Chapter Four: Twenty Years Later...
Imperial Intelligence was thorough in its records keeping. Whatever else may be said for them, and on many days the man believed there wasn't much else to say, they were diligent at gathering, collecting, and organizing information.
He was deep within the Forbidden Archives located underground on Dromund Kaas. He watched the historical documents from Coruscant with jaundiced eyes. Satele Shan's report of the attack on the monitoring station. Eyewitness accounts of the Sacking of Coruscant. Holo-vids of the treaty signing. A rapid sequence of events that had changed the galaxy.
What the records didn't show was that the attack on Coruscant had been a complete fiasco. The Jedi and Republic forces had rallied faster than expected, and the losses had been greater than anticipated. The entire attack had been one giant gamble – Attack the station at Korriban while throwing everything else at the Republic capital, hoping that first blow would be hard enough to make the fools buckle before there was time to strike a second one.
It had worked, somehow. But the Emperor's misbegotten strategy had resulted in a self-inflicted wound that outweighed the gains. The ranks of Sith Force users had been decimated, while the Jedi still remained strong. The Empire had to resort to desperate measures to replenish those numbers, funneling anyone with the tiniest hint of Force potential to Korriban. Even aliens. Even slaves.
The result had been entirely predictable: A degenerate crop of so-called Sith for whom the title and Code were merely a license for unthinking cruelty. The man had no problem with cruelty, when used correctly. But like any weapon, effective cruelty required purpose. These idiots had no sense of purpose. They destroyed merely to enjoy the smell of flames. The meaning of the Sith Code was in danger of being extinguished.
That was the real threat. That was the rot which needed to be burned away.
Even he could not directly challenge the Emperor, so for now, he would be seen to support the long-term plan: For the Sith to lurk within their Empire, so much of which remained secret to the Republic and their pathetic SIS. Focus on building strength, while using Imperial Intelligence to weaken the Republic from within – not that the corrupt Republic needed much help with that.
But the mistake of Coruscant must not be allowed to fester. He would not stand by for another two decades, as the Order to which he had devoted himself cut its own throat. He would be careful. He would make sure that all the pieces were in their proper places before any move was made. But the time for action was coming. When the time came, the Emperor himself would just be one more piece on his board.
He located the specific information he was looking for and downloaded it to his device. Then he placed the body of the records keeper in the chair he had vacated. When analyzed, it would appear that the heavyset man had succumbed to heart failure.
He left the way he had come, using The Force to cloak him from any who might have observed. A few times, operatives stared right at him, their perceptions unable to penetrate his cloak.
Inwardly, he mocked their mental weakness. Laughing at how pathetic they were, and at how men on both sides of the galactic divide remained so persistently easy to control.
It had been a routine mission.
Within the Republic military, there were two competing schools of thought about routine missions. The first held that there was no such thing; the second, that every mission was routine – right up to the moment everything went pear-shaped.
Corporal Cress Va'Shann reflected on this as he crouched behind cover, laser bolts flying overhead. A shot glanced off his helmet, making him grateful for once for the covering. Standard Republic helmets weren't made for Twi'leks, and the pressure of the metal against his lekku became painful after an hour or so… But the armor held up under fire.
His unit had been assigned to perform random intercepts of trading ships leaving Corellia for neutral territory. Smuggling had always been an issue; since the Treaty of Coruscant, it had become epidemic, with the neutral territories transformed into a haven for the buying and selling of illegal goods.
This intercept had been like any other. Sergeant Bixwill had given the transport the order to stop and prepare for inspection. The transport captain had attempted to argue, as almost all of them did, then had obeyed, as they all eventually did.
They scanned the transport for weapons, found only two basic blaster rifles – Very basic security. Bixwill instructed the transport's captain to lock the weapons away. Then he, Cress, and six other members of the squadron had entered the hold.
The captain, a grinning man named Laresh, had met them with two other members of the crew. He had indicated the crates in the hold, which held provisions for some of the outer settlements, and provided the codes for unlocking them. The soldiers had begun scanning the crates. Private J'Teel, who had been having stomach issues, had gone looking for a bathroom. Instead of asking the crew for directions, she had just walked to the nearest door and opened it…
Which was when the shooting began.
J'Teel had gone down first. Before the rest of the soldiers had time to react, two more had fallen. Grappling lines were fired for the captain and his two men to take hold of, and they ascended rapidly toward a catwalk above. Cress and Bixwill had fired after them. One of the men fell with a scream – If the blaster bolt hadn't killed him, the fall had certainly finished the job. But the others escaped.
Bixwill had barked orders to focus fire on the catwalk, then had darted out to the center of the hold to look upward. It was a rash move, and the sergeant was rewarded with a blaster bolt to the chest.
Cress had grabbed him, ducked with him behind an open metal crate. The crate and lid provided cover from the fire above.
