Echoes

by inwardtransience

The Jedi thought that, by turning their greatest enemy into an unwitting assassin, they could grasp victory from the jaws of defeat, and safeguard the Republic, the democratic and egalitarian principles at its foundation, for future generations. Really, they should have just killed her.

8. Revanche — I

It barely took twelve hours for Cina to change her mind.

She'd woken up at an unreasonably early hour of the morning, it would be ages before the other two got up. Getting back to sleep had proven impossible — every time she closed her eyes, she found waiting for her a black void, sinking into her bones, drawing her deeper, deeper.

Every time she closed her eyes, she felt so tired.

So she'd brewed some caf, set herself up at the table with her datapad. The caf was, for once, not completely horrible. She'd gotten a new machine yesterday, and why not, she had the credits now. Carth had been more than a little surprised when Asyr had shown up at the Bek base on a gleaming new swoop bike, Cina close behind her in an air speeder loaded up with supplies to last out the rest of their stay on Taris. Supplies that included real food for a change.

He'd been uneasy with how she'd gotten the credits to pay for it all, of course, but by now she expected Carth to winge whenever she solved one of his problems for him.

She was sitting at the table for maybe five minutes, paging randomly through news on the net, when she finally decided there was no use in continuing to pretend she wasn't thinking about something else. She'd thought she was okay with not knowing, she'd put it off, but now...

The credit chits wouldn't have her real name attached to them, but they would have the account number. She pulled up the card-reader, scanned one of the chits. It took a second to spot the account number in the page of information spat at her, though calling it a "number" was rather misleading — it was a three part code, eight characters then twenty-four then four, using numbers and letters pulled from the entire Republic standard character set. It was the first eight she wanted: that would be the planet code, identifying where the account had first been opened. She copied it with a couple taps, switched over to track down a node she could look it up at.

Though she did note the four-character code at the end, the account number: "1LES". Even as her fingers moved with little input from her, she mulled over that particular sequence. Account numbers were usually random, but they could be chosen by the group administrator. It was most likely, she thought, that those were the first three letters of her real name.

Which didn't narrow it down at all, of course. Judging by her own accent, she'd expect her name to be Alsakani; the old Alsakani languages were rather phonologically simple; there were comparatively few possible girl's names, and trillions of people of Alsakani descent, so they were all used thousands upon thousands of times. There was no such thing as a rare Alsakani name. Les- could be Lesa, Lesushi, Lesane, Lesami, Lesika, Lesoli, Lesuva, even Leth- names were possible too, they were classically spelled Lest- — the point was, there were a lot of options. There were millions of human women with names that started with those three letters.

She copied the planet code into the search bar, the result popping up an instant later: Shawken.

She was from Shawken. Or, at least, the group had been opened on Shawken. There was no way of knowing whether she was actually form there or not. She might have just—

No...

No, she was remembering something. It was called... What was it called? Mase... Maselai? Mashilai?

"Are you going to mope in here the whole time?"

Mathilnai. It was Mathilnai. Shawken was an old world, one of the Core Founders, the cities long since spread to overwhelm the entire globe. Save for a few places, here and there — portions of the natural world had been preserved, so well as was possible on an ecumenopolis. Near the tropics, along the shore of a great sea (now hidden from above by endless metropolis) stretched one of these protected zones, containing a resort destination, a beach. It was called Mathilnai.

"I'm not moping. I'm reading."

Cina rubbed at the side of her head, despite how useless she knew it was. The dull ache at her left temple wasn't going to go away just from poking at it.

Her family had had a vacation home, in a town just south of the beach. They'd...

There was a library, there. An old library, or at least an old-fashioned one. There were some datacards, but many of the shelves had been filled with books, hundreds of books, some so old the leather covers were creased, dust gathered on the pages. She remembered, she...

The last time she'd been there, there'd been... Something had been wrong. She'd spent most days hidden away in the library, she hadn't wanted to go out. She was afraid people would know, and if people knew, her parents would get upset again, and...

And her cousin Desa didn't understand, he didn't know, he, he just wanted her to come out and play with them, the rest of them, like she usually did. (How old had she been? Eight? Nine?) And she hadn't wanted to think about it, she wanted to forget about it, read until she forgot, she wanted to be left alone, she just wanted him to go away—

It came again, without her meaning to, and she was suddenly too full, like breathing in steam, but far more than her lungs could handle, making her feel hot, and light, and bigger than she was. And then it was pushing out of her, without her meaning to, the lamp was whipped off its stand, crashing against the ceiling, Desa was thrown back, tumbling over, fetching against a bookshelf—

And Desa was crying, scared more than hurt, Father looked even more scared, telling her she had to be careful, she had to keep it in, but she couldn't, he didn't understand, it was too big, when it came she couldn't hold it, she was getting so tired of holding it inside—

Cina frowned.

Slowly, cautiously, her free hand moved to her waist. She flipped the top off one of the leather pouches there, the longest one. And she pulled out the thin, metal tube inside.

She held a dead Jedi's lightsaber in her hand, staring at it, her thoughts moving thick and sluggish.

She'd read about Jedi, of course. What child didn't, at some point or another? Jedi trained in the use of lightsabers, but while the technology involved was comparatively simple nobody else used them, for any purpose. They were surprisingly unwieldy, see. The "blade", for lack of a better term, was essentially weightless, but ionized — it moved too easily, but at the same time it pushed and pulled against the air, nearby objects, in subtle but unpredictable ways. Ordinary people who got their hands on one more often than not ended up accidentally cutting off something important.

But Cina...

It felt natural, holding this exotic weapon in her hand. It'd felt natural, pulling it out to carve through the ceiling into this apartment. (Ignore for the moment that she had almost accidentally cut off something important, that was from the ceiling collapsing, not the lightsaber itself.) It'd felt natural, slicing off the binders restraining Mission and Zaalbar.

She'd essentially used a plasma cutter within millimeters of their unprotected skin. And she'd just...done it. She hadn't even thought about it, just, snap-hiss-slice-slice, done.

Somehow, it hadn't struck her until just now how completely absurd that was.

Also? When she'd been a child, she could move things with her mind.

She...

Son of a bitch. Mission had had her there.

Cina was a bloody Jedi.

...

Well. She certainly wasn't getting back to sleep now.

---

"He still thinks he can buy me."

Noshev's breath froze in his throat, choking on the chill on the air. It wasn't a literal chill — the bare little ready room he'd been led to after docking with the Vindicta was a little colder than he was fully comfortable with, but it wasn't any worse than it'd been a moment ago. It wasn't a chill on the air, but one on Lesami's voice, in her eyes, staring back at him without any expression, any life at all.

In the blink of an eye, she wasn't his sister anymore, and Noshev was alone in a room with an unhappy Dark Lord of the Sith.

It took a moment for him to clear his throat, shake off his unease enough to speak. "Forgive me, Your Excellency—" Noshev was a little proud of himself, for remembering to use her newly-assumed title, he hadn't slipped and said her name once. "—but I'm afraid I haven't been clear. This isn't a, a bribe. Our father wishes to—"

"Cumal po lai Revas hasn't been my father for a long time." The words were still wreathed in ice, but there was less anger beneath them, something more...exasperated, exhausted.

Noshev tried not to wince — he shouldn't have said that, he'd known Lesami had had some unspoken issue with their parents for...well, as long as he could remember, honestly. Apparently, he had to watch his pronouns too. "My father, he doesn't intend to, to— His offer of an alliance is genuine. He has spoken with like-minded people of influence all throughout the core, and they all agree that—"

"People of influence," she drawled, her voice black and thick with disdain. "Even in your diction, you betray the fundamental character of this...proposal." This last word was said in a faint snarl, her lips curling with disgust. "I get the feeling you're not very good at this, my lord."

He could only meekly shrug. However peculiar it was to hear his elder sister of all people call him that, she was nowhere wrong. He meant, he was a bloody music student, he didn't have the training to negotiate what was essentially a treaty with a foreign head of state. Father had chosen to send him because they'd always gotten along — no matter how many years it'd been since they'd actually met and however young he'd been at the time — but he was thinking that had been misguided.

It had started before he'd been born, but he'd long learned there were decades of ill will between Lesami and their family. Perhaps someone she wasn't actually related to would have been a better choice for an envoy.

