Star Wars: Apex Ascent

by StarvingSun

There are places in the galaxy best left forgotten. Lonely paths. Four people, each with their own wants, needs, and connection to the Force try to find their way in the aftermath of the Jedi Civil War. They'll discover that despite radically different takes on life, they're each merely trying to find what makes them whole. (Story draws heavily on EU Lore. All original characters)

2. Not The Same

CHAPTER TWO: NOT THE SAME

WEAPONIZED VANITY. THAT was what he sought.

Different, in comparison to his master. Whereas he clamored for completion through transformation, Ryker saw only ugliness in the path. Power, to be sure, but of a variety he loathed. Those who wanted power without aesthetic desired potential without control, a component he viewed as equally important. Ryker himself was no stranger to the art of narcissism; after all, who could call himself a true Sith that did not consider himself in the eyes of those who would be made his servants? What avenues of manipulation did they seal themselves off from by lust for raw strength without an enviable form factor? He wanted a smoothness to his power, and in that way, he differed greatly from contemporaries. In that way, Ryker knew he could surpass them.

Aboard their small slaver ship, commandeered and re-appropriated for more suitable dual-passenger travel, Ryker kept to himself. The master's meditation room was a place he dared not tread, but for many hours now, Ven had not emerged from his studious endeavors. Ryker felt the dark call of an old knowledge creeping its way through the ship, like the imprints of ancient runes had etched their way into the walls themselves. But he could not decipher the information being delivered to his master, and that was a source of frustration for him. The quest to find the Rakatan facility that would secure Ven's immortality was not so important to Ryker as finding a way to exploit the process. He foresaw many potential opportunities to sabotage Ven's cathartic moment. His master, Ryker believed, was too blinded by pride and power to guard himself thoroughly against the nefarious. The apprentice was still far off from being able to best his master in a traditional duel, as was the Sith way. But then again, backstabbing and scheming were also classics long employed by their kind. And Ryker was good at them.

The dirtying of his hands was something he had hated since childhood.

Years had passed since he had joined Ven on the path of the Sith. It was a natural step forward for him at the time. The dullness of his home world had worn him thin, and the fragility of his patience left him looking for extraplanetary activities. When the quiet man in the hooded robes had passed through his settlement, Ryker had felt a strange aura emanating from him that elicited a sense of wonder that he had long since forgotten. Others seemed frightened of his shadowed nature, but Ryker merely saw possibilities. Of course, she had seen the so-called "truth": That a foul nature was at the man's core, and in every way he was sewing the seeds of something terrible. Thus the two diverged completely. He smiled at how different their paths had scrawled across the galaxy. Despite their separation, Ryker never felt animosity towards her; merely the hope that one day, his old friend might come to see things the way he had when he left Dantooine for Korriban and the Sith Academy.

"THE WAY OURorder used to do things had a certain charm to it, don't you think?" mused the kindly Master Zemner. He was old and weathered, a relic of a previous generation's Jedi, but a font of knowledge nonetheless. She was proud to call him Master, and their bond in the days following her leaving home came to be her source of strength as she learned to embrace the Jedi Code. It was a hard thing for a young girl to do, but the smiling lines of her master's whiskered face was proof positive of its truths.

"Master, when does the Order know when a change is necessary? I'm curious of the criteria," a young Lanee asked.

"That's quite the question. But I'm old enough to have something of an answer," he said with a jovial chuckle. He was, by far, the most whimsical Jedi she had ever met. "We don't like change. We hate it! Though we tell ourselves we don't. Hate is the Dark Side's lure, what we strive to be above, but if there is another term in the galaxy accurate enough to describe this order's allergy to change I have yet to find it."

