What should she do about the comlink? Should she tell her mother about it? Should she tell Apollonia? Portia won't dare tell Cato. If her brother knew, he might take his sword to Gaius Veradun. It would be a scandal for sure. It might even compromise the war effort on Korriban. But she can't keep the comlink . . . can she?
Portia can't decide what to do. In the end, days later once all the men have deployed, she confides in Julia for advice. Portia shows her best friend the secret comlink and tells her all about the maddening conversation with Gaius Veradun in Lord Azamin's garden.
"What should I do? Should I destroy it?"
"Destroy it? No!" Being of an impulsive, romantic nature, Julia gushes with excitement and enthusiasm over the whole affair. "Send him a pic—now!" she urges.
"Julia! That's foolish." If she starts a personal correspondence with the Apprentice without the knowledge and permission of her family, any old school stickler for propriety will consider her honor to be preemptively compromised. Only a betrothed couple could possibly get away with that sort of thing, and even then, it would be frowned upon. Unmarried men and women do not have close personal friendships in Sith society. The fact that she's underaged makes it worse.
But Julia doesn't see it that way. "Foolish? Why?" her bestie pouts.
"You know why! Julia, that sort of thing can only bring trouble."
"Only if you get caught," Julia giggles conspiratorially. "What if you sent him a picture of Milady?"
"The dog? I don't think that's what he had in mind."
"No, silly! A picture of you with the dog. Take a selfie with Milady and send it."
Portia shakes her head. "Putting a dog in the mix doesn't change anything."
"How about if I'm in it too? He calls me his little sister, you know. Make the picture his little sister, her friend, and his dog. What's so wrong about that? We're two girls keeping the home fires burning for a fighting Lord away at war. For all we know, some Jedi is going to kill him next week."
"Sending him anything gives him the wrong idea," Portia harrumphs.
"It's just a family picture. We have all our clothes on. It will be wholesome. Come on. Let's take it."
Portia hedges. "I don't know . . ."
"Stop pretending you didn't come here to do this," her bestie tells her knowingly. "You told me about that comlink so I would talk you into doing this. You want me to change your mind—admit it!"
Julia now goes in search of the dog. She comes back with Milady and they argue some more. Eventually, Portia relents and takes the picture. It takes seven tries to get the right angle to flatter her cheek tendrils perfectly. And first, she has to reapply her lip gloss. Er . . . twice. She even adds a filter.
"Looks great!" Julia decrees. She has been hovering over her shoulder to supervise the editing process. "Now, send it."
"I don't know . . ." Portia stalls. Then, she chickens out. Her better judgement prevails and she declines to send the photo. Besides, she complains to Julia, she wouldn't know what sort of message to send with it.
"You're overthinking this. Just send it," Julia instructs. Then, she grabs for the comlink and sends the picture herself.
"JULIA!" Portia howls in outrage.
"Tell me everything—and I do mean EVERYTHING—that he sends back," her bestie trills.
"I hate you!" Portia hisses. "Look what you have done!"
"Done? I didn't do anything," Julia smirks. She giggles and feigns ignorance. "I don't know anything about you having a secret comlink from my father's Apprentice. Why, that sounds ridiculous! Proper Portia Metellus would never do such a thing!"
"You're in the picture," Portia grinds out.
"Oh, that picture," Julia responds, her sweet face the picture of duplicitous innocence. "That picture was sent by me to my father's Apprentice, whom I consider to be my big brother, on the family comlink. It has nothing to do with my friend Portia Metellus," she schemes as she winks. "In fact," she adds, "I think I'll make that picture the home screen on my own comlink. See? It's nothing I need to hide."
"Do you think anyone will believe that," Portia worries aloud.
"It won't matter because no one's going to know about it," Julia answers firmly. "We both know how to keep a secret."
"That's true . . ." Portia brightens, feeling relieved.
"Now, we wait," Julia admonishes.