Noshev took a long breath, pushing back the hot anxiety itching at his throat as best he could. "I'm afraid I don't understand, Your Excellency."

"No, you wouldn't. It's quite clear House Reva has no idea what I'm trying to accomplish here." Lesami pushed herself to her feet, stalked over to the window overlooking the bustling docking bay. As the vids leaked from her nascent Empire had suggested, Lesami didn't usually wear the full Revan getup — this looked much like a navy admiral's uniform, though cast in the silver-black Sith colour scheme, extra gold and white accents here and there the only concessions to the fact that she was essentially the queen of a thousand worlds now. She didn't even wear the mask most of the time, from their guesswork only donning it for certain formal occasions and when she expected a fight.

Of course, she was still intimidating enough without all that — he didn't miss the lightsaber hanging at each hip.

"I'm not surprised, of course." Lesami's arms lifted to fold over her chest, her shoulders rising and falling in a harsh scoff. "He's always thought he could buy me. My forgiveness, my love." Noshev winced at the derision thick on the air. "And now my mercy."

The word, the way it was said — softly, casual, as though she were commenting on something inconsequential — had a shiver running down his spine. "It's not like that, Lesami."

"But it is, Noshev." He winced — he hadn't noticed he'd used her name. She looked back at him over her shoulder, face still eerily blank, her eyes cold and heavy. "It's been this way since I was thirteen. He threw money at me back then, hoping it would soften me toward him, assuage his own guilt. I took it, of course — it was money, and they don't exactly pay Jedi — but he didn't get what he wanted from me. So he sent me more, and more, and more, invited me to vacations and weddings, theatres and dinners packed with the society elite of the core, trying to find something that would buy me. And he still does it, he never bloody gives up.

"And now?" Without a gesture from her, without even a glance, the datapad on the table, the beginnings of a contract still sketched across the display, gently lifted into the air. "He and all his wealthy and powerful friends hope to get out in head of the coming revolution. They know I'll win, ultimately, and they think they can bribe their way into my favour, by my good will preserve their assets and their influence. Perhaps I'll even offer them new opportunities to acquire greater power and wealth.

"But if these blind fools think I can be bought, they have catastrophically misread me. I have only one response to this offer." Her right eye twitched, just slightly.

The datapad erupted in an explosion of hissing and cracking, sparks flying to pour against the table. Noshev jumped to his feet and scrambled back, nearly tripping over the legs of the chair, even as the pad exploded, shards clattering down to the table, the air filling with the acrid smell of overheated electronics. His hand came unconsciously to his chest, heart pounding painfully against his ribs.

"There will be no alliance."

Noshev jumped — he'd been so busy with the exploding datapad he hadn't noticed Lesami move. She was standing right in front of him now, less than a foot away. Now that she was so close he could feel it, a charge on the air, like standing too close to an energy shield, the taste of a lightning storm undercut with encroaching cold, ice pressing lightly against his skin. He moved to back away a step, but her eyes narrowed in a glare, and he was frozen in place, his limbs refusing to move, he couldn't even look away.

"If your lord thinks there ever could be an accord between us, he terribly misunderstands the foundational principles of this institution. When I do conquer the core — and make no mistake, your vaunted Republic cannot and will not stop me — he and his ilk will see their fortunes change quite considerably. If they are lucky, they will get out of it with their lives. House Reva would be wise to not expect special treatment."

Her hand came up, clenching tight around his lapel, just under his throat. If he could run, if he could cry out, but he couldn't, he couldn't move, he could barely breathe. Sweat pouring down his face, his limbs going numb with terror, he didn't even notice his feet had left the ground. Lesami dragged him across the room, shortly coming to the door. It hissed open on its own, she hadn't reached for the controls, revealing the sterile grey hallway beyond, the line of soldiers and pair of unfamiliar Jedi that had escorted him from his ship an hour ago.

With a contemptuous flick of her wrist, Noshev was dropped stumbling into the hall, his shaky legs quickly failing him, stumbling to his hands and knees on the hard metal floor. "The Lord wishes to return home. Escort him back to his ship."

A moment later, before one of the Sith soldiers had pulled him to his feet, the air had warmed what felt like ten degrees, the deadly electricity surrounding him swiftly fading away. Lesami had left.

Noshev let out a breath of relief, even to his ears the sigh sounding far too much like a whimper.

---

"Mister Nallas? He's ready for you now. Go on in."

Popping smoothly back to his feet, Yani gave his client's assistant a smile. It felt rather more brittle than normal.

With a final girding breath, he walked through the door, bringing himself immediately face-to-face with Cumal po lai Revas. "Yani, good to see you as always." The man firmly clasped his hand with both of his, lined face splitting with a grin. Cumal was about a decade older than Yani, his age thinly showing around his eyes and lips, a few streaks of silver shot through brown hair. But his dark eyes were still sharp, his grip strong.

"Thank you, my lord, you as well."

His client's eyes narrowed in a false glare. "How long have we known each other? Cumal, please." The grin returned, so abruptly he'd think it had never left. "I don't mean to suggest you're unwelcome, but, forgive me, I thought our monthly meeting was next week. Sashaiva didn't go over her limit again, did she?"

"No, nothing like that." Yani hesitated for a second. "There's been a...development. I thought you should know, in case, ah, there's any response you wanted to make."

"Oh, yes, pick a seat, then."

This office, after so many years working with Cumal, had become intimately familiar. The floors covered in thick carpet a rich blue, the walls dark wood and gleaming chrome, interrupted here and there with framed stills and certificates and tall bookshelves — holding actual books, the Revas were famous eccentrics in that way. Just behind the slightly disheveled-looking desk was an entire wall of window, looking out over the glimmering spires of Elumanai, luxury housing all red brick and silver and creeping green as far as the eye could see, air speeders zipping between the peaks as quick and confident as birds through a forest.

Closer to the door was a circle of plush armchairs around a low table of metal and glass, strewn with a few data and sketchpads. Also, he noticed, a coloring book and a handful of pastels — one of Cumal's grandchildren must have been by recently. Yani settled into one of the chairs, setting his bag down at his side.

"I don't suppose I could talk you into taking a brandy this time."

Yani did actually consider it, but only for a second. "Ah, no, thank you, not this time." He was trying to hide his anxiety, and holding a drink would just make it far too obvious. Even digging into his bag for his pad he was having far more trouble than he should, his fingers shaking, clumsy enough he kept fumbling the folders as he paged through them.

"Too professional by half, you are. There's nothing wrong with relaxing now and again."

For perhaps the hundredth time, Yani shrugged off the sentiment. He did know how to relax, of course — Cumal po lai Revas, of all people, simply wasn't someone he was entirely comfortable around.

Cumal sank into a seat across from him with a light sigh. He leaned back, crossing his feet on the corner of the table, and paused to take a sip from the snifter of brandy in his hand before speaking. "Well, as you are so determined to get on to business. What did you have for me, Yani?"

"You may wish to..." He trailed off, biting at his lip. His fingers tapped idly at the edges of his pad, and it took some concentration to stop his knee from bouncing. He had absolutely no idea how this conversation was going to go. "I mean, this is... It may come as a bit of a shock. Just a forewarning."

That just seemed to make Cumal more interested. At least a shade of severity had entered his expression, the reckless grin swapped for something more quiet, attentive. Even he could take some things seriously when called for. "Consider my breath bated." Or maybe not...

It took a few attempts for him to actually say it. The content wasn't the problem, but the monumental implications of what he was about to say, that was what had the words lock in his throat, so hard he felt he could barely breathe. Eventually, after an embarrassingly long moment, he got it out. "You were right. She's alive."

Cumal hardly reacted. He stared at Yani, long and hard, so still he hardly seemed alive, more like a statue made in his likeness. Finally he blinked, slowly, his lips parted. "You're certain."

Despite the grievousness of the situation, he still felt the shot to his professional pride. "Her primary account was accessed from a branch office on Taris. Her identity was confirmed through a genetic test. Here, I had a still ripped off the security feed." He blew the picture up until it filled the screen, slid the pad across the table.

And Cumal went completely still again, staring at the image — a human woman from the waist up, dressed in cheap, faded clothes, dirty and bruised, hidden weaponry conspicuously hinted at by the power cells clipped to her belt. He stared, for long moments. Then he turned, slowly, toward his desk, the collection of stills propped up there. Holos of his family.