"But still, it happens. Sometimes incrementally, and sometimes all at once. The latter of the two is what scares the Council the most, I think. It means something has gone wrong in the works. Perhaps a war has cut down our numbers, as is the recent case. Sometimes we face the stark realization that we've been wrong in passing our judgements, as we were with the Exile. We adjust in response. We remember, often times painfully so, and we seek to heal the wound. So the answer, ultimately, is that wielding the Force is a responsiblity so great, that often times we get too caught up in the act to see the damage we're doing. But the damage is never negligible; so we make mistakes, and then we move to repair them."

"That sounds like a life lesson," Lanee commented.

"As are all good teachings of the Jedi. Be the reflection of the world you want to see, and the world will begin to mirror you," Master Zemner stated serenely.

HIS LIGHTSABER. THERE was something immensely satisfying in the statement. It swung from the belt loop, the gentle weight banging into Taylor's thigh – it made him feel strong, as opposed to merely clever. He wanted to put it to the test, but he supposed he shouldn't want that. What was he allowed to want, now? That was worth some ponderance. He had to conduct himself differently if this was the lifestyle he wanted, but moreover, he had to think in a new way. Growth he could accept, but the idea of becoming someone else entirely thrust a spear of melancholy into his stomach. He was afraid to watch that little boy who had dreamt dreams of Jedi heroism die.

It must have been easier for Lanee, then, who had been trained almost since birth. She was groomed for this life, though in many respects, Taylor didn't feel so far behind. The isolationism of deep space travel, coursing along hyperspace lanes with the prickle of paranoia that came from harboring illegal wares was not unlike the constant guarded nature of the Jedi. These days, with their numbers scarce, the Council placed a precious value upon each Knight they had, and the police work that the Order might have done in years past gave way to something more akin to invisible guidance of the galaxy. They chose not to risk showing themselves in certain places or capacities, as the Sith were very much alive, though stunted as their growth may have been. Their attempted reconstitution was a thing the Jedi Council on Coruscant knew of, but was unable to stop. If both factions were to engage in another war, it was likely their fetus-like states would not be able to survive the impact. And so, they chose to wait.

Taylor felt a measure of pride in the idea of being counted towards the regrowing Jedi Order. He wanted to aid in its return to the glory days where his favorite childhood stories were set. Lanee had praised his eagerness to help her brethren, but warned against fantasy. Already the chiding began – Taylor didn't much mind yet, but he knew of himself that eventually it would began to chafe. He intended to have reached a better place internally before that point.

"There's no time," Lanee had explained, when Taylor asked about training on Coruscant. "Korriban is our top priority. I fear that we don't have any luxury when it comes to waiting. Ven will move hard and fast as soon as he is able."

"I figured," Taylor had said with some disappointment. "Don't worry. I'll follow your lead."

"Korriban is a treacherous place, and not just for Jedi," Lanee said darkly. "I have never been – nor had I intended to go – but all Padawans are warned of its call. Its quiet at first, the whispers of the dead, but the allure of the immense power in those tombs..." her voice trailed off. Taylor thought he saw her shudder. "It is a place where the Force is at its darkest. Often, I have trouble believing the thing I draw on every second could become what it has on that planet."

"I always thought the Force was a neutral thing," Taylor said, looking up at her from the pilot's seat. "It just depended on what you used it for."

"There are some scholars who would argue that. But most Jedi, especially the older ones alive now, who fought in the Civil War – they know a different truth. They have seen the colors of the Force, independent of flesh. There are some places in the galaxy where this is more evident than others."

"And Korriban is one of them," Taylor finished grimly. He had always shied away from jobs that took him to the sector. His carefully cultivated intuition suggested that the planet was not something worth the trouble. Nevertheless, he had the tags to land in Dreshdae, and so off he and his new Jedi companion went, Duststorm hurtling through blue hyperspace towards the quiet promise of destiny.

And still that intuition tingled.