Waiting is all anyone is doing these days as the lead up to war reaches its fever pitch. The hostilities that many thought were a year or more away are now imminent. It has everyone on edge with a mix of excitement and dread. Thankfully, the Empire seems very unified behind Dark Lord Vitiate. People accept that this is not a war of choice, but a preemptive strike to ensure the survival of their way of life. Force knows that Vitiate put the war off as long as he could. So whatever happens next, his people will support him.
That will be key because the Palace is already signaling to expect a prolonged conflict. State media has luminaries repeatedly warning that there will be no easy, quick victory. This won't be like subjugation of a colonial world, the wise men of Vitiate's inner circle repeat in grave tones. The Republic systems will fight until the bitter end. They must be made to see the error of their ways, but that will be a slow process. Republic citizens are born and bred on democratic propaganda and fed a steady diet of fearful fake news by the Jedi zealots. Quite simply, they are unable to comprehend the Sith version of history and the merits of the Dark Side. Their paranoia and prejudice cloud their reason. It will take time to counterbalance that mindset.
With the Palace conditioning expectations in a continually grim tone, Portia's anxiety flares. Her brother, Lord Vindican, Gaius Veradun, and every adult male she knows are in the line of fire. Young and old alike, the cream of the ranks of Sith manhood are off to prove their worth in service of Dark Lord Vitiate. They'll be gone for years—YEARS!—with only occasional furloughs and random short visits. She and everyone else back home are urged to be patient and supportive as they defer important aspects of their own lives for the duration of the war effort. Suddenly, Apollonia's two-year engagement looks like it might stretch out even longer. Her own prospects for marriage are likely to be pushed off into the distant future. She'll be stuck at home unable to move on with her life until the Sith rule the galaxy or die trying. Being a loyal citizen and a Metellus, Portia tries to accept things. But embracing change—especially unwelcome change—is difficult. And is all this worth it? Is war the right course? Will the glory outweigh the hardship and loss? Portia wonders . . .
She can't show it, though. No Sith admits to weakness, to doubts, or to worries. They are a people who admire fortitude. They thrive on adversity and pain. They dig in, harden their hearts, and soldier on. That grit is a hallmark of the Dark Side. The Sith do what must be done. They do not hesitate and they show no mercy. And that toughness applies as much to themselves as to others. So, Portia sucks up her fears and pretends that everything is fine. How is she? She's fine and everything will be fine. No matter what happens, in the end she will be fine. For that is what the Sith do—they endure. Whether they are marooned and left for dead at the edge of the galaxy or they are defeated and their worlds destroyed and left for ruin, the Sith endure . . . like Darkness endures. You might defeat the Sith, but you only win a battle, you don't win a war. Because the Sith will be back. Someday, somehow, they will claw their way out from the shadows. And then, they will come for you with a vengeance that is terrible to behold.
But in quiet moments alone, stressed out Portia gives in to anxious tears. She is fearful for her future, for her family, and for her people. She's not some cliche of an angsty, overly emotional teenaged girl. She's not fretting over insecurities blown out of proportion. These issues are real, and the risks are not remote. Some days, she feels confident in her ability to cope. But other days, Portia feels ready to fall apart. She vacillates like that between resiliency and fear.
Maybe she ought to confide in Apollonia, but her sister is part of the problem. And Mother? Well, Mother is miserable enough already. So, Portia turns to Julia. But her best friend seems unable the grasp the severity of the situation. Her own father's off to duel with the enemy—he could easily lose his head in the process—but all Julia can talk about is the dress she wants for her birthday. And is there any doubt about the darn dress? Julia will get what Julia wants, as usual. So why all the drama? It's moments like these when Portia feels very alone. Like the people who she loves and who love her cannot begin to comprehend her stiff upper lip quivers and her facade of confidence cracks as she sits alone in the garden one night at twilight. That's when old Darth Azamin canes his way over and settles down on the bench beside her. He reaches an arm to pull her into a grandfatherly hug.