It wasn't visible from here, but Yani remembered the holo he was probably thinking of. A young woman, sixteen or seventeen, dark hair let out in graceful waves, one arm thrown around the shoulders of a slightly older man, both of them caught in a storm of laughter, pinking faces overcome with matching grins. It was the last time, to his knowledge, that Cumal's daughter had ever set foot on Shawken, over fifteen years ago now. She'd been lovely, of course, the fine white and blue dress perfectly chosen, looking for anything like an ordinary girl, innocent and harmless.

Though even back then she'd been anything but. Look closely under her arm and there was a noticeable bulge, not quite hidden by the folds of her dress. Apparently, she'd been unwilling to set aside her lightsaber even long enough to attend her brother's wedding.

It'd been years now, and he still hadn't gotten used to the idea. He didn't know what to do with the fact that his most valuable client's only daughter just so happened to be Revan. The Revan. Honestly, he tried to pretend Lesami po si Revas and Revan were two completely different people. If only for the sake of his continued sanity.

"I knew it." Cumal was smiling, a thin, crooked sort of smile, a soft note of humor on his voice. "I bloody knew it. Told you the whole time, didn't I? Two Jedi were supposed to have finished her? No, I didn't believe it for a second. There's nobody yet who's gotten one over on my Lesami."

That wasn't entirely true — despite how the legend that had formed around Revan during the War had made it sound, it had been a bit touch and go for a little while there. As Supreme Commander, Revan had lost battles. Fewer and fewer as the War had gone on, true, likely because she'd learned to pick them better. But even toward the end, fighting against the Republic, she hadn't been infallible. The Sith had been pushed back, a few times. Granted, not very often and never for very long, but still.

And he did have to admit he'd never heard of Revan even being injured, before Deralia. But if she had been, the Republic and later the Sith probably would have covered it up. There was power in a reputation like hers, after all.

He knew all that rationally but, he had to admit, when Cumal had refused to close her accounts, claiming to believe she was still alive no matter what the Republic or the Sith said, part of him had acknowledged the point. She... Well, she was Revan. With the stories he'd heard of her exploits against the Mandalorians, it was hard to believe a single Jedi Master and a half-trained apprentice (at the time) could possibly manage to kill her. It was childish, silly, but he'd heard too much, Cumal had been so certain, Yani hadn't been able to shake the thought he might be right.

Turned out, that irrational belief in her ability to survive against all odds had been entirely correct.

"What is she doing, though?" Cumal picked up the pad, frowning down at the security still. "Dressed like that... Well, I'd almost think she's trying to keep it secret, that she's still alive. But if she is, I'd think she'd be smart enough not to withdraw twenty million credits from an account under her real name."

Yani shrugged. "I really couldn't say. Desperation, perhaps? Taris was recently put under a total blockade. She might not have intended to be stuck there."

"Mm." For a few seconds longer, Cumal stared at the image of his definitely-not-dead daughter, brandy idly swirling in one hand. "Well," he said, sliding the pad back across the table, "I'll be wanting to open a new line of credit. Private, attached to one of the external group numbers."

"Can I ask what for?"

"If we didn't get wind of it before, Lesami's obviously travelling under a pseudonym. I don't have any way to contact her, I don't know what she has planned, so if I want to make contact again I'll have to pay a professional to do it for me." With a crooked smile, shoulders lifting in a light shrug, he said, "The last communication we had was...well, less than civil."

Yani almost had to snort at that. When she'd returned at the head of the Sith, Cumal had tried to make contact several times, offering his support (and the family's wealth and influence) in her revolution she had going on. She never responded, so he'd sent one of his sons into then-newly-declared Sith space.

Noshev had gotten a one-on-one meeting with her, but it hadn't gone well. Apparently, he'd said something to make Revan quite angry — by the way he'd spoken of it, there'd been a moment he'd been certain his sister was about to kill him.

"But, things are quite different now. Maybe it'll go better this time." Cumal said it lightly, on the edge of bouncing, a hopeful tone that rang only slightly false.

Yani was even less confident than he was. He didn't know exactly what their disagreement was about, he hadn't considered it his business, but it didn't really matter, in the end. He just had to remember Noshev's face when he'd described his encounter with her to know there was little chance of an easy reconciliation.

But he didn't bother saying anything. Cumal would do what he felt like, no matter what Yani said. As he always did.

---

The second she walked in the door, Saul knew something was wrong.

He couldn't claim to have known Lesami very well or for very long. They'd first met a little less than a year ago now, when the irritatingly overconfident Jedi had appeared at the frontlines, explained to him her whole Revan scheme, asked for his cooperation. It'd sounded ludicrous at the time, but he'd agreed anyway. While the Order had been stingy as hell she'd brought a dozen Jedi with her, so putting up with her eccentricities had seemed like a small price to pay for the mystical assistance.

Of course, by now he realized her confidence was mostly justified.

More than her posture or her gait — it was hard to pick up much through her ridiculous Revan armor anyway — it was a feeling on the air. A subtle intensity, a sharpness, a sense of imminent violence, motion restrained. Like a caged predator, Saul had the sense not to go poking at her.

Lesami took a few even steps across the living room of her apartment, stopping to stare out the long bank of windows overlooking the capital district. She stood there, still and silent, for long moments.

"So, how did it go?" Saul had to hold back the childish urge to shush Grethar — just because he knew not to go poking at her didn't mean everybody was so cautious.

Her fists clenched at her sides, a long, hissing breath leaked out from behind her mask. Then she was whipping it off her face, turned and threw it away from her, spinning through the air so quickly it was but a blur, clanging to rest out of sight in the kitchen. Breaths coming thick and heavy, she kicked over one of the little side tables, the pot softly dropping to the carpet. Until she kicked that too, the ceramic pot shattering as her boot struck it, dirt scattering across the previously pristine white carpet, peculiar red-purple leaves torn and dying. Leaning half over, gloved fingers burying themselves her hair, she let out a frustrated scream.

Saul could feel it, itching at his ears and battering him over the head. Before he could consider whether he should be doing anything, Alek was already on his feet and across the room. In a blink they were holding each other, whispering, Saul couldn't tell what from here.

He pretended not to notice the more suggestive signs of affection. He knew full well what was forbidden to Jedi, and he personally thought it idiotic. It was easier to cover for them if he claimed not to know anything.

Sounding a bit unsettled, Grethar said, "I guess that means it went badly."

Saul shot him a look. "You always were perceptive, Marshal."

"Go to hell, Karath."

"Don't you two start again." Lesami was walking toward the circle of armchairs alone, Alek having disappeared somewhere. She let her ridiculous cloak drop to the floor, sank into one of the open chairs, pulling off her gloves finger by finger. Her brow was furrowed, more obviously drawn with exhaustion than usual. "I'm really not in the mood for your bickering right now."

Saul felt an eyebrow twitch. Lesami might be becoming increasingly important to the war effort, but the both of them still outranked her by quite a bit — anybody else talking to him like that would see consequences for it. Not that he was actually offended, it was just amusing.

Besides, at this point Saul was only her superior officer as a formality. She'd been the one giving him orders for months now.

Forcing his voice light, casual, he asked, "So, I suppose they didn't take it seriously?"

"Of course not. Bloody idiot senators," she muttered sulkily. (Her tone almost put a smile on his face — he forgot how young she was sometimes.) "They didn't believe a fucking word. So certain the Mandoade will stick to the Perlemian and the Hydian, that the fleets at Corsin and Taanab are enough to hold them out of the core. I tried to point out Onderon is only a few short hops from Zeltros, where they could easily hit all the southern core, but did they listen? Nooo..."

Grethar cursed under his breath in his native tongue, his shaggy head shaking. "Well, what did you expect? Civilians are idiots."

Nodding along, Saul said, "There really should be a service requirement to sit on the Defense Committee."

"That'll never happen." Lesami let out a harsh, dismissive scoff, her lips curling. "You know the kind of people who become senators, right?"

"They're your kind of people." Alek had reappeared with a steaming mug of something, handing it to Lesami before heading back for his seat. He wasn't entirely wrong, there — Saul knew Lesami had been born to a ludicrously wealthy noble family. How else could a Jedi afford a private apartment on the upper levels of Galactic City?

