fire lasers slice through space in rivers of light and color, cutting down eleven of the twelve incoming missiles. The twelfth makes it through. It penetrates through the ray shields, drives its armored head into the station's hull, and explodes. The nuclear blasts blows the station apart. An enormous, brilliant blue burst ripples through local space as the explosion chains throughout the pressurized bulkheads, ripping durasteel apart and blowing open the station from the inside.
Maul smiles as he watches. The most distant patrol craft is still in range of the missile barrage, and it unleashes its point defense fire on the missiles now screaming for the planet's surface. Burst after burst as the ship intercepts warhead after warhead, but there are far too many for the single vessel in range to handle. The nuclear missiles zip towards Bimmisaari, and the innocent Separatist world is the first to learn just how far Maul is willing to go to end that Sith pretender who deigns to call himself Darth Tyranus.
On the viewscreen, the first blossom of nuclear fire glows in a flower of orange and red upon Bimmisaari's surface. Within that beautiful eruption two million die instantly. Then comes another. Then another.
"Despair, Tyranus," Maul says as he watches nuclear blast after blast erupt on Bimmisaari, "as you look upon the work of the true Lord of the Sith. And this is only my opening act."
Savage brings up the local radar. "Black Sun's here."
"Let's not leave them to handle our Separatist friends by themselves," Maul says. He highlights the lone frigate in orbit. "That one. Let us begin with him."