"Welcome, my Lords."
Conversations cease and all stand as she enters the room. Except her brother, of course. Brothers are never mannerly around their sisters. Cato does it just to irk her, she suspects.
Portia smiles to welcome the small throng of young Lords who have assembled for another evening of drinking, plotting, and boasting. Gatherings like this are commonplace in the brothers-in-arms, team-of-rivals culture of the Lords. These young men, all in their early to mid twenties, are just embarking on their careers. But they scheme and gossip like old Ladies angling for their granddaughters' betrothals. Quite simply, there's nothing these young men won't compete over and debate exhaustively. The war fever that has swept Dromund Kaas only eggs them on in their gamesmanship. Whereas evenings like this used to be a once-a-month occurrence, lately Cato has been hosting his friends several times a week. And now, war is the only topic on the agenda.
With Mother indisposed like usual and Apollonia in her suite wearing a clay facial mask for yet another self-care evening of a manicure-pedicure followed by a bubble bath, the hostess duties fall to her. Portia dutifully ushers the servants into the room. They are carrying trays of assorted nibbles, bowls of dates and nuts, and, of course, plenty of ice and liquor bottles to refill the soon-to-be empty glasses again and again.
"Cook is just finishing up with a few more things," she tells Cato before she delivers the two items she has been tasked to personally bestow. "And here. Mother sent these."
"Training swords?" Cato blinks at the hilts she hands him, seemingly bewildered. "I think I last used these when I was ten."
"Mother wants to be sure no one loses a limb when you start showing off that new disarming pass you can't stop bragging about." Because drunken Lords plus swords equals amputations for sure.
"Me first, Adraas!" calls one of the few guests Portia doesn't recognize. He's halfway drunk already, she judges, as he hollers to the rest, "I call dibs for that disarming pass."
As she supervises the placement of the food and drink, the drunk guy leaps up and marches to where they're standing. He looks her over with interest. "Is this the famed beauty Lady Apollonia?"
"Nah, that's Portia," the youngest son of a neighbor calls out from the couch. "She's the smart one."
"Smart, eh? More than smart, I think."
"Damn your eyes, Marcus, that's my little sister," Cato complains. "Stand down."
She overtops this Marcus fellow by a good two inches, a point which he notes. "She's far from little."
Irked Cato gets in his friend's face and growls, "Do I need to throw you out?"
The guest takes the reproof easily. He bows low from the waist and sounds surprisingly sober as he intones a gentlemanly apology, "My Lady, I meant no offense."
Charmed Portia can't help but smile. "None taken, my Lord."
"Contagion," he supplies his title. "Darth Contagion, my Lady."
"My Lord Contagion," she curtsies politely with eyes downcast, flirting a bit herself. "Very pleased to meet you."
Cato steps between them and huffs, "She's still in school. Stop ogling her. And no flirting!"
"Cato, you are getting prim," someone calls out. "All he did was say hello to the girl."
"I am absolutely prim where my sisters are concerned," her brother informs the room in a voice that carries. He's addressing everyone as he snarls, "Someday when your fathers' die and you head your families, maybe you will understand. But until then, stop hitting on my little sister. None of you are good enough for her," he declares as she blushes furiously.
"As you wish." The offending Lord Contagion gracefully backs down and retakes his seat.
Stifling a smile at Cato's unnecessary overprotectiveness, Portia plays hostess around the room. "Another drink, Lord Defile?" She offers a refill.
"Keep pouring, my Lady. Keep smiling too," Defile responds. He's looking directly at Cato as he says this, clearly looking to tweak him.
Portia can't help it. She giggles at his mischief.
Defile winks back at her conspiratorially.
Of course, grumpy Cato catches the exchange. He harrumphs, "Defile, do I need to repeat the instructions I just gave Contagion?"
This is getting overbearing. Portia shoots her brother a frowning look as she informs him, "Thank you, Cato, but I can take care of myself. And I'm only pouring him a drink," she points out. "So don't go lighting your sword. I can defend my own honor."
Defile jokingly assures her, "I'd never cross swords with a Lady. Even those training swords. I'd surrender to you immediately, fall at your feet, and let you have your way with me."
Cato snorts at this outrageousness. "You wouldn't get a chance to pull your sword before she'd toss you against the wall. Portia threw Veradun into a tree last week," he brags to the group.