Both hands wrapped around the mug, Lesami glared through the steam at the other Jedi. "I wouldn't say that. But I do know these people. I doubt there's anyone on that blasted committee who understands the strategic situation as we do. Bloody idiots are going to hand the Mandoade the core, and blame us for fumbling the war afterwards, just you wait."

"No, they won't. They're war leaders: the Mandos will execute them all. Won't have the breath to go blaming anyone."

"Shut up, Alek, you know what I mean."

Saul paused for a moment, turning the thought over in his mind. A glance at Grethar showed a similarly contemplative look on his face — at least, he thought so, he'd never gotten particularly good at reading alien expressions. He hesitated another moment. It was a rather...extreme course of action. The political consequences if they failed could be catastrophic. And the precedent it would set if they succeeded...

With a last girding look shared with Grethar, Saul cleared his throat. "Grethar, a few of our colleagues, and myself have been looking into a solution for our...organizational issues. I doubt we could get everything arranged in time to prevent the Mandos from getting into the core, but maybe, just maybe, we'll at least be able to push them out."

Lesami blinked. "I can't imagine how you'll manage that. The Ministry is the problem, and with Sek-shoral at the top — who makes a bloody political appointee Supreme Commander during a war, honestly..."

There was nothing Saul could say to defend Sek-shoral — he didn't disagree, the man was a liability. "We identified the same problem. He's tying one hand behind our backs, forcing us to fight on the defensive against an enemy that holds no quarter. It's a political calculation and nothing but: How many lives and credits are these rim worlds worth, to his ilk? This war will see us all dead at this rate, inevitably. But, we think, if we can get a like-minded individual to replace him, we could reorganize our forces to take the fight to the Mandos. It might be too late already, but with a more aggressive strategist at the helm we might just have a chance."

"It's not a bad idea, but good luck getting the Committee to agree. Sek-shoral's their man."

"We're already in talks with Minister Delko. He's on board." Grethar chuckled at Lesami's expression, seeming inordinately proud with himself for surprising her. "We just have to give him a name. If it's one he likes, he's promised he'll wring arms until the rest of the Committee signs off on it."

"Did you have someone in mind?"

Saul didn't say a word, and neither did Grethar. He just stared at her.

It only took a few seconds for Lesami to figure out what they were not-saying. She rolled her eyes, and said, her voice thick with a scoff, "Very funny, boys. Be serious, who are you really thinking?"

"I think they are being serious, Lesami." For his part, Alek sounded amused, his eyes practically dancing with contained laughter.

"You're fucking kidding me. It was hard enough just getting a mysterious no-name Jedi a commission, now you want to put me in charge of the whole bloody military? You really think Delko will go for that?"

Saul shrugged. "It might take some convincing. But I don't think you realize how popular Revan is already. That damn mask is everywhere now. They might go for it just for the boost to morale. And politics, heroes are good for elections. Besides," he said, lips tilting into a teasing smirk, "didn't you say you wanted Revan to be as visible as possible, so the Mandos couldn't possibly miss you? What better way than to make you Supreme Commander?"

By the heat of the glare she shot him, Lesami found that argument particularly irritating. He just smiled back at her.

Saul'd won and, as annoyed as she might be, Lesami knew it.

---

"Admiral? Could I have a moment in private?"

Saul Karath turned from the viewport — the nightside of Taris floating above him, a million twinkling lights winking over his head, like the sky denser and more colorful — to face the officer next to him. A face he recognized above the muted silver and black of an IIS analyst, a face that made him nervous, a nervousness that had nothing to do with the bright red of her eyes, the harshly-angled tattoos darkening her skin, the crown of stubby horns.

No, his anxiety had a very specific cause: he remembered what assignment he'd given this particular analyst. If Kanyr Sheq had come to him it could only be about one thing.

He paused a moment, just for a breath, to force his heart down from where it'd leapt up his throat. "My quarters, Major Sheq. I'll be with you in a moment."

Kanyr nodded, turned smartly on her heel to disappear across the bridge. He didn't move immediately, took another moment to stare up at the stillness of Taris filling the sky, loom over a couple of the bridge officers. Once he felt a respectable amount of time had passed, he nodded to Rahn, stepped off the bridge.

It wouldn't do to appear too concerned with what Kanyr had to tell him, after all.

When he stepped into his office, Kanyr was waiting at his desk, sitting with her legs folded at the knee and hands limply hanging off the end of the armrests. Her expression was empty, anxiety hinted at only in the slightest twitching of her foot. Someone less familiar with her wouldn't notice. Saul didn't waste any time, moving straight for his chair on the opposite side. "I do hope this isn't another false alarm."

Kanyr shot him a glare two shades short of insubordinate. She pulled a datapad out of a pocket on the inside of her jacket, fiddled with it for a moment. Then she set it down, gently, one edge tapping against the metal of his desk before slowly laying it level.

One glance at the screen, and Saul was taken with a full-body twitch, his throat blocked again with a throbbing that had no business being there. He picked it up, twitching eyes skimming over text, jumping up now and again to stare at the face in the image. It only took him a brief moment to get the picture, each second turning his fingers numb, his brain afire with distracting tingles.

He took a long, slow breath, desperately reaching for a calm that evaded him.

"You're certain this time." His voice sounded sort of calm — calmer than he felt, at least — though unsteady enough he was glad they were in private.

"I was certain last time." His chastising glance seemed to have little effect on her. "Yes, I'm certain. False positives from facial recognition do happen — there are simply too many humans and not enough variety in their features to distinguish them reliably. But a false positive on genetic I.D.? What are the chances of that, one in quadrillions? No," she said, head sharply shaking, "there's no mistake.

"Of course, there was no mistake last time either." Her voice had turned a bit reproachful, shooting him a hooded glare. "That was Her Excellency on Coruscant."

"You can't possibly know that."

Kanyr closed her eyes for a moment, taking a slow breath in and out through her nose. She leaned forward, enough to glance over the edge of the pad, with a few swipes of her finger opened another file. "Shan's task force was seen over Coruscant. They travelled up the Namadii Corridor rimward to Dorin, then trailing through Agamar. They were last seen at Garqi. I assume they were headed for one of our assets along the border — I wasn't aware they had intelligence on any of them, but what else could they be doing up there?

"Of course, then they got wind of our little trap here. It's not far, here to Garqi, it fits the timeline. A couple days later, Her Excellency shows up at a bank. I tried to trace her back on the public security cams, but there are too many gaps — I suspect she's holed up in the lower city, their eyes there have been out for centuries.

"But," she said, pointing up with one finger, "after she stopped at the bank, she went to a clinic, a few blocks away, run by a known Republic loyalist by the name of Zelka Forn. Run back the feed a few days, and she's being dragged into that same clinic, in pretty bad shape — dragged in by Carth Onasi, of all people. I followed them back to a ruined escape pod the ground teams have identified as originating from the Endar Spire.

"Now, back on Coruscant, there was a last-minute change to the crew manifest. At the request of the Jedi, they took on a civilian, a xenolinguistics professor from the University of Aldera named Cianen Hayal. Someone did a hell of a thorough job on her footprint — official docs, family and economic history, academic work going back about a decade, everything carefully backdated and duplicated in all the proper places." Her lips tilted in a smile, a portion of her uncharacteristic solemnity thawing. "They're good, but I'm better."

He didn't doubt that — the Zabrak tendency toward enthusiastic, single-minded dedication was quite useful when harnessed properly. While she'd been talking, Saul had been paging through the file she'd compiled on this Hayal, annotated with her own comments. A lot of it went over his head — espionage was not his game — but he hadn't needed her to hint at it aloud to get the upshot. "You believe Cianen Hayal is a false identity."

"Yes," she said, her head bobbing in a forceful nod. "Her records were carefully backdated, but whatever program their slicer wrote to diffuse them across the proper servers off Coruscant forgot to account for differences in architecture. On external servers, the time stamps on their edits weren't modified. That, and there are a few discrepancies in her credfol, but that took my crawlers going at it to even notice. Like I said, very thorough, but not good enough.

"What I can't figure is why she was spending so long on Coruscant — and with the Jedi, at that. The cams have her going in and out of the Temple every day for weeks. Doesn't make any sense."

In any other situation, he might have laughed at the frustration on her face. Normally he wouldn't think this of a Zabrak, they were a very intense people, but she was nearly pouting, it was cute. But he knew what had happened, only one thing made sense, the black horror was already seeping through him, choking off the peculiarly affectionate thought before it could even really begin. "The Jedi didn't kill her. They brainwashed her. They wiped her mind completely, and replaced her identity with one that suits their purposes."

