Darth Azamin is sitting in the back of his speeder.
Gaius gulps. He's busted, and by this guy of all people. Fuck! This is not good.
"Do not dare lie to me," the elder statesman of the Empire orders in a quiet voice so menacing that it sounds like death. He demands, "What were you doing in my garden?"
Rather than lie, Gaius sidesteps the question. "Maybe I was there to smell the flowers," he sneers back flippant sarcasm. Because what's the point in confessing? He's clearly caught.
His unwelcome passenger responds with a punishing bolt of Force lightning.
Damn! That hurts. That really, really hurts. Gaius feels himself thrust forward hard into the steering controls by the impact of the Dark energy. It's like he's in a high-speed speeder collision, only he's parked and going nowhere.
Irritated and unwilling to be a cooperative victim, Gaius exits his vehicle, slamming the speeder door behind him. Because if he's going to have another argument with this old geezer, he's at least going to make Azamin face him. Whirling, he glowers at the Emperor's crony who takes the cue to exit as well. The shrunken little man slowly hauls himself out to stand, leaning heavily on his cane. They face one another in the dim light of a public street. It's an instant standoff.
Gaius towers over his diminutive, aged adversary, although the power imbalance strongly favors Azamin. For like his verbal brawl this morning with the Emperor in his throne room, none of Gaius' combat skills or saber prowess can help him in this fight. He's only got his wits at his disposal.
"You sensed me come . . ." Gaius surmises. His Force betrayed him. And Azamin, who registers as a blank in the Force because he cloaks his power, had the advantage to sneak up on him. He's probably been lying in wait here since shortly after Gaius arrived. And those garden sprinklers? Well, it's hard to see them as pure coincidence now. Because if Azamin sensed him, he probably sensed Portia as well and drew the obvious conclusion that there was a clandestine tryst afoot.
The Dark Council member sniffs at his pouty indignation. "Lord Malgus, you should know that your Force imprint is enormous. It's grown since I last met you. You are very hard not to notice. Be mindful of that as you encounter more Jedi in the future."
Whatever. Malgus fumes at what sounds suspiciously like a backhanded compliment.
"Now then," the old fossil croaks, "I told you to stay away from Portia Metellus. She will never be yours."
"She will." He'll find a way. Nothing this grumpy codger might do will stop him.
"She won't." Little Azamin wags a skeletal finger at him. "Find yourself some colonial woman to keep on the side if you need female companionship. But stay away from Portia."
"I don't want her for a mistress."
"You will never get her for a wife," Azamin snaps back. "And don't you dare dishonor or embarrass her! Her reputation matters. She is a Lady!"
Gaius wants to roll his eyes. "Those rules are archaic and stupid."
"No, they are not." Azamin hisses, "What do you think would happen to women and girls without those rules in a culture that prizes aggression and conquest? In a society dominated by men who are capable of mental manipulation and Force-enhanced strength? As a father of daughters, let me assure you that those rules matter. Lord Adraas will agree."
"She's not your daughter," Gaius argues back. "You have no say in who she marries."
"Lord Malgus, I have influence over this and many things. I tell you again that she will never be your wife. For so many reasons, that will not be permitted."
"Because I'm a random," Gaius fumes.
Azamin nods. "Your background is an impediment, yes."
Today is not the day Gaius wants to hear that. He's tired of being put in his place because of who he was born. He chafes hard at Azamin's censure. It provokes his own seething anger. It has been stoked all day today by bitter frustration, and it finally bubbles over. Gaius disrespects this revered statesman like he wishes he could disrespect his boss Vitiate. Because if the Dark Lord himself were here now, Gaius would say it to his face as well.
"Fuck you, old man! Stay out of this and leave me alone!"
He won't listen to any more lectures on what he can and cannot do and who he can and cannot be. He's tired of ancient leaders who are dug into the status quo they created centuries ago. Guys like Azamin aren't the future of the Empire, they're the past. They need to step aside and give some young blood a chance.