A SWEETNESS IN the air that he could taste. The meditation room had fallen silent and dark, and now the high strings of silence filled his ears. Ven sat on his knees alone in the void that was the room around him, reaching out into the depths of space beyond the walls of his ship, feeling the echo of the galaxy. The fibrous strings of the needs and wants of trillions of sentient lives teemed in that infinite black vacuum. He could pluck one at any time he chose, yet he refrained, skulking in the shadows. Only on rare occasion was it time to demonstrate his terrible power, but like a true Sith waiting for ascension amongst their ancient coven, he only did so when he was sure of his own advantage. It frustrated him. Ven knew he was strong, but there were some above him still. He had glowered in the shade of the tombs of Korriban, languishing over secrets he had been beaten to. Notes of power still clung to the stale air, hidden from the arid heat of the Valley of the Dark Lords, but they were not his to hear. That is, until he had tapped him on the shoulder...

RISE, ACOLYTE. RISEand face me." The voice was weathered and old, much like the rough sandstone blocks of the tomb. Ven, nascent Sith, did as he was instructed by his superior. He was surprised to see Lord Veshiram standing with his hands folded behind his back in the dim glow of the tomb's entrance, the particulate of dust shimmering around him.

"My Lord," Ven said, kneeling in respect.

"I said rise," Veshiram repeated, this time with an edge. Ven complied."What do you seek here?" he asked, a lightness in his tone. He began to stroll about the entry chamber, regarding the glyphs on the walls with mild curiosity.

"Ancient knowledge. Martial, specifically," Ven replied. He resisted the urge to itch the crease between his prosthetic arm and the connecting skin.

"You may relieve whatever discomfort the metal brings you in my presence," Veshiram said, relaxed. He was powerful indeed to sense such a minute disturbance in Ven's thoughts.

"I curse the weakness of my body," said Ven, rubbing the itch. "I loathe my own failure."

"Failures of your nature are failures of nature," Veshiram instructed. "You have no one to blame, but you can stoke those flames into hate. Which, of course, is quite usable." Veshiram paused to consider a particular glyph, running his fingers over the shape. "But frailty...heh. So many of us choose to hate it, as though it would make us stronger. That is how we open ourselves to deception."

"The cripple represents danger in our oldest lessons," Ven cited.

"You study well. I suppose that would be the prerogative of one such as you," Veshiram remarked. "Your contemporaries best you in combat. I have seen you in the training room."

"I have no excuse," Ven submitted.

"Oh, but you do. It would be unreasonable to expect someone so new to the world of the four-limbed to fight as well as those who have years to the contrary," Veshiram explained. Ven felt something stir. It was uncommon for a Sith, especially a Master like Lord Veshiram, to excuse such weakness.

"Combat is such an important thing for you younglings. You try again and again to prove yourselves against each other, thirsting for the sound of plasma meeting plasma. Your sabers are your ego manifest. Only with age do you come to realize that there are more efficient – and satisfying – ways to exert your power. The lack of subtlety, unfortunately, makes for a lack of popularity." Ven listened and watched intently, absorbing. "But you...your potential is greater than most. I have come to show you the ancient ways. I intend to make you my apprentice."

Ven was struck dumb. He had not expected to find a master this soon, if ever. Let alone one so distinguished as Veshiram.

"I accept your offer with utmost gratitude," Ven said, bowing. "But I feel compelled to ask, Master – why me?"

Ven never forgot the devious grin that sprawled across his new Master's old face.

"As I said, you study well."

VEN'S TRANCE ENDED smoothly, if abruptly. He stood, the groundswell of restored energy surging from his feet to the top of his head as he stretched. The rejuvenation of his wound had gone well. Now it was time to act.

The Apex Ascent. He mulled the word around in his brain. He wasn't used to having a title for the nameless thing he had craved for so long. It evoked a vision of grandeur; Rakatan warriors, lining up in sanctified unity for their final transformation. Imagining the sacred catharsis for himself was exhilarating. A familiar itch crept back to the seam where his prosthetic arm attached to the shoulder. It had been quite sometime since he had felt it, but he paid little attention to why it had returned. Soon it would be gone for good.