For a few seconds Kanyr stared at him, lips parted and eyes wide, the same horror that stole through him plain on her face. "That... They can do that?"

"Small-scale manipulation of memory is child's play for a Jedi. Something like this, however, is purely theoretical. But possible, perhaps." He handed the datapad back to her, a humorless smile twisting his lips. "Unless you have a better explanation."

"No, I..." She shook her head, something halfway between a sigh and dark laughter escaping her. "This is just... Is she really our Lady anymore if she doesn't remember anything?"

Ordinarily, Saul might worry about the same thing. But he wasn't worried. He'd learned quite a lot about how exactly this Force magic worked, both from reading texts Lesami had provided and from observation. Basic memory manipulation was child's play to Jedi, that was true, but it was more complicated than it sounded.

A permanent alteration was, essentially, one of their mind tricks anchored to the target, continually suppressing the memory in question. Eventually, the mind would incorporate the suggestion into itself, from which point it was irreversible, but this took time. Often years. And that period was longer for particularly strong-willed individuals. The suggestion itself was weakened each time the brain attempted to access the repressed memory; the larger the memory, the more skills and knowledge that were locked away, the more often the suggestion was assaulted, the shorter it lasted.

Lesami was an exceptionally strong-willed individual. That was how Force powers worked: the more focused and determined and confident the user, the more they were capable of. Just comparing with his inexpert eye the things Lesami had done with what he'd seen other Jedi could do, he wasn't sure there was anyone out there who could simply overwhelm her, force her mind to yield itself. Temporarily, perhaps, but permanently?

The weaknesses in memory alteration were only more critical when it came to an attempt to completely overwrite one's identity. The associations hard-wired into a person's brain were defined by their experiences, and couldn't be changed — unless the replacement identity had led a virtually identical life, which would defeat the whole point, the disharmony between brain and mind would create instabilities in the constructed personality. And if the disguise were less than perfect, even the slightest flaws would eat away at the suggestion.

It would inevitably weaken, bit by bit. This Cianen Hayal would fall apart, slowly at first but ever faster, each hole in the narrative of her life only opening up another to scrutiny. Inevitably, the entire thing would collapse.

"She'll be back, Kanyr." Saul gave her the softest smile he could manage — which, he knew, was only slightly warmer than hard vacuum. "This is Her Excellency we're talking about. No chains can hold her for long.

"I want you to keep an eye on her. Cover your tracks, don't let anyone find out what you're doing, Sith or Republic. Report any developments to me. In person, in private. Understood?"

Kanyr nodded; by the slight quirking of her lips, she was a little offended he'd felt the need to tell her to keep it secret. "And if one of the Jedi pulls it out of my head?"

"I suppose it depends which one it is." The Sith Jedi came in two varieties. Most of them were, well, people — they certainly acted more like a person than normal Jedi did. Some of them though...

Alek wasn't the only one to lose his bloody mind.

"If you think you're outed, don't bother denying it. Just say you're acting under orders from me." That should prevent her from being killed out of hand, hopefully. And no matter how angry the Jedi in question was, Saul was confident he was safe — they needed someone to command their navy. And he was very good at his job. He was certain that was the only reason Alek hadn't had him eliminated, despite his questionable loyalties. "Get back before you're missed, Major.'

Kanyr unconsciously straightened at the formal address. "Yes, sir." With a quick nod, she was on her feet and headed for the door out.

"Be careful."

Her hand on the pad, she glanced over her shoulder, her face pulled into a cocky smirk. "Aren't I always?" And she was gone.

Before the door had even fully hissed shut Saul was already reaching for his console.

---

Netha cringed, ducking her head and covering her eyes with her arm, gritting her teeth as black dust clawed at her skin. By the time the ship came to a halt only a few steps away, hovering a meter above the craggy, blasted wastes of Sleheyron, she felt scraped and raw, her arms and legs and stomach all too hot, throbbing with every beat of her heart.

At least she'd had the foresight to steal a curtain to wrap over her head like a shawl — she didn't want to know what that would feel like on her lekku.

A boarding hatch at the side of the ship smoothly descended, Netha framed with harsh, artificial light. And there was the human noblewoman from before, legs splayed against the movement of the little ship, her front foot right on the lip. Smiling at Netha, one hand held out to her. "Come on, then. We're in something of a rush."

Without a second of hesitation, Netha took the woman's hand and allowed herself to be pulled onto the ship.

There was a faint beeping noise as the woman brought the inside of her wrist up near her face. Switching to Basic, she said, "She's up. Get us out of here." The ship was moving before she'd even finished the sentence, tilting and banking as it jumped forward, Netha clutched at her rescuer to keep herself from tumbling right back out the hatch. Seemingly unaffected, the woman reached for a nearby control panel, with a push of a button it lifted back shut, the quickly increasing roar of passing wind blotted out as quick as it'd started. "Max the null out, Nisa. I don't think our guest has ever been out of atmo before."

In a blink, the pull of acceleration, down and back, instantly vanished. Netha would have went right back over the other way, but the lady was as solid as steel, she didn't even lean a little bit. Suddenly realizing what she was doing, her hands jumped away from the woman's clothes. "Sorry, my lady," she mumbled, trying to ignore the heat on her face.

The lady pouted back at her — which was a bit absurd, she was a grown woman. "I thought I asked you to call me Lesami." Then she smiled, hooking Netha around the elbow. "Come on, I'll show you around."

There wasn't a whole lot of ship to show her. From the outside, it was a sleek, pretty thing, all soft curves and gleaming whites and reds, but while obviously expensive it was a rather small ship. A central room that doubled as den and kitchen, a single shared sleeping area, a cargo hold that sat mostly empty — that was pretty much it. Not that Netha was much complaining, she couldn't remember the last time she'd actually had a bed to herself.

Babbling off about something to do with whoever they'd borrowed the ship from — which Netha was a little surprised by, she'd been under the impression Lesami was independently wealthy — Lesami led her into the middle room, Netha quickly distracted by the man sprawled out across a sofa. His features were human enough she would have assumed he were one, if she hadn't learned by now that few species had as much variation in skin coloring as her people did. The deep red skin and glittering blue-black hair, this was a Zeltron.

Netha tried not to look any more uncomfortable than she already was. She had...mixed experiences with Zeltrons.

The man pushed himself up to sitting, his drab, heavy robe shifting about him. "This the girl, then?" He had a very obvious core accent, though with more of a lazy drawl than was entirely proper.

Petering to a halt in the middle of the room, Lesami planted her hands on her hips, shooting the Zeltron an exasperated look. "Yes, this is the girl. Don't stare at her like that, Sesai. It's rude."

And he had been staring at her, narrowed eyes unnaturally still, head cocked slightly to the side, his gaze intense enough Netha felt her skin crawl, but at the admonishment he twitched, shot Lesami a sheepish glance. "Sorry. Just, you're right, she is powerful."

"Am I ever wrong?"

"Not about that kind of thing, no."

Over the next couple hours, her three rescuers — Nisotsa eventually emerged from the cockpit, a human woman with light hair and a round face, eyes a peculiar green — talked among themselves, about admirals and Jedi Masters and Sith Lords and planets and sectors and treaties and alliances, all of it far over Netha's head. She just sat there, hugging her reconstituted stew to herself, later a sweet heated drink of a kind she didn't recognize, she hardly said a word, just stared at a single point in head of her, trying not to remember.

Eventually, she didn't know how much later, Lesami suggested she might want to catch some sleep which, honestly, wasn't a terrible idea. Netha hadn't slept since...well, for a while. She hadn't been able to the night she'd met Lesami, she'd been too tense, too afraid, too, too...excited, she hadn't been able to get the idea out of her head, she could do it, she could, she'd be free...

And after she'd sneaked and murdered her way through Omeesh's palace, of course, there'd simply been no time to sleep. How many days ago had that been? One? Two? She wasn't sure, the hours had started blurring together...

She remembered, the knife glowing red with the heat of her fury, burrowing into the sick slimy fuck's head, moving on its own, burning its way further, further, he tried to get away but he couldn't, she wouldn't let her, instead he could only scream, tail pounding against the floor, Netha's head had hurt, she'd felt too full, too hot, but at once she'd felt wonderful, she'd been laughing—

She shivered, arms coming up to hug herself. Yes, she could use some sleep right about now.