"It was a rose bush," she corrects him.
But the anecdote now has the whole room's attention. "Seriously? Veradun?" Defile is staring at her with wide eyed respect.
"You mean the colonial random?" someone asks.
"Yes. That guy," Cato confirms. "He's shaved his head, did you see? Now, instead of a huge blonde white-faced hulk, he's a huge bald white-faced hulk."
The group laughs at the witticism and all eyes in the room remain on her. Handsome, tall Darth Munition even stands from his chair. "I need hear this story. Pray tell, milady," he encourages.
Portia opens her mouth to speak, but Cato beats her to it. Her overbearing brother tells the story for her. "She was next door in Azamin's garden when Veradun shows up with Vindican. Azamin and Vindican go inside to talk and leave the random with her. He's rude like he always is. It pisses her off and she throws him into a tree."
"It was a rose bush."
"Even better. It has thorns," skinny Darth Irate approves. "Lady Portia, te salutatio." He lifts his glass to toast her in Old Sith.
"Well done, little sister," Defile also commends her, adding a low whistle of appreciation.
"How did you overpower him?" Darth Contagion wants to know. "He's got some ridiculous M-count, I've heard."
"Nineteen thousand," someone suggests.
"Some say twenty," another Lord chimes in.
"Bullshit," Cato swears, forgetting—or maybe it's ignoring—that she's in the room. "Twenty thousand's not even possible. That would make him Marka Ragnos' Force ghost. I say sixteen tops."
"Who is this guy again?" dark skinned, handsome Lord Ever wants to know.
"You're too old to have overlapped with him at the Academy," Lord Contagion answers. "He just graduated valedictorian."
"A random? Valedictorian?"
"Indeed. And he took the first prize in the war strategy briefing by—get this—arguing for the use of alien mercenaries. And not for colonial conquest missions, but for our attack on the Republic."
"You're kidding," Cato breathes.
"It's true! The Academy headmaster ought to be on the next proscription list for that malpractice. What's next from Veradun—a treatise on combat battle droids? Is that how we will enact our revenge?" Contagion sniffs. "Revenge is personal, but apparently Veradun doesn't know that. You don't outsource the revenge of the Sith."
That sentiment elicits a round of concurring head nods. Someone suggests with maximum sarcasm, "Perhaps we should fell the Republic but getting this wunderkind elected its Senate Chancellor and then—surprise!—Veradun can reveal himself to be Vitiate's vassal. Mission complete."
"Who's his Master again?" Darth Ever asks.
"Vindican."
"The random's Navy?"
"Apparently so."
"Angral will keep him in line," Cato predicts. Her brother's a Navy Lord himself. "I can't see Angral tolerating a random. That guy's old school."
"Angral's terrifying," someone agrees, "but in a good way."
"Why did we bother training this Veradun guy?" Lord Ever wants to know.
Lord Contagion has the answer, "I think the rationale was he is too powerful not to train."
"Oh, so he's the next Darth Vitiate?"
"In his own mind, yes. My brother's in his Academy class. He says the guy is insufferable. Smug, obnoxious, overly aggressive—"
"Aren't we all?" Darth Ever jokes.
"Not like this guy. That fucker's an overpowered peasant with a chip on his shoulder." Contagion's eyes dart to her. "Sorry for the language, my Lady, but it's true. He looks like an albino rancor and acts like he's the Sith'ari. But we got sidetracked. Lady Portia, how did you manage to throw him?"
Lord Irate is gleeful, tipsy, and apparently a little rowdy. "Beaten by a girl!" he chortles.
"Beaten by a Metellus," Cato corrects him.
"Right. Well?" Contagion prompts her again. "What happened?"
She answers, "I caught him off guard. He called me ugly names and I was offended. I don't think he was expecting any pushback. He's the bully type, right? So, I decided to teach him a lesson."
"Ergo, into the rosebush," sniggering Darth Irate delivers the punchline.
Someone in the back of the room fist pumps, "Baby sister gets her revenge! I love it!" The unfamiliar Lord stands to raise his glass to her. "To Lady Portia, slayer of upstart randoms!"
The rest of the young men join in, raising their glasses before drinking.
Portia stands embarrassed yet pleased by all the attention.