Darth Azamin responds to his profane rant with more Force lightning. Except, this time Gaius anticipates him. He won't take his punishment like a dutiful Academy student or a loyal Apprentice. Instead, he throws up a hand and deflects the onslaught. It's easy. Far easier than he expects. Because now Gaius gives full rein to the burgeoning Darkness within. He doesn't even try to control it. Instead, he lets it flow freely. It sharpens his reflexes and floods him with confidence.
And so, as Darth Azamin blinks, frowns, and then fires again, Gaius harmlessly waves it off. Azamin tries again and then again with no success. Gaius won't be touched by anything this old man sends his way. Azamin isn't trying to kill him, Gaius knows, he's trying to establish dominance. For his part, Gaius will resist that power play but he too isn't looking for lethal victory. He just wants to show his opponent that he will not be bullied into submission. The Dark Council member Darth Azamin has no power over him that matters—Force or otherwise—now that Gaius figures his brilliant career is tanked anyway. So, yeah . . . he's going to stand his ground, whether it's impolitic or not. He's stubborn like that.
"Enough!" Gaius finally roars. He doesn't want to hurt frail Azamin, but this is turning into a bona fide Force brawl. The old guy started it, but still . . . Gaius has the presence of mind to know that this is a fight he shouldn't finish. So as his fingertips twitch with the urge to shoot Force lightning back, Gaius delopes and raises his right hand to the sky. Sparks spray harmlessly into the air to dissipate.
But suddenly, Darth Azamin staggers back. His eyes are huge. His wizened face appears stricken.
And wait—did he accidentally hit the old guy? Because Azamin is acting like the confrontation is won. The old guy now raises both palms up in a posture of submission. His expression shows that he is beaten and he knows it. And actually, Azamin's not looking at him. He's looking at the Force lightning that Gaius is still discharging like he's a flare tower at a refinery. Gaius follows the geezer's eyes upward and perceives the issue.
The Force lightning he's shooting isn't the normal kind. It's red. This is what that nosy Palace gardener had asked about. And whatever it means, it isn't good.
Instantly, Gaius snatches his hand down and fists it. Enough of that, whatever it is.
But it's too late, for the feat is clearly a moment of revelation. Wide eyed Darth Azamin stammers out, "I didn't know you could do that." Looking away, he mutters, "I wish I didn't know . . ."
"What the fuck does that mean?" Gaius snarls. He's defensive now and he doesn't even understand why. What has he done this time?
"Listen to me," old Azamin croaks out hoarsely as he approaches to lay a restraining—and visibly trembling—hand on his arm. "Gaius Veradun, never do that again. I beg you, my boy, never do that and never tell anyone that you can do that."
Gaius is confused. He squints at the little man who is a giant of the Force. "Whaaat?"
"If you heed nothing that I say about Portia, heed this instead: never ever let anyone know that you can shoot red lightning. You won't live another day if he finds out."
"What are you talking about?"
"I won't be able to stop him. Son, I have thought all along that you are no accident. The Force makes no mistakes. It surfaced you for a reason—because we need you—because he needs you. But he won't see it that way. He will only see the threat. And when he looks at you, he will only see her. He will want his vengeance. He thinks she hurt him badly, but in truth he hurt himself. Not enough time has passed for him to see it objectively yet . . . if he ever does . . . "
"Her? Who?" Gaius squints at this rush of words. "Are you talking about Portia still?"
Darth Azamin looks like he has said too much. He shuts up fast. His mouth settles into a hard line as he keeps warning, "If he learns that your power has matured this far already, you're a dead man, Lord Malgus."
"I don't understand." Gaius shakes his head in confusion. "What was that?"
"Are you listening to me?"
"Yes, but who are you talking about? Who's going to kill me?"
"Vitiate."
"Oh." Ohhhh. This must be more of what Azamin told him last time—that he's only alive because he's a random who wasn't identified as Force sensitive at birth. And so, from the Emperor's point of view, he's living on borrowed time already.