In the little shared sleeping area, pulling from the closets fresh linens for the bed and clothes for Netha to change into, Lesami froze in mid sentence. "Oh, I'm... This is going to sound stupid, but, I never actually did get your name."

It was sort of funny, that it'd taken this long to even ask. Netha had the feeling this Lesami was more a woman of action than of leisure — why talk when she could do? Though, the only 'name' she had to offer cut out any humor she might have found otherwise. "They call me Netha."

A blank, terrifyingly cold look stole over Lesami's face. (Did she speak Ryl? Netha had never met a human who could before.) "I see." For a moment she stared — not at Netha, more some point behind her shoulder — her eyes black and still and merciless. And then she was back, her face softening, taken with a wry sort of smile. "You might consider picking a new one."

Netha shrugged. She would have no idea what to choose. But she shrugged the uncomfortable thought off, latched onto another. "You don't like the Hutts."

Giving her an odd sort of look, Lesami said, "Should I?" Then she twitched, glancing away a little, as Netha shrugged off the tattered remains of her dress. (Which was strange, but okay.) "I have no issue with the race in general, of course, but the kajidics as a whole are despicable."

Cinching the pants closed took a little bit of figuring — she'd never worn anything of the like before, the fabric was very strange — but she got it after a few seconds. "Then why did you come here? I thought you were making a business deal or something with them, but..."

Lesami smirked. "Sometimes, you have to tolerate a few kreks at your feet until after you've dealt with the lylek in front of you."

She paused for a second, blinking at the human woman. That had been Ryl, smooth and easy, as natural as a native speaker. "Who's the lylek?" Personally, Netha couldn't imagine there were many people in the galaxy worse than the Hutts. More dangerous, perhaps — though the Hutts had been around a long time, and did have a history of slaughtering entire planets that annoyed them...

"That's not important right now. You've had a long couple days. We'll be out there if you need anything."

Netha glanced at the other empty beds in the room. "Aren't you all going to be sleeping in here too?"

"Oh, no," Lesami said, brushing it off. "We'll just meditate for a couple hours when we need to. By now we've all learned to avoid sleep when travelling alone. Habits of war, and all that. Don't worry about us, we'll be fine."

"...Okay." Netha was pretty sure normal people couldn't just meditate to forgo sleep entirely. That wasn't how anything worked. But then, she was also pretty sure Lesami, Nisotsa, and Sesai were anything but normal.

"Sleep well, Freewoman." With a last smile, Lesami turned on her heel and left.

For long seconds, Netha could only sit there on the bed, staring at the closed door, blinking to herself. That had been in Ryl again, and she'd put a peculiar emphasis on "Freewoman"...but it hadn't been the normal word, either. Normally, it was said passive like, a person who has been freed by someone else. But Lesami had said it, like, a person who has freed herself. Similar meaning, but not quite the same thing.

That odd emphasis, that warmth in her eyes...

Yuthu-ra ba'n.

Weakly at first, her lips twitching before settling into it, she smiled.

---

Yuthura typed in the familiar commands, clearing out net records and keystrokes over the last minutes, a few more to similarly scrub the Academy server, the relay over Korriban.

And she sat in front of her terminal, for long moments, staring into nothing.

She's alive.

That's what the notice had said, the gist of it. Posted onto an anonymous message board, hidden deep within the Sith military network. It wasn't indexed, only the people who knew the exact address could access it, only those trusted few who'd been told about it. Those who were still loyal.

She was alive. There were many who'd believed she'd survived, yes, just on blind faith, but there'd been no evidence, no reason to...

Lesami was alive.

Yuthura leaned her elbows against her desk, her hands covering her face, forced out a long, shaky sigh. It was overwhelming, heavy relief and vicious joy hot and thick filling her chest to bursting, but she couldn't let it out. Others would feel it, they'd be suspicious. So she held herself apart, pulled her feeling from self, where it couldn't expand through her out into the world. Without anything to feed on it quickly guttered out, and she was still and empty again.

But she smiled even so.

Once her mind was safely placid, Yuthura typed out a single, brief message. Then she closed out her terminal, and left her rooms behind her.

The Academy on Korriban had always struck her as an exercise in empty pride. More than anything, the continued existence of the institution was an overt attempt to embrace the legend, the history of the early Sith. The obvious falsehoods built into the Academy's narrative of its own history were quite glaring, once one knew enough.

The Academy was not nearly so old as it claimed to be. It was said there had been an institution of learning on this spot for going on ten thousand years, that it had been in continuous operation for most of the history of the old empire. But that was nonsense — the old Sith had mostly abandoned Korriban when the environment, strained by generations of industrial exploitation, had finally collapsed some five thousand years ago. A small population of cultists had remained behind, adherents of their old ancestor-worshipping religion enduring the harsh wasteland to maintain the temples dedicated to leaders millennia dead. The structure of the Academy had most likely been a temple itself, where pilgrims purified themselves before entering the Valley.

Honestly, Sith Academies hadn't even existed before the Great Migration a thousand years ago. Public institutions dedicated to collective study of the Force were a foreign concept to them.

Many she'd spoken to claimed the Academy on Korriban was the most prestigious of all such institutions in the Empire, but that was equally far from the truth. As far as the wider Empire was concerned, modern Korriban was a backwater, of interest only to archaeologists, zealots, and foreigners. Most former Jedi these days did study at Korriban, yes, but they didn't know anything about the bulk of the Empire outside of Republic-explored space — they often had no idea there were other options, had no idea where to look for them. Few had even heard rumors about the Sith holdings throughout the galactic west until after joining.

The point was, the Academy on Dromund Kaas was generally considered far superior. Only Korriban alumni held such a high opinion of the one here.

Even the appearance of the Academy hinted at its minor importance. The hall she walked down now was ancient, yes, grainy red stone carved who knew how many millennia ago, but it did look just that: old. The walls and floors were half-eroded in places, fine dust collecting here and there, every glimpse of advanced technology — computers, the long strips of lighting folded into the upper corners, even the doors — had been added later, modernity fitted into the ancient stone with all the subtlety of a plasma grenade to the face. It grated on her a little, how obviously it all clashed.

Though it was far from the only thing here at the Academy she found irritating.

A quick glance at her chrono confirmed she had about a half hour before the afternoon assembly. Wandering through the maze of dilapidated corridors shortly brought her to the student dorms, a swipe of her chit over the lock and the door swished open. The students' rooms were ascetic little things, little more than dark stone and a simple bed and desk, monochromatic and grim. Uthar and her own apartments were lavish by comparison. Not surprising, given that the Korriban Academy had a habit of attracting the less pleasant sort of Sith for its instructors.

Sitting cross-legged on the bed was a dark-skinned human woman, shortly out of adolescence but her face lined with exhaustion. Her eyes, dark and bloodshot, were narrowed with concentration, an open hand hovering over a sorcery focusing crystal, blue-purple facets formed into a rough pyramid lined with silver. As Yuthura watched, sparks crackled between her fingers, electricity playing over the crystal, and the woman jumped, wincing with pain and shaking out her hand.

"You're still thinking, Thalia."

Thalia jumped again, eyes wildly flicking up to find Yuthura at the door. Starting to scramble to her feet, she gasped, "Master, I'm sorry, I didn't—"

Part of Yuthura still squirmed whenever anyone called her that. "Don't get up. You're still working on conjuring lightning, I see."

Grimacing, she nodded. "I don't know what's wrong. I just can't get it."

"You're thinking too much." At Thalia's baffled, doubtful look Yuthura couldn't help a slight smile. "From what I can tell from the glimpse I got, you are accomplishing exactly what you are attempting to accomplish. The issue is that you're attempting the wrong thing. That was electricity you cast, normal electricity pulled from the environment. Which is itself an accomplishment, few ever develop significant talent manipulating energy directly like that." She nearly mentioned Revan's particular talent with tutaminis, but caught herself at the last instant — speaking positively of Lesami where one could be overheard was a little risky these days. "Power is not your problem. Intent is your problem.

"Proper Sith lightning is not true electricity, Thalia. It is the will to cause suffering made manifest. It is not something you think about. It is something you feel."