Cato is concerned. He whirls on her to demand. "What names? How exactly did Veradun insult you?"
"Let's see . . . I was called spoiled, proud, and petty."
"Okay, whatever," Cato exhales and stands down. "I was expecting worse."
"Oh, and pretty. He said I was pretty."
"He said WHAT?" her brother snarls.
"Cato, it's true."
Her brother misunderstands her comment. "I know it's true. You are pretty! That's not the point! I don't want a random even looking at my pretty sister." His fists clench as Cato growls, "I'm gonna kill that guy! Who does he think he is?"
A Lord in the back of the room has a better idea. "Forget killing him, Adraas, just tell everyone this story. Veradun's never going to live it down. Force-pushed by a teenaged girl into a rose bush."
Contagion snickers, "Guess he needed those alien mercenaries he likes for backup."
Portia laughs and brags, "He was no match for me on his own." She's speaking to her audience, of course, telling them what they want to hear. Perhaps badmouthing Veradun to others' gleeful amusement makes her a bit petty. Like who's the noble one tonight? Certainly not her. But truthfully, Portia is lapping up all this male approval. All eyes are on her. Not Apollonia, for once.
Mother says you should never chase a man, you should let the man chase you. But first, a man has to notice you. And that's hard when you're the kid sister no one bothers to talk to. Except tonight, when she has something to say that these young men want to hear. Look at them all regarding her. Could one of these young Lords be her future husband?
Cato turns back to her. In a low voice, he asks, "You're still over at Vindican's place all the time, aren't you?"
"Well, yes. Julia's my best friend."
Her brother nods. "If Veradun bothers you over there, you let me know. I will handle things for you."
"Cato—"
He overrides her. "The proper response is 'yes, brother.' My job is to protect you, just like Father would if he were still here."
Darth Irate is close enough to overhear. "It sounds like she doesn't need your help. Little sister can handle herself. Maybe she should show us your new disarming pass. Take a sword, Portia," he jokes.
She laughs off the comment and tries to appear feminine and demure. She murmurs, "My Lord, if Mother caught me with a sword, I'd be in big trouble."
"More scared of her than of me?" Cato harrumphs.
"No. Brother dear," she dimples, "you are terrifying. Utterly terrifying. And I am lucky to have you."
"Damn right, I'm terrifying," Cato grunts as he crosses his arms, glowers, and does his best Sith Lord posturing.
Familiar since birth with the anxious masculinity of the Sith patriarchy, Portia suppresses a grin. Time to withdraw and let these men have their fun. "I will leave you Lords to your drinks," she tells the room. "A servant will be stationed outside the door should you require anything. And remember," she chides the young Lords, "use the training swords. Save the lethal ones for the Jedi."
The whole room groans in response.
The next morning, Portia walks into breakfast and finds Cato with his hands to his temples and eyes closed. Apollonia tells her what she already knows. "He's hung over."
"How bad?"
"Bad," gloating Apollonia answers.
"How late did things go last night?" Portia asks as she slips into her chair.
"Too late," Cato groans as he lifts his head and squints at her.
Portia shoots him a sympathetic look. "Do you have a big day today?"
"More boring civil defense meetings. The Navy's teaching local police how to evade a blockade."
"A blockade . . ."
"It's mostly an issue for outlying worlds like Ziost, not here."
"Oh. Good."
In comes a maid now to deliver Cato's breakfast. She turns to her. "The usual for you, Lady Portia?"
"Yes, please."
As Cato begins tepidly forking his food, Portia asks Apollonia, "What are you up to today?"
"Mother and I are doing a tasting with the caterer for the wedding banquet." Apollonia pushes her breakfast plate away. "No more, or I won't be hungry for the tasting. And a bride has to watch her figure."
Portia fights the urge to roll her eyes at this remark. Every other word out of her preening sister's mouth is 'bride' and it's getting tiresome. Apollonia is annoyingly smug about her engagement and all the exciting new life changes to come. But Portia tries to appear interested in the wedding planning to be supportive. "Which did you settle on? The beef or the fish?"
"We're tasting both. We might end up with surf and turf, if I can't decide. Mother says I can have whatever I want."
Mother's personal maid now creeps in the room to whisper in Apollonia's ear. Apollonia listens and nods. "Bring her some tea and tell her I'll be right in," she responds. Then, Apollonia excuses herself to go help Mother dress. It's at least an hour-long process.