"That trick you just did—that red lighting. It is considered very advanced." Little Darth Azamin now beseeches him, "Hide your power for your own sake and for the good of the Empire in the long run. We need strong Lords like you now more than ever, even if he can't see it. Fear will blind him in this matter."
Gaius has questions. Many, many questions. But he doesn't get a chance to ask them. Because now, a new voice speaks up, calling out, "Cornelius? Cornelius, is that you?"
It's an unfamiliar Lord walking up to investigate. He's dressed for a party, with no armor or cloak. But he's got his sword at the ready—the Lords of the Sith are perpetually armed. The man clearly senses danger.
"I was walking home and I saw lightning. What's going on?" The newly arrived Lord looks from Azamin to Gaius to the idling speeder and frowns. "Is there a problem?"
"Flavius," Darth Azamin greets the newcomer by name in a tone that purports to be happy to see him. Azamin smiles broadly and beckons the man forward. As he approaches closer, Gaius sees that he's pureblood and deep in middle age. "Come meet my young friend, Darth Malgus, who was invested today at the Palace," Azamin invites. He's acting like this is a social occasion and they're all friends. Like no one was shooting Force lightning and exchanging heated words mere moments ago. "Malgus, this is Flavius Moderna, Lord Victus."
Gaius takes the hint and plays long. He nods respectfully at the older man. "My Lord."
"Malgus," the man nods back. "You're one we've all heard about." Victus turns to Azamin and presses his concern, "Is something amiss?"
Azamin smiles a gummy smile and raises a hand to wave it before Lord Victus' eyes. "Nothing is amiss," he administers a heavy dose of Force suggestion. "You were walking home and you saw nothing. You will continue on your way and tell no one that you saw either of us or any Force lightning. You never met Darth Malgus."
Gaius watches impressed as Lord Victus blinks and accepts the mental manipulation without resistance. "Yes, my Lord," he responds meekly. Then, Victus pockets his sword and continues on his way walking home as if nothing had occurred.
"That one can't be weak minded," Gaius mutters in amazement as he watches the interloper leave.
Azamin grunts. "He's not. But it was necessary. Victus is a priest in residence at the Palace currently, so he knows Tenebrae. He might ask him about red lightning out of curiosity."
Gaius isn't following. "Tenebrae?" He recognizes the word —'Tenebrae' is Old Sith for Darkness—but who is that? And why does he matter?
Azamin explains. "You think I am a longtime confidante of Darth Vitiate? Darth Tenebrae is his real friend." Azamin now fixes Gaius with a stern look. "If your path ever crosses with Darth Tenebrae, you should assume that anything he knows, he will tell the Emperor. The man is a sieve."
"Who is Darth Tenebrae?" Gaius doesn't know the name. It's no surprise, really. There is no transparency in the Empire. You can't look up an org chart of its senior leadership on the holonet and find pictures and bios and job titles. That is by design for it's not in the nature of the Sith to be open, especially about power. Sure, the military chain of command is clear and there are notables like Azamin who are publicly acknowledged leaders. But to a confounding degree for an outsider like Gaius, the inner workings of the Empire remain an impenetrable black box. Decisions are made and announced, but who makes those decisions and the people who influenced those decision makers are rarely revealed.
"Tenebrae is the Chief Priest. He was in the throne room this morning."
"The guy in the hood and the cassock?"
"That's him. He keeps a very low profile. That's intentional. He's pretty much need-to-know these days outside of his Temple ministry. But someone might mention him to you."
"Why is that?"
Azamin sighs and averts his eyes. "Because he's a colonial."
"He is?" This is news. Gaius is immediately intrigued. He had no idea that there was a colonial on the Dark Council. And sure, he's the unimportant priest job, but still . . . Excitedly, Gaius asks, "Does that mean he's a random, like me?"