"Take cover!" he shouted to his comrades, wondering as the rain of fire continued how many of them had survived to hear his command.
He checked Bixwill's condition. The sergeant was alive and conscious, but his armor had caved inward. He started to cough. A couple of broken ribs from the dented armor, Cress guessed, fervently hoping that none of them had punctured a lung – or worse, the man's heart.
"Concealers," Bixwill gasped. "Heard reports that pirates started using them to hide weapons from our scans. Should have been prepared…"
Cress urged him to remain silent. Blame was pointless. What mattered now was survival.
Bixwill held up a hand. Four fingers extended. Four enemies. He pointed to the four corners. An enemy in each corner. Made sense – maximize field of vision, box the troopers in.
Cress tried to contact the ship. No luck – Of course the pirates were jamming them. They would have used the time spent arguing over the inspection to set up devices all over the cargo hold. There were only three reserve troopers on the Republic ship, and no droids capable of combat. Protocol was clear. If the main party was out of communication for more than ten minutes, the ranking trooper would send a call for backup. No reinforcement would be attempted until backup arrived.
As the minutes passed, the shots from the pirates slowed, then stopped. The situation became a stalemate, one the pirates would not allow to continue. They might not know the exact timeline for reinforcements, but they would know reinforcements were coming. Eventually, they would give up on killing the surviving troops. They would seal off the cargo bay from the rest of the ship, then open the airlock and jettison everything into space – troops and cargo alike.
They would take a financial hit, which was why they hadn't done so already. But these pirates were smart. Eventually, they would see that it was the only way to get out alive.
Bixwill was already fading in and out of consciousness. Cress would have to find a way to act. And it would have to be soon, because at any minute it would come down to a simple, binary choice:
Move, or die.
"In combat, you have a simple choice: Move, or die."
The young Padawans sat on the floor, transfixed by the imposing figure of Master Caecinius. His head was shaved, and his smooth green pate reflected the light of the two moons as he moved back and forth among them. Like most Mirialans, he carried tattoos on his face and body – But the facial tattoos were confined to the area of his chin, so the impression at first glance was of a beard… Until a closer look revealed the intricacies of the markings.
The only other marking on his face was a deep scar, seared into his cheek long ago. A reminder, he told his students, of the cost of letting your emotions overtake you in battle.
Caecinius continued speaking, barely glancing at the students.
"Once combat begins, a still target becomes an easy target. Motion is life. If you find your opponent's skill is superior to your own, move back. If he is inferior, move in. But once you have engaged, do not stop moving. You never know how many other enemies are lurking nearby, waiting for you to give them an opportunity to strike."
"Will The Force not reveal any hidden foes?"
Canlyn Dessan, of course. The Cathar padawan regarded him with that eternally serious expression, her cat-like features focused on him as he spoke.
"Canlyn. The Force is exceptionally strong with you, is it not?"
Canlyn inclined her head, did not answer. To do so might indicate pride.
"How old were you, when you were brought to Tython?"
"Two cycles, or so I am told," she replied.
"Which gives you no experience of the universe."
He pivoted on her abruptly, leveling his own wooden sword at her neck. His motion was so fast, she did not even have time to breathe. Her whiskers quivered, and a low, instinctive hiss escaped from her throat.
The other students held their collective breath.
"Who among you sensed my move?" Caecinius asked. No response. "Canlyn, did you anticipate the attack?"
The startled padawan's eyes were fixed to the weapon at her neck. She swallowed, answered truthfully.
"No, Master. I did not."
"Correct." His eyes bored into hers, and he spoke with intensity. "I was there, when the Temple at Coruscant fell. In that temple were Jedi Masters, as strong in The Force and as connected as anyone alive today. Masters, knights, padawans, younglings… None of us sensed a thing until the Sith had already breached the grounds."
He withdrew the sword, turned from Canlyn to the full group.
"The Force is powerful. But it is no substitute for craft or judgment. Enemies can cloak their intent, and the Dark Side is often hard to see. Rely on The Force alone, and you might as well be entering combat unshielded and unarmed."
From the upper level of the Temple, Grandmaster Satele Shan watched the training. With her were two other members of the Jedi Council, Syo Bakarn and Orgus Din.
"When he was a padawan, I'd have never figured Caecinius for a teacher," Orgus remarked, "but he has those younglings hanging on his every syllable."
"He is remarkably skilled," Syo acknowledged, though with accustomed reserve.
Satele just frowned.
"He troubles me," she said. "His skill is undeniable, but I sense darkness in him. Rage."
"He was at Coruscant," Orgus said shortly. "That battle left me with a bit of rage, myself."
Satele glanced sharply at Orgus. The older Jedi had resented her appointment as Grandmaster. Still, they had formed a working relationship that might not be a friendship, but that was effective. Orgus had supported her efforts to expand the Order, to replenish the ranks of Jedi that fell at Coruscant. In turn, she had supported him in emphasizing a higher degree of combat training.