That leaves Portia munching on buttered toast and sipping juice while Cato rubs his eyes and guzzles water.
Putting down his glass, he glances over, suddenly looking serious. "Do I need to speak with Veradun about what happened in the garden?"
Are they still talking about that? "It's over and done."
"I know you think that, but does he think that?" Cato asks quietly.
She looks up and shrugs. "I assume so. Why?"
"I have a bad feeling about this. Maybe I should have a talk with his Master . . ."
"I don't need your help. Remember? The point of that story is that I can take care of myself," she grumbles.
"I don't want the guy spreading ugly rumors about you or starting some blood feud against our family because he got humiliated."
Those consequences are not an exaggeration, she knows. Notions of respect run deep in formal Sith society. Lords desire to be admired and respected and their aegis extends to others in their orbit, including their Apprentices and family members. Insult a Lord's Apprentice, and you might hear from the Lord himself. Insult a Lord's wife and expect there to be repercussions. Even small slights can require revenge, although a proportional response is generally desired. Gone are the days of the tit-for-tat generational feuds that long plagued the Empire's ruling elite. Emperor Vitiate put an end to all that, deeming it a distraction from the work of Empire building. He's known to have little tolerance for that sort of thing.
But the spat in Azamin's garden surely doesn't rise to that level of conflict. "It's fine. It is finished." When she last saw Gaius Veradun, their conversation was civil. It was mostly about a dog and the Force. She didn't sense any threat.
"Very well. If you say so," her brother relents. "But you must promise to tell me if he bothers you going forward."
Cato is well intentioned—he always is. There is no better brother in all if the Empire as far as she's concerned. But Portia pushes back on his paternalism. "I can handle myself. I can fight my own battles."
"I'm not saying that you can't fight your own battles. I'm saying that you don't have to." Cato cajoles, "Let me protect you from a guy like that."
"There's no need. I doubt our paths will cross again." She hasn't seen Gaius Veradun in over a week.
"Good. But if things change, I will gladly speak to Vindican about him on your behalf."
"Cato—"
"All of you—you, Apollonia, even Mother—are entrusted to my care. If I take that responsibility very seriously, it is because I love you. Father would expect me to do no less. I will not fail him or you for that matter. And with war finally looming, that responsibility takes on new dimensions."
"I know," she sighs. "And I don't mean to sound ungrateful. But I'm not a child." Well, technically she is underage. But still . . .
Her brother nods. "You are very capable. Far less high strung and dramatic than your sister is even though you're still in school. I know I can always count on you to do the right thing. Lately, Apollonia has been so . . . so . . ."
"Yes, I know. Mother calls it pre-wedding jitters."
"Is that what it is? I'm starting to pity Traverse for taking her off our hands. Hopefully, our bridezilla will revert to normal after the wedding."
"He's boring," Portia blurts out.
"What?"
"Traverse is boring. I mean, he's fine and all, but he's boring."
"He's a good man."
She raises her eyebrows at Cato. "By that you mean his pedigree and his fortune?"
"No, by that I mean he's a good man. I wouldn't entrust Apollonia to him were he not."
"I suppose . . ."
"She seems perfectly happy."
"I know."
"Has she told you she's having second thoughts?"
"No."
"Good, because it's too late to back out now. She chose Traverse," Cato reminds her. "You'll get to choose a husband soon too. All I ask is that he's an honorable Lord. You have fortune enough for a pauper and Force enough for a layman, so you will have plenty of options when the time comes."
"Does that mean I can marry some penniless random?" she jokes.
Cato answers seriously. "If he's a good man, yes. Portia, I would have permitted Apollonia to choose a man with lesser finances or lesser Force if I thought he had the brains, the political connections, and the tact to go far. But fortunately, Traverse has all of that, plenty of credits, and an impressive heritage as well. I can find no fault with the match. And I want to get at least one of you settled before the war begins."
She thinks now of Gaius Veradun's prediction that war is imminent. Does Cato feel the same? "You sound so certain that war is coming . . . "
He nods. "An invasion could be a game changer. It could upend our lives in unforeseen ways. Remember, nothing was ever the same after the last attempt to conquer the Republic. The great ruling families from back then are all but extinct now."