Thalia met her eyes with a mulish sort of glare for a couple seconds, the air around her simmering with her discontent. Then, catching herself, her face smoothed over, any hint of her feelings disappearing from the Force. Thalia might be having some trouble with even the most basic of sorcery, but at least she had decent control over herself.

There were two kinds of Sith. Yuthura would rather see the Empire filled with mediocre Sith than the wrong kind.

"I mean no offense, but, how am I supposed to do that?"

Yuthura smiled. "Are you telling me you have never hated anyone? That there is no one in all the galaxy you would enjoy to see suffer?"

Shifting a bit on her bed, Thalia shrugged. "I was under the impression nurturing that sort of hatred ultimately led to madness."

It took some effort to keep the victorious grin off her face. Apparently, slipping Revan's writings into the required reading list — carefully paraphrased, and attributed to other, innocuous figures — was already paying off.

There were two kinds of Sith. One was what, she'd learned, the Jedi thought of when they pictured users of the Dark Side, what they thought all Sith were like. As Lesami put it, these were Sith whose passion was focused within. On their own pride, their own desires. The problem with this was, well, the Jedi weren't entirely wrong about channelling the Dark Side. As the saying goes, power corrupts — focusing that kind of power through petty emotions to selfish ends, bit by bit each time, gradually turns a person's mind toward pettiness and selfishness. Do it too much, and a Sith can become so thoroughly corrupted that they see nothing beyond themselves, their own aggrandizement and their own pleasures, a self-sustaining cycle that only drives the user further and further into unrecoverable, self-destructive madness.

But that wasn't what most Sith were actually like — that particular brand of Force-user had always been a minority in the old Empire, limited to a particular segment of the aristocracy. If all Dark Side users were like that, the Sith wouldn't have lasted very long as a civilization. It just doesn't work on a large scale.

It was possible to use personal anger and hatred to channel the Dark Side without feeding into the cycle, to release the feeling in the process instead of branding it into one's soul, but it could become a trap, one that former Jedi often fell into. Jedi were taught from a very early age to release their more burdensome feelings into the Force, to let them dissipate into depersonalizing everything. But sometimes, in the moment, they would be too overwhelmed with frustration, hatred righteous or otherwise, and without thinking they would use the power their passion gave them, driving themselves deeper into the Force even as they let it sweep the emotion that had gotten them there away.

But then they remembered that power it'd given them, and took from it exactly the wrong lesson. It was the Force that had given them that power, not their passion — their passion had given them the will to reach further than they usually could, but the power still wasn't truly theirs. But they'd learned the wrong lesson, they nurtured their fury and their hate, carrying it with them always, a constant source of passion they could exploit whenever necessary. One that drove them, inevitably, into madness.

It wasn't using negative emotions that was the problem — holding onto them was what led to corruption. Letting oneself be consumed by their own darkness, bit by bit, until nothing else was left. It was possible to use private passion to drive oneself into the Dark Side but then let the storm wash it away, leaving oneself clean. But this was playing with fire. Lesami had explicitly recommended against it, said it took superior discipline and self-control to not get carried away, more than most people were capable of.

Instead, she'd recommended an old Sith way of thinking, the method that was taught primarily to their soldiers, their priests, much of the less important noble families. The people who society overall could not afford to have going mad with poisonous self-interest. A person's passion should not be internal, but external. Not sourced from and directed toward their internal experience, their position in life, but the reality of the world around them, its structure and its functioning.

True enlightenment, she'd written, true power, came not from understanding and uplifting oneself. For the individual, no matter how powerful they might be, was but one among thousands of trillions, alive for the briefest of moments. On a galactic scale, what might seem important to the individual became insignificant, or vice versa.

What it came down to was that Thalia was thinking about the wrong kind of hatred. "I understand you were once part of the AgriCorp, back in the Republic." Though why the hell the Order had passed up on making Thalia a proper Jedi Yuthura couldn't possibly imagine — she was powerful, just standing within a few feet of her that was undeniable. "Why did you leave?"

Thalia looked less than comfortable with the question, turning away to moodily glare at the wall. But, after a few seconds of thick silence, she answered. "I was with a team on Anobis, an agriworld near Ord Mantell."

Yuthura nodded. She wasn't familiar with the planet — there were far too many in the galaxy to know them all — but just to prompt Thalia on.

"A couple centuries ago, Seni got a huge contract, they manage half the agriculture on the planet for the Republic. Oh, Seni is a corporate conglomerate owned by a few Tionese families, by the way, not important. Anyway, they..." Thalia trailed off, stared at the wall for another second. Her eyes had gone darker, deeper, subtle horror pulling at her face. "Most large-scale agriculture is done mechanically, of course, but some things are too sensitive, they have to be done by hand. There's this fruit they grow on Anobis it— Never mind, the details aren't...

"There's this native species, not recognized sentients. Shasha, they're called. There were some millions of them already there when the planet was discovered. They're, about, waist-high," Thalia said, holding a hand over the floor as though measuring, "maybe a little taller. They're...well, definitely mammals, but I wouldn't describe them as any particular archetype. Um, long and thin, big fluffy ears, clawed hands, but still very dextrous.

"Seni, they... They keep them. By the hundreds of thousands, millions. They pick the fruit, clean it, package it. When they're not working, they're kept in these big compounds, packed in there, hardly given enough to survive. And Seni, they, they breed them, they drug them. They kill the ones that are too old or sick or...uncooperative.

"At first I found the whole thing, just, unsettling, but then..." Thalia's face twisted, a grimace of long-simmering rage boiling to the surface. "They're sentient. Seni insists they aren't, the official Republic position agrees. But they are. I wasn't so good with the mind stuff back then, but, they have language, they have personalities. The ones outside of the compounds, living off in the wilds, they have villages, they have culture. And Seni keeps them as slaves, millions of them, in conditions no better than if they were animals. They claim they are animals!

"And I tried to—" Her voice cutting off so hard her throat clicked, Thalia leaned forward a bit, holding her face in her hands. Fury and hatred and despair pulsed against Yuthura, the intensity of it all coming as a bit of a surprise — Yuthura had had absolutely no idea Thalia had been carrying something like this. (Though not unusual, most former Jedi among the Sith had been similarly disillusioned.) "The Master with us that year, I tried to get him to... He said it wasn't our place, that we didn't have the authority to do anything about it. It was outside of our mandate. Seni had the planetary government behind them, the sector government, all the way up to the fucking Senate. I..."

"It sickened you." Thalia's hands dropped, slowly, and she stared up at Yuthura, flushed and tense, the air in the little room filled, electric, powerful. "You felt so helpless, so hopeless, so full of rage you couldn't hold it all. It made you sick."

"Yes," she said, nodding. "I was sick, a few times. I mean, literally."

Her voice falling into a low, forceful whisper, Yuthura hissed, "There is your answer, Thalia. Remember what is done to the Shasha, that is your passion. Let it flow into the Force, let it carry you for once. Push your rage outward, and make all those responsible hurt for what they've done."

This time, when the focusing crystal was wreathed with crackling energy, it glowed a bloody red, and Thalia's hand came away unscathed.

And Yuthura smiled. Looked like they would soon have another of the proper kind of Sith.

In the end, Yuthura managed to get Thalia to assembly in time — she had a habit of getting absorbed in her studies and showing up late, or just missing the meeting entirely, which was not good for her future health. Uthar was his usual melodramatic, sadistic self. The whole assembly, Uthar smugly lecturing at and occasionally torturing their students, Yuthura just stood behind his shoulder, tried to keep her disgust off her face.

The Academy on Korriban had always been...questionable, had a tendency to attract the wrong kind of Sith. Something about the air here, she thought, the poison and death of millennia past seeping into the soul. It was why Yuthura had come here in the first place, in fact, to do her best to nurture the proper kind of Sith, shield them from the excesses of people like Uthar.

She'd had some success before, but things had become more difficult since Malak had taken over. Malak was the wrong kind of Sith, and he surrounded himself with more of the same. Having one of their own at the top had emboldened his ilk across the Empire, the proper kind of Sith slowly shuffled into the background, one by one. (Or simply outright murdered.) In the most visible example, last month Nisotsa had been ousted from her position as Minister of State, which had been hers since the Empire's inception. Malak hadn't even given a reason for dismissing her, which had sparked political unrest on a handful of Imperial worlds that only got worse as it went on — Lady Thul, as she was usually called, had managed to make herself very popular over the years, enough there were even whisperings of a movement to remove Malak and put her at the top.