"I was at Korriban," Satele reminded Orgus. "I sensed my Master fall, and all I could do was flee."
Syo stepped between them, ever the peacemaker.
"We all lost much that day," he said.
Orgus grunted, glanced back toward Caecinius' instruction.
"He's not the perfect Jedi, I'll grant you" he said. "But when war comes again, he might be the kind of Jedi we need."
"Perhaps," Satele replied. "So long as we don't lose ourselves in the process."
They called it The Pit.
Reyenna did not know the planet's actual name, or if it even had one. None of the slaves knew, and if the guards and overseers did, they were not telling. All that mattered was the mine, which grew ever longer and ever deeper in the quest to wrest every cell of ryhdonium the planet had to offer
She and her mother had been here for seven months. Longer than most slaves survived.
Slaves perished daily. Those caught working too slowly were punished, often fatally, as an object lesson to the rest. Most, however, fell to simple exhaustion and starvation.
Others succumbed to the daily melee that was feeding time. The overseers fed the slaves only once each day. They would dump meager scraps of food from above into the public area, then and bet on which slaves would get the food and which would die trying. Reyenna had grown adept at this daily ritual. She had learned to get in fast; to gather enough for herself and her mother to survive one more day, while kicking, scratching, and biting to keep the masses at bay; then to get out immediately and leave the rest to the building frenzy.
She figured she could survive indefinitely, and with enough food could keep working hard enough to avoid punishment as well. She would not die that way. Which meant that her death would almost certainly come from an explosion.
Rhydonium was highly unstable, and accidental explosions happened regularly. It wasn't like the Empire was going to invest in safety equipment for slaves; the slaves were cheaper and more plentiful than the equipment to keep them alive would be.
When the time came, Reyenna hoped she would be right next to the mineral. Those in immediate proximity were vaporized – gone in an instant, never even knowing what had happened. Those further back weren't so lucky – They were far enough away to survive, but close enough that their untreated injuries doomed them to a lingering death. The possible fate that truly frightened her, however, was a cave-in. Left buried alive, to asphyxiate alone in the dark. She didn't fear death, or even pain. Both were a part of her daily existence. But she feared that.
It was that fear that was on her mind as she worked beside her mother, part of a crew tasked with extending a shaft. There were two teams. Reyenna's team dug, then the second team put in supports. The overseers allowed only the bare minimum of materials for support, and she was keenly aware of the weight of the earth above.
"Dig!" the overseer shouted once the beams had been put in place.
They dug out another few feet.
"Supports!"
The second team put in the beams, which Reyenna's team secured in place.
"Dig!"
Reyenna's team dug, while the second team checked the stability of the beams just placed. An organized and efficient structure, as far as it went – But with an unskilled and exhausted workforce, mistakes were as inevitable as they were deadly.
The rumble came from a nearby shaft. A Rhydonium detonation. Close enough to shake the ground beneath their feet. Some slaves cried and whimpered.
"Shut up!" the overseer shouted – But Reyenna could hear the apprehension in his voice. Detonations and cave-ins cared nothing for your status, and slave overseers perished almost as regularly as the slaves themselves. The Empire barely placed more value on their lives than those of the slaves. Just as there would always be more slaves, there would always be another man to guard them.
"Dig!" the overseer ordered.
Then the accident occurred.
It seemed to happen very slowly. First, a single beam that had been improperly secured fell out of place, clattering to the ground near Reyenna. The other beams groaned.
Reyenna felt her mother take her hand and squeeze it. It was the last thing she was aware of before the remaining beams gave way.
Her greatest fear coming true. She and her mother would be buried alive. Left to die in the dark, fighting helplessly for a last breath that would never come. Her entire mind screamed its terror, its absolute rejection of this fate. A useless protest to the universe.
Except this one time, the universe listened.
The shaft collapsed, but not on them. Reyenna, her mother, the overseer, the slaves near them – All were spared. Other slaves, at the front of the shaft, cried out as they were buried. But around Reyenna, the rocks and dirt did not fall. The passage behind them remained open.
Reyenna looked up at the ceiling, astonished. Nothing was holding it in place, but it remained intact. As long as she focused on it staying in place, it held.
The overseer had fallen to the floor, holding his arms above his head. Gradually, he realized that he was alive and unburied. He rose, glared at any slave who might have seen his terror.
"Supports!" he shouted. "Get those supports in place! Properly this time!"
The slaves scrambled to obey, but Reyenna did not move. She kept her will focused on the ceiling. Her mother gaped at her, incredulous.
"My baby girl," she said. Her voice was filled with fear and sorrow.
The overseer also watched. His expression was neutral, and his eyes were thoughtful and calculating.