His words are true and ominous. The last time her people tried to conquer the enemy Republic, it brought an end to the golden age of their thriving Empire. The few survivors of that era's Republic genocide slunk away in defeat. Only the leadership of Darth Vitiate got them organized again.
"People like us thrive in the status quo . . ." she realizes aloud Cato's point.
"Exactly. We are the Establishment for now. Hopefully, for always." Proud Cato vows, "We, the Metellus, will endure for as long as the Sith endure, if I have anything to say about it."
Her brother's words strike a note of contrast for her ears. Gaius Veradun sees the war as his big chance to make a name for himself, whereas her brother is keenly aware of the downside risk for their family. She supposes a random like Veradun has little to lose but his life. But a clan like hers, so woven into the fabric of the Sith elite, has centuries of aegis at risk, not to mention great wealth.
"If there's to be an invasion, you will deploy for good, right? I will be losing both you and Apollonia, won't I?" The war will be a momentous event, over a thousand years in the making, but all Portia can see is the impact on her personally. But she's seventeen, so everything can tend to be about her.
"Your sister will be across town."
"You won't. You'll be on a capital ship in the middle of a war."
Portia looks hard at her brother, suddenly worried that she needs to memorize his features. He resembles their mother far more than their famed sire. The late Darth Oderint is big boots to fill, and no one knows it more than Cato himself. But he's capably navigated things since he became head of the family at the tender age of fifteen. In so many ways, Cato has been the constant father figure in her life. Portia can't bear to think of losing him.
He must be in her thoughts because he makes light of the point. "Never you fret. I'm not dead yet. If this hangover doesn't kill me, nothing will."
"Don't joke about it! Please don't joke about it!" Her eyes fill with tears.
He notices and his demeanor shifts. "Alright." But then, Cato starts talking about responsibilities again. "It gives me great confidence that you'll be here to look after Mother when I'm at war and Apollonia's married."
"That's not how she sees it . . ."
"But we both know that's how it is," he insists. "She shouldn't be alone too much."
"I know."
"Mother needs attention, and not just from the servants."
So does she, Portia pouts to herself. But no one ever thinks of that. Some days, it's like the whole household revolves around the whims of Mother's depression. She resents it but doesn't feel like she can say it out loud.
"Given the circumstances with Mother, I am going to need to rely on you a bit for the family business affairs as well."
"What do you mean?"
"You and I both know that Mother only cares about the details of wedding planning and curating her wardrobe. If it were up to Mother, the servants would never get their wages."
"That's true," Portia admits.
"Before I leave, I want to show you where everything is—the wills, the accounts, the deeds, the details of your dowry trusts, the safe, that sort of thing. I want someone I trust back home to know the details of our private family affairs."
"But I'm seventeen," she protests. Can she even validly execute legal transactions? Portia isn't sure. She's desperate to grow up, but a big part of her is dismayed by the realities of the adult responsibilities and choices she will soon confront. She stands on the brink of the rest of her life, poised to come of age. But she's uncertain what she wants and feeling overwhelmed at times by the pressure of the change to come. The war backdrop just adds to the anxiety.
Her brother reminds her, "You're older than I was when Father died and I first became acquainted with lawyers and accountants. And you're very smart. This will be good practice for when you run your own household soon. With the Lords away, many Ladies will need to manage business matters far beyond just the household. But not to worry, I will be looking over your shoulder from afar."
"Okay," she volunteers gamely, thrusting aside her misgivings. "I'll help in any way you need."
"Good. Should something happen to me—"
"Don't say it!"
"—my old Master, our uncle, one of his Apprentices, or Lord Traverse will step into my place. You won't ever be without guidance and supervision while you are unwed. Rest assured, you will always be provided for and protected."
"I know that. Thank you," she nods even as she bites her bottom lip. This conversation is making her uncomfortable.
"This may all be moot," Cato observes. "The war might not begin as fast as everyone predicts. You may already be married by then, with your own Lord's family to watch over you."
"I believe the next to marry should be you, brother," she pipes up pertly. "You're almost twenty-six. It's time. How have you escaped settling down this long?"
"Mother asks me the very same question daily," he groans.
"Well? What's the answer?"
"I can afford to be very strategic about these things. No one's going to call me a spinster and argue I'm past my prime."