Azamin smirks. "Centuries ago, Tenebrae used to tell people he was a fallen Jedi just to see how they would react. He's not the congenial sort and he's as cagey as they come. Keep your distance from that sorcerer. Knowing him, he'll think there's only room for one colonial Lord in the Empire, and that won't end well for you."
"So the Emperor's best friend is a colonial random . . . That means Vitiate really is open to leadership that's not pureblood."
"Tenebrae is the exception to every rule. That wizard is in a class by himself. Do not draw generalizations from him." Azamin sighs. Looking frustrated but not with him, the longtime statesman informs Gaius, "You are right that to be Sith is more creed than birthright. Already, the Army leadership has had to admit many more laymen than I ever thought possible. That trend will need to continue in all areas once we rule the entire galaxy. But you—you in particular—are the wrong one to advance that cause." Azamin does not elaborate why. He's still concerned about the red lightning. Casting a glance up and down the dark, deserted street, Azamin grumbles, "Let us hope that no one else saw what you did."
Troubled Azamin now turns back to him. Gaius is instantly suspicious. He preemptively growls, "Don't you dare try that mind trick on me!"
The old man actually chuckles. "I won't. You're far too stubborn for it to work." The matter of Portia Metellus now seems to be completely superseded by the issue of the red lightning. Azamin is in a hurry to end their conversation, rather than berate him with more threats. He can't get away fast enough, it seems. "Well, goodnight," the old man tells him as he casts yet another furtive glance over his shoulder. "Go home before we get seen together by someone else and I have to wipe more minds. I hate doing that."
"Why are you helping me?" Gaius squints at him. He's increasingly perplexed by Azamin's motives.
The elder statesman doesn't acknowledge the question. He starts to shuffle away towards his house and orders, "Stay out of trouble, kid, and stay away from Portia. I didn't liberate you from a life in prison to have you cause problems for us both or for her."
"Why are you helping me?" Gaius doggedly calls after his slowly retreating form.
Azamin half turns and responds, "Because the Force is with you. I learned long ago from the greatest Master of the Force to always seek to do its bidding. Never oppose the Force. Instead, work to achieve its aims."
"Who is that? Who is the greatest Master of the Force?" Gaius wants to know.
"You met him today," Azamin answers. "Darth Vitiate. You remind me of him centuries ago," he volunteers, sounding oddly wistful. "Back when he had more zeal for change . . . back when he was less risk averse."
Huh. Gaius doesn't know what to make of that comment.
"I'm not just helping you, Malgus. I'm helping myself and I hope that I am helping Vitiate and the Empire as well. You can do your part by staying out of trouble." Azamin now warns him sternly, "Never speak of this. Never approach me. Your future is up to you and the Force." With words that belie his actions tonight, the elder statesman insists, "I will not—I cannot—interfere on your behalf."
Gaius nods back, "Yes, my Lord," and what started as a confrontation now ends with him and Azamin in something approaching accord. Because as angry as Azamin might be about Portia, Azamin is clearly more concerned about that red lightning and the risk of being seen speaking to him or being perceived as helping him.
Gaius leaves that night to return to the Interrogator, deciding against his original plan to stay another night and leave in the morning. But when he arrives early back to the ship, he finds he has been anticipated.
Darth Angral, ever conspicuous in his red armor, stalks up to meet his transport. It's unexpected and probably a bad sign. People report to Angral on the bridge, he doesn't come to you. Girding himself for more reprimand, Gaius marches down the ship's ramp for his latest dressing down.
"Malgus."
"My Lord."
Angral crosses his arms and looks him over a long moment, as if deciding what to say. With pursed lips and furrowed brow, his dignified commanding officer sighs and complains. "Do you delight in making things harder for yourself? Or are you just arrogant, tone deaf, and stupid?"
"Heard about the investiture?"
"From about six people . . . and counting. You made quite the impression."
Gaius shrugs, feigning unconcern. That's his strategy for how to handle the debacle—pretend he doesn't care and it doesn't matter. But of course, he does and it does, and everyone knows it. But it can't be helped at this point. "It could have gone better."