The wrong kind of Sith did seem to overlook the common people entirely. That was a fatal mistake. There might be thousands of Force-trained Sith, but the Empire was made up of trillions of beings. Big guns and fancy magic tricks only kept them in line for so long.

The proper kind of Sith weren't taking all of this lying down, of course, but they had to be careful. They were the majority, but they didn't currently hold any significant positions in leadership, and despite the problems of recent years Malak still commanded too much loyalty won by his previous accomplishments. It didn't help that far too many of the wrong kind of Sith happened to be the more powerful ones. They would win eventually, but they had to organize, they had to plan, it would take time.

Unless Revan showed up and sparked a sudden, explosive civil war. Which, unless something unforeseen intervened, was exactly what was going to happen.

Eventually, the assembly came to an end — and without anyone dying this time, look at that. Yuthura went about the rest of her evening routine. Slipping subversive advice to the more promising students, further ingratiating herself with the soldiers and administrative staff, the usual. But she was cut short when the com at her waist pinged. She had a call waiting for her back in her rooms.

The location and identity of her caller was blocked but, when she took the call at her desk, she wasn't at all surprised to see the face of Sesai Rhysa snap into existence before her. "Why if it isn't little Yuthura!" he said with a grin, the washed-out colors of the hologram failing to communicate the twinkle in his eyes she knew would be there. "I haven't heard from you in ages. And I thought we were friends, I'm hurt."

Yuthura shot him a half-hearted glare. "I know what you consider 'friendship', and I'm not interested."

He sucked in a harsh gasp, face twisting with false agony. "Ooh, ouch, Yuthura, ouch. That hurts, right here. You can't see it, but my hand is over my heart right now."

"Could you cut the dramatics for five seconds, Sesai? I did call you for a reason."

"Right, of course." The despair vanished, but that didn't mean he was taking it seriously yet — Yuthura knew that crooked smile, it was far too familiar by this point. "Okay, what is a big-shot Academy instructor doing calling little ole me, then?"

Yuthura's eyes rolled before she could stop them. Sesai was one of the Empire's best counter-intelligence agents, he was much more of a "big-shot" than she was. "Lesami's alive."

Finally all traces of humor vanished, leaving Sesai's face uncharacteristically solemn. "You're certain. How do you know?"

"I got it from Admiral Karath. I haven't seen his intelligence, but I'm sure it's good." The post she'd seen had been anonymous, of course, but Yuthura had already known he was looking for her. And his style was rather distinctive.

"Saul isn't one to jump at shadows, that's true." He paused for a moment, eyes drifted to the side of the holocam, tongue working silently at his teeth. After a few seconds of thought, they snapped back. Lips tilting in a faint smile, he said, "I suppose you called to suggest I go track her down."

"She's been out of touch for some time. We don't know what she knows. We have to open a line of communication, tell her we weren't, we weren't involved, that we'll be behind her when she comes back."

Sesai shook his head. "She doesn't blame us. She'd been concerned about the turn Alek had taken for a while at that point. She actually told me, a couple weeks beforehand, that she suspected he might turn on her soon. Alek simply took an opportunity before she could move to neutralise him."

She blinked. "Oh." Yuthura had had no idea. But then, she wasn't important enough to be in frequent contact with leadership — Lesami had dropped by the Academy every once in a while, but Yuthura certainly hadn't been in the loop. "Well, to start planning at least."

"What makes you so sure she'll want to take the throne again?"

"I'm not." Personally, she wasn't convinced Lesami had truly wanted it in the first place. "But I am sure she won't want Malak on it."

Sesai nodded. "True. Okay, I'll get on it. I have some leave saved up, I should be able to disappear for weeks before anyone notices I'm not where I said I'd be. Maybe I'll even get there quick enough to help her with the assassins. Alek is on Saul's ship, you know, he'll find out eventually."

"I know." Karath had been taught to protect his mind from intrusion, but the techniques available to the Force-blind were imperfect. Malak would pick up on it before too long. "It's not the end of the world if you don't, I'm sure she could fight off anyone he would send."

"Oh, well, yeah. I just want to be there for the assassins." Sesai's soft smile spread into a grin, toothy and eager. "I know you've never actually fought with her before, so you wouldn't know. But she's a thing of beauty when she gets into it. I do miss her."

Sesai was being less than subtle with the nostalgic lust on his voice — but then, he was a Zeltron, that wasn't exactly a surprise. "Do try to contain yourself. She doesn't have a lot of patience for idiocy, and we kind of need you to not get yourself thrown through a bulkhead until after you've opened a channel."

"I think I'm offended again. I've known Lesami a lot longer than you, Yuthura, since we were good little Jedi younglings together."

She tried not to laugh at the thought of Lesami and Sesai ever having been good little Jedi younglings.

"I know, I know. Point is, I learned how to not get burned a long time ago." Sesai glanced at something off to the left. "Unless you had anything else, I should start getting things rolling."

"All right. Be careful out there, Sesai."

He smiled, bright and warm. "Honestly, who do you think you're talking to?" The call cut off, the holo blinking out of existence.

Yuthura leaned back in her chair with a huff. Yeah, she knew exactly who she'd been talking to. Sesai could be subtle when he really needed to be — he wouldn't be nearly so capable an operative if he couldn't — but when he didn't try to put a lid on his...eccentricities... Things did have a tendency to quickly go completely insane whenever he was around. Like most of the original Revanchists, really.

They took after their leader like that, she thought, smirking to herself.

---

Sith Jedi — Excluding a few eccentrics who read up about this stuff, the average person doesn't really get this Light/Dark Jedi/Sith stuff. To them, the Republic and the Empire are simply competing states, each of which have their own Jedi. Calling someone "Sith" just means they're from/with the Empire; calling someone a "Jedi" just means they have superpowers. And yes, the Order gets very annoyed whenever someone calls the Sith "Jedi".

[krek...lylek] — Creatures native to Ryloth, the Twi'lek homeworld. A krek is a sort of beetle-like thing, while a lylek is a large, deadly predator.

[galactic west] — In-universe language sometimes uses the anachronism of planetary maps to refer to orientation in the galaxy, just as a casual convention. The "galactic west" Yuthura refers to corresponds mostly to the large swath of unexplored space on the opposite side of the core. There are advanced cultures here, in extensive trade with each other but not unified into a single state. They're not primitive, they just don't recognize Coruscant as the center of civilization, and have only minimal contact with the east.

I put Dromund Kaas in this region (a little north of the Chiss Ascendency), while in canon it's located in traditional Sith space in the outer rim, halfway between the Hydian and Perlemian. This is, honestly, ludicrous. The entire area has been charted (if not quite thoroughly) by the Republic for centuries, and sits near some important centers of galactic commerce. We're supposed to believe the Sith Empire managed to, just, hide there, slowly building up the forces necessary to fight the Republic to a stalemate over the course of one and a half thousand years, and nobody ever noticed? Do you have any idea the kind of resources necessary to support militaries on this kind of scale? Pull the other one, Bioware.

Instead, I moved the Kaasite Sith out to the northern Unknown Regions, where they've been gradually building up an empire for a thousand years at this point. Makes their invasion of the Republic in SWTOR a few hundred years down the line far more believable.

Anobis — Canonically, Anobis wouldn't actually be settled for roughly another thousand years. However, I'm not sure that's practical. It's just off a significant trade route, and should be within a couple hops of Ord Mantell. All the "Ord" worlds were colonised as military outposts during the Pius Dea Republic (ORD = Ordinance/Regional Depo). By the time of KotOR, Ord Mantell would have been settled for roughly nine thousand years. The suggestion that the immediate area wouldn't have been charted after all that time is a bit ridiculous. Especially since the whole point of ORD worlds was to protect human colonies in the area.

Besides, I needed an agriworld with a convenient location, and Anobis was the first one I found.

---

I had hoped to have this chapter out earlier. I'd also thought it would be much shorter, but then my brain decided those flashback scenes were necessary, and Yuthura's introspection went overboard. Whoops.

This has been mentioned before, but just in case anyone was wondering: the Dark Side works different than in canon. Largely because the canon stuff makes the Sith far too boring.

Right, two more Taris chapters after this, and we'll be moving on to Dantooine. Finally.

Until next time,
~Wings