Ven drifted through the unlit halls of his ship towards the cockpit. He knew now where to go, and the intent in his walk was evident to his apprentice as he wordlessly passed him by. Ryker knew to follow Ven to the navcomputer, where he watched quietly as his master punched in coordinates to an unfamiliar region. It was not in Republic space; that was certain. Ven could sense the watchful eye of his apprentice, calculating the vector. Ryker was the quiet observer, always. He shrouded his thoughts carefully. What he thought about Ven's plan was hidden well, and the master could not sense it. But it didn't matter. Ryker's role to play in the coming events was too necessary, and only he could perform it.

"I'm not familiar with this system, Master," Ryker murmured softly, running his fingers over the screen. He stood close by Ven's shoulder, a habit that made the Sith curious as to the younger man's intentions.

"Neither am I," Ven said. Ryker was unused to the clarity of his master's voice without the veiled buzz of the mask he customarily wore. "I don't think it has been seen by eyes like ours in millenia."

Ryker thoughtfully cocked his head in the blue light, folding his arms. "What kind of world is it? I've made the preparations you asked for – envirosuits...whatever the climate, we will be able to traverse the surface."

"Good," Ven remarked solidly. "I have no knowledge of what we're walking into."

"THE WARM SUN on your face. It kisses your cheek gently. You have a choice. You can turn to embrace it fully, and with each inch you move, the warmth grows. It caresses your chest, your neck, your arms. Your body fills with light. It resonates in your deepest core. And there is utter tranquility."

Lanee's description of the Force was specific. Taylor appreciated that. It was such an esoteric thing to grasp, and as she guided his meditation, he felt an inkling of something different cross his awareness. It wasn't the warm sunlight she described, though. It was something beneath a surface he didn't know was there, like a large body in the water brushing up against him. Normally, he was sure that would disturb him, but this time he only felt anticipation. Taylor wanted so badly to feel the Force that any interpretation would do.

"You're there," Lanee said with soft encouragement. "I can feel it. And it feels you. Don't turn away from it."

"I don't even know what that means," Taylor said, his eyes closed. He was grasping into the void behind his eyelids, struggling to catch the elusive sensation he had found just moments ago. Frustrated air escaped his lips.

"It's alright. Open your eyes," Lanee instructed. Taylor did so, screwing up his mouth in a huff. He looked at his new teacher with downtrodden defeat. "It takes many experiences just like you had to finally breach the gap."

That made Taylor feel somewhat better. He hadn't been expecting to pick up the ropes quickly by any means, but the sheer difficulty of the task had caught him off-guard. The hitch in his brain where he hung his Jedi aspirations made him feel as though it should all be easy, and that indications otherwise suggested a disappointing reality.

"You can do this. I know," Lanee assured him. "I wouldn't waste our time if I didn't feel the pull. The Force is asking something of you. That is apparent." Taylor nodded. The pair rose to their feet, having been seated in the cool med bay.

"I don't want to make this harder on myself by being impatient," Taylor commented. "But this is more complicated than fixing a hyperdrive engine."

"It's not the normal kind of work a smuggler might do," Lanee said with a tiny, wry smile.

"I move weight," Taylor said with a proud shrug. "But with the help of Duststorm - " he thumped the wall of his ship with an open palm, "- and not my mind."

"Fair enough. The Force doesn't tend to care about the walks of life those sensitive to it come from, though. It just not make moral judgements. The call is the same to all that would hear it – it's what people do with the Force in their lives that matters. Nothing before."

"Nothing, huh?" Taylor said, seating himself tiredly on the steel bench next to the stack of medpacs.

"There is redemption for all in the Light. Even the Lords of the Sith drenched deepest in shadow have found their way back."

"But what would the Jedi have done in the past? When they were the galactic police force, and they had found me guilty of crimes against the Republic for transporting some rich Alderaanian's booze?"