"There, there . . ." he gently comforts her as she soaks the cowl of his Lord's cloak with her tears. "Cry it out. Let the Darkness out. It's not good to let it bottle up."
"I have a bad feeling about this war," she manages between sniffs and sobs.
His response is not encouraging. "So do I, my dear, so do I."
"Then why are we doing this? Why?" she wails.
"We cannot hide forever. We have deferred this conflict for a thousand years, but it persists unresolved. It will come to fruition now."
"Why not defer it some more?" she sniffs with schoolgirl petulance, thinking of all the upheaval this war is causing.
Lord Azamin doesn't correct her dissent harshly. Instead, he sighs and sounds as resigned as she feels. "There are times when you must fight even if you prefer not to. The Republic thinks we Sith love to fight, but they're wrong. We will look like the aggressors again, but in truth, this is a preemptive strike. Lord Vititate feels the time has come. He wants to control when and where the fight begins."
"Do you agree with him?" She knows what Azamin will say, but she asks anyway.
"I do."
"But why can't we hide some more?" she complains.
"Our Emperor is something of an expert at hiding. But even he recognizes when it is time to come clean and to venture out into the open to proclaim who you are."
Portia now speaks aloud some forbidden doubts. "And you trust his judgement?"
"Absolutely. No one has more to lose in this endeavor than Dark Lord Vitiate."
"He's immortal. He can't die. What does he really have to lose?"
"He fears losing his power more than he fears losing his life. He built this Empire that we all enjoy."
That point shuts her up.
Darth Azamin keeps speaking his wisdom in his low-key way. "Whatever happens, our values will endure if we pass on what we have learned. Darkness can never be fully extinguished, for where there is Light there must always be a shadow."
"I wish there was a way that I could help. But I'm just a girl . . ."
"You can help with hope."
"Hope?" she echoes curiously.
"Yes. Hope is not the exclusive province of the Light. Hope is the essence of the Force."
"Life . . ." she breathes out.
"Yes. Life itself is the best expression of hope. We Sith confront life's struggles with Darkness. It's why we order our lives and our societies different from the Jedi and the Republic. But we do it for betterment. We hope just as much as they do. Our people want success, happiness, and fulfillment every bit as much as theirs do."
She nods. The Sith are not the bad guys. If only the Republic could see that.
"Vitiate is gambling that by unleashing Darkness in war, things will improve for all in the end. Help him by keeping faith with his leadership and our creed. Trust in the values you were raised on and hope for victory."
He's telling her to regain her stiff upper lip. To be more Sith. To put her faith in Darkness and stop whining. But it's a gentle, loving chastisement, not a condemnation. For as always, Darth Azamin uses a light touch.
"Thank you, my Lord. I needed that pep talk." That cry and that hug, too.
"Any time, my dear, any time," he smiles as he pats her knee.
"It's getting dark. I should go." Portia stands to drop a curtesy and take her leave when Azamin asks offhand, "Was the Veradun fellow bothering you here the other day?"
Portia freezes. Did Lord Azamin see that comlink? Did he sense the subject of their argument? "No. Why?" she replies a little too quickly.
"That one could be a problem. He might be . . ." Darth Azamin pauses and she senses that her neighbor is choosing his words deliberately. He settles on, "unpredictable."
She nods. "He seems very bold."
"Yes," Azamin concurs, sounding troubled. "Bold is indeed the word."
Gaius Veradun's boldness continues. Portia wakes up two days later to a response on the comlink for the picture Julia sent.
Friday is the day. Wish me luck.
Luck. That's a concept for the laymen of the Force, for the little people that things happen to, those who do not directly influence events. Portia writes back to set him straight. Plebeian Gaius Veradun might be a random and a colonial, but he is endowed with the magic power that binds the universe together. Like it or not, that inexplicable, improbable heritage makes him an actor for the cause of Darkness, and that status precludes any concept of good fortune.
There's no such thing as luck. I wish for you to meet your destiny.