She sulks, "Because you're a man."
"Yes. Another thing, Portia. I think all this doomsday talk about a repeat of the Great Hyperspace War is hyperbole. Nothing like that will ever, ever happen again."
She makes a face. "I hope not."
"Me too. But in the event the unthinkable happens, I want you to know how to defend yourself."
"Defend myself? Against the Republic?"
"Yes. They say history repeats itself. Or rhymes. Or something like that."
She sighs. "Don't say that . . . "
"You already know how to shoot a blaster. But I want you to practice."
"Okay. I can do that."
"That goes for flying as well. You need to practice. You'll be flying the speeder to school yourself starting today."
"Okay." That sounds fun, actually.
"And I would like you to learn the basics for a sword."
"A sword!" Her eyes widen and her mouth gapes. "Mother will not—"
"Mother doesn't need to know. I've engaged a swordmaster and paid him plenty to keep quiet about it."
"You're serious!"
"Yes. I've sat in enough civil defense meetings lately to know that if the Republic ever gets here to Dromund Kaas, you're on your own."
"Cato, you're scaring me."
"I just want to plan for the risk. I'm not saying it will happen."
"That's not what it sounds like," she mutters.
"Portia, stop reacting and listen. If Dromund Kaas is overrun again, I want you to know enough to defend yourself and Mother. You don't need to win any duels, you just need to survive to flee."
"Oh, Force . . ." she breathes out, seeing her brother's steely determination. In the moment, he reminds her of what little she remembers of their father.
"I'll be leaving standing orders to keep the transport fueled up and ready. If there is a whiff of danger, I want you to take Mother, Apollonia, and as many servants as you can find to a remote colonial world. Someplace the Republic won't bother to invade. Leave all our possession behind. What matters is your lives."
"Now you are really scaring me."
"I want to be prudent. We are an existential threat to the Republic and the Jedi, and they know it. The first time, they exiled us and our ancestors were marooned and left for dead. They didn't kill us outright, but they wanted us to die all the same. But they got to call it mercy in their own minds. Then, the second time—"
"The Hyperspace War."
"Yes. That time, they showed us no quarter. They had learned the lesson that if we survive to persist, we will seek our revenge. Given that history, Portia, what do you think they will do the third time our civilizations collide?"
She gulps. "I know what we would do. We would wipe them out. All of them."
He confirms grimly, "That will be their goal."
"Then why don't we remain hidden? Why choose this war?" she wails.
"We're not hidden any longer. Not really. They suspect we're here. There are too many overlapping trade partners and navigation technology has become remarkably adept just in the past decade. Better for us to attack first than to wait for them to come investigate with an armada."
"You think we're going to lose," she accuses.
"No! Of course, not! But if the worst comes to pass, I don't want you to play Lady Ragnos. The goal is to live. Do you hear me?"
She nods, thinking of the story everyone knows about the fall of Dromund Kaas during the Great Hyperspace War. The Dowager Empress who outlived her Dark Lord husband was martyred along with a handful of Lords who together held off the advancing Republic invaders so transports of fleeing Sith civilians could take off. The Empress died with a sword in her hand, but not before she dispatched more than a few Jedi back to the Force.
Portia whispers, "I wish we weren't going to war."
"It is unavoidable. It is our destiny." Cato sighs and looks away. "The Palace would never admit it, but I think the Emperor has put off war for as long as he can. I don't think Vitiate wants this invasion at all, but he knows war is inevitable so he wants to be in control of how it begins."
"I guess . . . "
She must look especially grim because Cato assures her, "We are months, maybe even a year or more, from the onset of actual hostilities. But all the naval planning has begun, so we need to plan for ourselves personally. I'm telling you this so you can wrap your head around it. So you will be decisive and ready to make decisions and take action if the time comes."
"Mother isn't going to like me using a sword."
Cato shrugs. "She'd have to come out of her room in the afternoon to notice."
That's true. But Portia worries, "She'll say it will hurt my prospects. First, I'm mannishly tall and then I use a sword . . . "
"It's our secret. And if anyone finds out, I will say it was my decision. You are following my order like a good sister."
"Can I tell Julia?" she presses.
Cato shrugs. "Sure. You tell her everything that goes on over here. She might as well know this, too."