"Part of me is glad we are no longer in such times," Lanee remarked, somewhat wistfully. "I've always felt the work of our order should be more...spiritual. Less political. People might see us differently, then."

"The amount of times I've heard someone bash, 'Jedi mysticism,' though," Taylor pointed out.

"No one likes to be preached to, save for those who know just how lost they are," admitted the Jedi. "It's getting people to that point that is so difficult."

"You sound like you know something about that," Taylor perceived.

"Perhaps I do," she said with a sad smile. He didn't wield the Force yet, but even Taylor could see past that one. He didn't press any further.

The small number of days preceding their arrival on Korriban seemed to delete themselves hastily. Taylor had wanted to feel like he had a solid, if diminutive, grasp of something tangible for him to carry with him to the stronghold of the Sith. The confidence that his instincts and other skills could carry him was there, but he wanted to feel forward motion, and this was the start. Lanee seemed to agree, accelerating his lessons. When the Korriban system was near, however, she admitted to him her doubts.

"I don't entirely know if I was correct in attempting to train you yet," she confided in him, sitting across the Pazaak table. A mug of tea twisted between her hands, and her gaze was down into the well of green liquid.

"Are you afraid I'll be more easily made?" Taylor asked, suspecting that to be her concern. She didn't want a fresh Padawan on Korriban, for obvious reasons.

"Yes. We won't go near the Academy, but even in Dreshdae there will be...observant people. I'm worried that a tertiary understanding of the Force puts you at more risk than even a powerful Jedi Master, because they know the techniques needed to shield and mask their presence."

"I'm pretty good at going unnoticed," Taylor replied earnestly. "And I can't even move a pebble with the Force. Yet," he added.

"If you stray too close to a trained Sith, however, he will feel out your sensitivity. Strong as your cover story may be, it won't matter. They may attempt to recruit you, even."

"I won't ever join the Sith," Taylor bitterly stated. Lanee raised an eyebrow at him.

"There's some collision with them in your past, isn't there?" she asked. Taylor nodded. He had been meaning to tell her the story. It was not only fair, but important that he do so. In his judgement.

"I've...seen a real Sith before. Tersi station wasn't the first time. And that didn't hold a candle to my first encounter." A candle. He knew his subconcious had selected that phrase. That flickering wick, dancing like a ghost...

THE BAR WAS a softly lit cove of galactic diversity, gentle waves of noise consisting of a wealth of alien languages mingling together infusing each inch. Wafting blue smoke drifted up to the ceiling and its wan lights. Crooning instruments belted out elongated tunes in sprawling, swinging bursts.T aylor knew such places well, and the comfort of familiarity lulled him. He drank that night to celebrate, his first true job having been a lucrative success. It seemed that, finally, he was doing what he had always wanted – moving.

The toxin in his drink saw an end to all movement.

Later on, he would think back on that night and cycle through what little he could remember of the people he interacted with. Taylor's best guess was that it was the flirtatious Twi'Lek, the one with long orange fingers brushing sensually along his table, that had managed to sleight-of-hand a tab of something into his glass. Ultimately, it didn't matter. The end result was what was important.

The Sith had rummaged about in his memories, tearing them apart for something Taylor couldn't fathom. Surely a Sith master cared not for the insignificant trifles of a smuggler. No, of course not. Taylor felt the elderly sorceror's intentions as they probed his secrets, roaring through the corridors of his mind and leaving him an empty vessel for a long time after. When he grew tired of picking apart Taylor's psyche, he would leave him in that dank cell, fiddling with his project. A lightsaber for his apprentice. Taylor wondered what damage it took for one to apprentice himself to such a hideous creature of a man.

"Our time together is almost up," he said in his scraggly voice. The lightsaber was nearing completion. Only a few more snapping locks in the chassis were required.

"So you'll kill me?" Taylor asked with tired and jaded suspicion.