"I was sorry to hear it went so badly, but I can't say I'm surprised." Angral's pureblood patrician features look seriously annoyed. "Malgus, you are brilliant in so many ways and a complete idiot in others."
"Does that line mean you're about to give me some advice?"
"No. You don't take advice about anything other than war. So why bother?"
Gaius smirks. "I'm glad we understand each other."
Angral just shakes his head in disgust and starts walking. Since he's not dismissed, Gaius falls into step beside him.
"It's good you're back. I need some mission planning."
"Another meaningless world to claim for our Emperor?"
"Not this time. You're getting your wish. We're attacking Sluis Van."
Gaius stops short. "Seriously?"
"You heard me," Angral calls behind him.
Gaius has to hurry to catch up to his commanding officer who is still striding fast towards the bridge. "But bombarding those shipyards is a true Naval command, not my quasi-Army work," he mutters.
"Last time I looked, you were still in the Navy, Ensign Lord Malgus," Angral reminds him dryly.
"What I mean is attacking Sluis Van is a full-scale battle, not a raid on some poorly defended outpost world. It's a coordinated plan of attack with multiple capital ships, waves of fighter wings and bombers, maybe a surface component, and perhaps even a temporary blockade set up until we achieve victory."
"Yes," his boss confirms succinctly.
"Okay." Excited by the challenge, Gaius keeps thinking out loud as they walk. "What is victory precisely? Are we trying to destroy the enemy facilities or take them over for our own use?"
"I hadn't thought of that second alternative," Angral candidly remarks.
"Well, when the Republic finally reemerges with a fleet, we're going to need a base of operations for repairs near all these Rim worlds we took and will need to defend. At a minimum, we need a depot for refueling and reprovisioning. Maybe even smalltime manufacturing. Those shipyards could be made to serve the Empire."
Angral muses, "I like that idea. Plan me a battle that preserves the major infrastructure as well as the usual mass destruction scenario. Get on it today. This is top priority."
"Okay, but Fidel and I have that raid set for Lviv tomorrow. It's the joint operation with the team from the Punisher. I'm leading the review session this afternoon."
"Not any more. Hector's doing it with Adraas now. You are relieved of that responsibility."
"But—"
Angral comes to a halt and turns to face him. "As of now, Sluis Van is your only assignment. The others will continue the Rim campaign without you. Malgus, I want you to eat and sleep battle scenarios for those shipyards until you've got something really good."
"I'll need Intel."
"We've got it."
"Whatever we've got, it won't be enough."
"Figure out what you need and we'll see if we can get it. This is the next major offensive. We can afford to put some resources behind it. We have to get this right."
"What's the timing?"
"I want quality not speed. When you're ready, I'll go over the draft battle plans with you. Once we're satisfied, I want you to present them to the Lords onboard so they can pick it all apart and tear it to pieces."
Gaius groans. "Great . . . "
"And once we've done that exercise, I might have you present to a few others as well. There's two Army Lords I respect and they know a thing or two about complex operations. Plus, they'll critique it from outside the Naval perspective."
"Alright."
"Once we're confident that what we have is good—really good—you're coming with me to pitch it to Azamin, Morass, and Detract."
Gaius knows those names. Everyone in the Navy knows those names. They are the three Lords tasked with overseeing matters of war and defense for the Empire. They are the highest-ranking military officers in the Navy, Army, and Imperial Guard civil defense corps, respectively. They sit on the Dark Council and they watched him make a fool of himself just yesterday.
Gaius gulps back a mix of terror and excitement. "We're taking this to the Joint Chiefs?"
"Yes. Buy that ceremonial armor, Malgus. You're going back to the Palace and you need to look the part."
The point is sinking in: this is a chance to redeem himself. It's unanticipated and probably premature, but very, very welcome.