Destiny is the fate of Force users. It's how the unknown objectives of life's invisible energy field combine with a individual's decisions made with free will. You don't make your destiny on your own, but neither can you escape it. But Portia knows what Gaius Veradun aspires to, so she adds a coda to her Dark Side catechesis.
Be the hero you seek to be.
That encouragement might benefit him and benefit the Empire as well, she hopes. It's also not overly personal or in any way romantic, she judges. So, if anyone were to intercept their correspondence, she reasons, it should be deemed non-problematic.
She attends a vigil that night at her parish Temple. At sunset, she and the rest of the congregation pray for Emperor Vitiate, for the thousands of Lords and men in uniform who are now about to attack the Republic, and for the sacred and necessary cause of Darkness. Portia adds a special, silent prayer for the tall, hulking, and inveterately rude Gaius Veradun, the new Lord Malgus. He's in her thoughts far too much lately.
Then . . . the entire Empire waits. Its citizenry collectively holds its breath. Portia, like everyone else, obsessively checks the newsfeeds for dispatches from the battlefront.
What will happen?
Who will die?
Will this be the beginning of the end for the hidden Sith Empire that flourished out of sight of its archenemy?
Or will today be the onset of a second and more glorious golden age of Darkness?
After several millennia of blood and tears, will the Sith finally rule the galaxy?
Ninety-six hours later, rumors begin flying. Hastily typed messages from husbands, brothers, uncles, and fathers make it back before any official statement is released from the Palace. They are unconfirmed reports, of course. But they are encouraging nonetheless.
The Sith armada reveals itself at Tingal Arm to Republic diplomatic envoys sent to investigate reports of a mysterious collection of warships. The Republic representatives are given time to transmit the details of the immense Sith flotilla before they are annihilated. The Sith commanders want to be sure that their Republic counterparts back on Coruscant receive news of the intimidating scope of the return of their old nemesis.
The Republic takes the bait. They respond immediately with a hastily assembled fleet sent to rescue the besieged Tingal Arm sector. It's a trap, naturally. The Republic reinforcements are surrounded and decimated. The remnants scatter and retreat. And thus, the Sith forces establish a foothold base of operations within the Republic Outer Rim territories.
It's the strategic position the Empire needs to venture further into enemy territory. The Republic Rim worlds are home to much of the enemy's industrial facilities. These are the systems that manufacture basic building materials and the droid laborers the Republic heavily depends on. These worlds refine chemicals and hyperfuel. They mine metals and alternative energy sources. They also produce bulk foodstuffs to feed billions. Controlling these locations will hamstring the Republic war machine and damage its economy. For the glamorous cosmopolitan lifestyle of the Republic core worlds very much depends on sourcing cheap raw materials and droid labor from the sparsely developed remote sectors.
The news from the Korriban battlefront is similarly encouraging. The small Republic outpost occupying the Dark Side homeworld is easily routed by overwhelming Sith opposition. Reports on the fate of the pair of Jedi defenders, however, are mixed. One Jedi reportedly escaped. No one seems to know if it was the Master or the Padawan. Rumors fly that one Sith Lord fell in the climactic duel, but no one seems to know for sure. Was it Julia's father or his untrained, woefully unprepared, inexperienced Apprentice? Portia strongly suspects the latter, and she doesn't know how to feel about that outcome. But maybe the rumors are wrong and no one died but the Jedi. There's no way to be sure and the Palace isn't saying yet.
But Portia is among the first back home to know. Because when she next checks the comlink hidden under her pillow, she finds a new message from Gaius Veradun.
I killed him. No one knows yet, but I killed him.
She types back instantly. The Jedi?
The terse reply arrives hours later. No. My Master.
Portia reads the simple confession again and again as her heart sinks for Julia and Lady Vindican. This is information she would rather not know. Things just got a lot more complicated for the would-be brilliant career of the random prodigy, Gaius Veradun, Darth Malgus. And, if she didn't already have cause to dislike him, she does now.
END PART ONE