"No, you' ll be free to go. My plans for you are far grander than death." He whirled on Taylor, grinning profusely and twisting the silver saber hilt in his arthritic hands. "You won't remember this, of course, but the lingering influences...those shall remain."

"If you ever want something ran around Republic space, let me know, then," Taylor offered sarcastically, sinking his chin into his chest as though that were all he needed to do to sleep. It wasn't.

The Sith ignored his quips. "Fear not. I know from whence stems your bitterness, what wags your tongue:That loneliness inside...that great resounding void...soon enough, it will be filled."

LANEE STUDIED TAYLOR'S face for a solid minute. Taylor would look away normally, but he felt as though something was stretching out from her, touching his own consciousness. He let her do her diagnostic. The worried expression on her face in turn worried Taylor, and he finally re-adjusted in his seat.

"That must be a painful memory to recall," she said at last, sympathetically.

"I manage. I don't think that whatever he tried to do to me worked, though. He said I wouldn't remember any of our encounter...but I do."

"That is a good point, and a curious question," Lanee said. "Still, to meet a Sith like that and be allowed to live...speaking honestly, it would be less troublesome if he had killed you."

"I can see that," Taylor admitted.

"The problem is that I...well," she said, struggling. "I'm ashamed to say that I can't sense any trace of what he might have left in your mind. You are merely grey to me in the way that the vast majority of people I meet are. Perhaps it is a lack of experience on my part."

"I think I'd prefer it if there just wasn't anything to be found," said Taylor. But he had felt the power of that old Sith as it rent him asunder, and he knew that someone of that magnitude wielded just as much potential to be subtle as overt.

"When we depart Korriban, we shall return to Coruscant. I want the masters at the Temple to examine you," Lanee mandated. Taylor nodded his agreement. "Regardless, Taylor, you should take pride in the fact that your life continued after that night. The Force is strong with you, to be sure."

A warm glow of pride swelled in his chest. Those were the words he'd been waiting twenty years to hear.

Now if only he could just get the Force to do something.

When Korriban was imminent, the pair aboard the Duststorm felt a mounting tension begin to coil its way through the ship. It wasn't a pleasant prospect, what they were facing, and they knew it. Taylor figured he had been in worse galactic creases before, but never had he felt so conspicuous as he did in travelling with a Jedi. The planet was a little red orb, but watching it enlarge as the ship drew closer, the tickle of intuition crept up the back of Taylor's neck softly. He suddenly became very aware of his surroundings, and particularly of the quiet aura that permeated the cockpit. Lanee was resting, meditating properly, and Taylor would have to rouse her shortly. But he sat in his chair, folded arms wrapping him in tiny comfort, and listened. As though from across a vast distance, a minute sound reached his ears, destined for him and him alone. The pitch was low, and Taylor felt the vibrating thrum just behind his ears.

His breathing became quickened. His skin prickled, the tiny hairs standing on end, feeling like he had just passed through a static storm. Above all sensations, however, was the unshakable taste of old, sealed away air. This was something ancient calling to him. Something very old, and very powerful. Taylor was enthralled, unable to move even an inch in his seat.

Korriban had given him his first true glimpse of the Force.

THERE WAS MUCH Sith symbolism in slavery. Chains. The breaking of. To bathe oneself in the Dark Side was a reconstitution that asked for little at the outset, but progressively more and more. At first, he had considered there to be a great irony there. The physical toll Ven had seen prolonged Dark Side exposure take on the withered husks of the elderly Sith that flitted about the Korriban Academy had shocked him at first, but as he realized their toxic symbiosis granted a power unable to be found elsewhere, he acquiesced. He gave up his body.

But the Dark Side had made him strong. The muscles on his body were still his to cultivate, and the pure injection of hatred that coursed through his veins after brief summons energized his tissues. Ecstatic burning filled his system when he called upon his dark power. It was beyond the mere indulgence of lashing out when in anger; this was a shift to another side of the universe, where such feelings were made manifest into ugly beasts that made lesser men tremble. To make himself whole was a dream of strength. The Apex Ascent became his obsession.