"How did we get this assignment?" grinning Gaius wants to know. Darth Angral is a star and all, but this is still a plum gig that many above Angral would want.
"Darth Marr is dead."
Oh. "That's not good." Gaius grimaces at the news. Marr was the architect of the Navy's decisive victory at Tingal Arm and the preeminent military strategist of the Empire. His death is a huge loss.
Angral clearly agrees. "It's not public yet, but it will be soon. The Irrefutable was lost last night with no survivors."
"What happened?"
"That's the thing—no one knows. No transmissions were intercepted before a final distress call. There's only wreckage at the last known coordinates."
"So the Republic fleet is back . . ."
Angral nods grimly. "So we must presume. As of this morning, a sizable flotilla has been dispatched to locate the enemy. The rest of us will continue the Rim campaign as planned."
"Attacking Sluis Van will locate the enemy fast," Gaius predicts.
His boss nods. "You need to factor that into your planning. We cannot anticipate just local opposition. The enemy will anticipate that we're coming for those shipyards." Angral looks him in the eye as he asks a serious question, "Think you can handle it?"
"Absolutely, my Lord."
"Good. I think so too. Any questions?"
"Yes, but it's not about Sluis Van."
"Go ahead."
"Who is Darth Tenebrae?"
Angral blinks at the randomness of the question. "He's the priest on the Council. Why?"
"I heard he is a colonial."
"Is he? I wouldn't know. Never met him. I don't spend much time in temples."
"What do you know about him?"
Angral thinks a moment. "I only know his name because he was rumored to be involved in the Fulsome affair. Supposedly, Tenebrae was the one who bested Fulsome for the Emperor. But that might be wrong. The Palace pretends the coup attempt never occurred and all the conspirators died, there's no official version of events to know what's truth."
"I'm surprised that a priest would be that good a fighter," Gaius comments. "Fulsome was formidable."
"I would guess Tenebrae is pretty marginalized now. Back then, he was known to oppose war with the Republic. Part of what Fulsome and his Army backers wanted was to remove his influence. Their big complaint was that the revenge of the Sith was never going to happen. Among other reasons, they blamed it on Tenebrae personally."
"But why would a priest even be involved in a decision like that? Who cares what some sorcerer thinks?" Priests are the professors of the Force, and they mostly confine themselves to their temples and argue with each other over arcane spells and meaningless rituals. They study Darkness qua Darkness in their ivory tower echo chambers, while the rest of the Lords of the Sith are Darkness in action, existing in the real-world doing things that actually matter for the Empire.
Angral shrugs. "All I know is that at one point he was perceived as having a lot of influence. I guess he was eventually overruled because we're at war now." He frowns, "If Fulsome had just waited twenty years, he would have gotten his invasion. Instead, he got himself and a lot of Army Lords killed." His boss eyes him pointedly. "The lesson is to work within the system. Find a way to get what you want without disrupting things and picking fights."
"Easy for you to say given who you are," Gaius grumbles.
Darth Angral ignores the comment. He informs him, "Malgus, I'm keeping you on a short leash from here on out. It's for your own good and for the good of the Empire. Stunts like what you did in the throne room cannot be repeated."
Yeah, he really blew that chance. He managed to piss off both the Emperor and Darth Azamin in the one full day he was back on Dromund Kaas. So, Gaius dutifully answers, "Yes, my Lord," and contrives to look suitably chastised, even though he's not.
Angral continues, "When you were assigned to me, you came with a lot of baggage and backstory. Honestly, I chalked up the caveats to fear mongering and exaggeration. I thought to myself this guy can't be that good or that obnoxious. But it turns out that you exceed on both accounts. Maybe Azamin is right and you really are the most unpredictable man in the Empire—"
"Do you think he meant that in a good way?" Gaius interrupts to wonder.
"No," Angral tells him flatly. "Look, while you're my responsibility, you're going to fall in line. Understood?"
"Yes, my Lord."
"Dismissed. Get to work."
END OF PART TWO