When the sensors indicated a planetary mass in the vicinity, Ven snapped his attention towards the controls with feverish interest. The Rakatan world was off all star charts, hidden from everything living in this galaxy that could fly a ship, and had been for millenia. The holocron's hyperspace coordinates had been correct. A lush green sphere, small yet verdant, bloomed into view from behind the cockpit canopy. Ven allowed himself a single moment to appreciate the journey, then engaged manual control of his ship, thrusting it towards the atmosphere. Ryker, seated in the co-pilot's chair to his right, was expressionless. The call of destiny was so often a small thing, and it might squeak by unnoticed to all but those with the power and will to perceive it. Across the wide ocean of space, two ships, two destinies. Linked by fate. Driven by desire.

STARK, CLEAN, BRIGHT. Those were not descriptors Lanee had expected to be able to attribute to Dreshdae, but it wasn't so long ago that opulence had flowed through the little settlement. Revan's Sith had carved out success for themselves, and the evidence still showed. Dreshdae was not the hive of villainy one might expect in such a distant whole of the galaxy, but instead a place that seemed in command of efficiency and order. The Czerka corporation, unsurprisingly, found a welcoming home for its sector headquarters in Dreshdae, a place with just as suspect morality and a lack of ethical concern. They were one of the primary movers in the settlement, outfitting its denizens and responsible for the majority of commerce. Lanee traveled quickly and lightly, her simple brown hood hiding her face. She dared not draw upon the Force here. Her thoughts were jumbled, but intentionally so, in order to obfuscate them and protect her identity. The Sith she had to fear the most were in the Academy down the trail, a short hike from the outskirts of Dreshdae, but even still there were lingering Force users amongst the populace. Were she to be identified, she would be swarmed in an instant.

Korriban's weight pressed into her feelings with languorous ease. A darkness peculiar to the planet assaulted her senses and cast in doubt her ability to remain at peak capacity to perform her duties as a Jedi. It was a source of frustration she constantly fought to dispel. At times, she felt as though the tombs themselves down in the valley were aware of her presence on the arid surface, and even though their mysterious doors laid sealed, the whispers of the dead still managed to crawl out and reach her. Lanee shuddered at that particular imagery.

People still filtered down to the planet, even in the wake of the war. Mostly, they were people who didn't want to be found. Seedier elements, to be sure. Despite the manicured aesthetic of the settlement, there was of course no police unit. They tracked new marks with subtle glances, but Lanee was aware of their presence. They posed little danger to her directly, but she didn't want to be forced to reveal her Force prowess or, even worse, her bright blue lightsaber to defend herself. That was where the real danger dwelled.

Her thoughts turned to Taylor, who she had a fair suspicion was handling his own task much better than she was hers. The two had split up, with Taylor searching out the man known as Tulag Zan with a fake delivery of the holocron. They needed to know the buyer was, or more likely, who this Zan character was buying the device for. Lanee sensed something past the murk, but it was shrouded yet to her. Contact would have to be made to learn anything further.

Lanee's goal was different; she was to seek out information about the true menace himself, Ven. Bandying about the name of such a powerful Sith was dangerous, but she felt as though the correct questions in the correct places may yield something of value. He seemed a hard figure for anyone to forget.

In times such as these, with the question of forbearance burning in her skull, Lanee turned to thoughts of far-away Dantooine and its idyllic serenity, even moreso than the Jedi code. She found her peace in the still imagery she kept tucked away in her mind for occasions where she found her steps heavier and her heart harder. She unclenched her teeth and let loose the knots building in her shoulders. She breathed, becoming more aware of the act than before. The oxygen flowed in and out, and soon it became all she heard. The scattered, meandering paths cut through the long, yellow grass. Azure sky, expanding endlessly, and all the little whisps of clouds that floated within. The drifting Brith in the air, and the coolness of their massive passing shadows as they gusted their wings overhead. All of it, the sights, the sounds, the scents – they came flooding back to her, just as pristine and perfect as she remembered it. And with that calmness, her resolve was restored. A Jedi walked the streets once more in a place where it had been a long time since.

TAYLOR FELT AS though he wasn't making any progress.

The first cantina he had visited, one of several in Dreshdae, had absolutely no idea who Tulag Zan was. If that Rodian back on Tersi had expected him to find a man by name alone, then surely he had meant, "go to all the local bars and ask for this likely criminal, as you know to do by virtue of the fact that you are one yourself." Surely. How else would he expect Taylor to behave? A sinking feeling that perhaps Zan wouldn't surface without the holocron in Taylor's possession ate away at him, but it was a possibility he had to exhaust first. There really was little choice in the matter.

The sun seemed weak on the planet's surface, like its light was straining to cross the distance. Occasional gusts carrying the thin red dust of the ground would roll through the streets. It reminded him of home to an extent, but he knew the truth was different. He had seen the way Lanee differed from her usual demeanor before they even landed. There was an intensity to her gait that there had not previously been. On some level, he was beginning to understand her trepidation; there were isolated moments in which he swore he felt the bygone wrinkles of paranoia and nausea he experienced when caged by the Sith. Lingering, floating points in the air that carried ghosts of unpleasant sensations. They passed quickly, but their recurrence was unsettling. It was as though his presence there was incorrect somehow, an offense to something hidden from sight.

Cantina number two yielded much more interesting results.

Upon entering, he quickly snapped his focus to the figure in muted colors, alone in the back. There was a datapad on the table before him, and the remnants of a few drinks on the table. Work was being done. It was an odd choice for an office. The patron himself was off somehow, but it didn't take Taylor long to realize what the issue his brain was taking with the man's features – the striking yellow eyes. A Sith favorite, apparently. To see him sitting there so casually was bizarre for Taylor. The aura the man gave off was something that, in a different context and space, would evoke uneasiness as the slightest. But here, it was a predator in its natural habitat. Disphoria clawed through his stomach as the smuggler realized just how far in he had gotten himself.

Taylor slipped up to the bar and ordered a drink. In his consideration, he was good at hiding in plain sight, and indeed, as he watched the busy Sith in the corner, he felt secure enough. His next task was to drop Zan's name and see what floated to the surface, but that upset him somewhat. What if the Sith heard? What if he didn't like the guy?

He briefly brushed against the shape of his lightsaber strapped to his thigh. Lanee had instructed him to leave it in the ship, as it would likely only serve to draw deadly attention his way, and is proficiency with the thing was no where near where it needed to be on a planet such as this. Taylor had acknowledged her suggestion, but didn't quite follow through with it, quietly tucking the thing into a holdout holster. Of course, he still had his blaster pistol on the other leg, but the last time he'd used it against a red lightsaber...

He paused to think of Shayira, and ponder his own stupidity for choosing this life. With a sigh, he downed the rest of his drink, but dissapointingly noted that no amount of alcohol would give him the liquid courage needed for this mess.

"So..." Taylor began, twiddling the clay cup. The bartender, a scowling young man with a prim, fresh hair cut strode over to reach for a refill. "I was supposed to meet someone here. For a delivery?"

"I don't know, sir," the bartender answered coolly, spraying a new drink.

"The guy said this was a favorite of his, though. Zan?"

"Hmm?" the bartender asked, not looking up.

"Zan, Tulag...err..."

"Never heard the name, sir."

"Right," Taylor said, thumping the counter. He quickly reached for his pocket to pay for his drinks.

"And where might you be going in such a hurry?" asked a voice, cold like iron. Taylor darted a glance at the Sith's table. He was, of course, no longer sitting there. He nodded, understanding.

"Well, I've got shipments to make. So I figured I'd quit wasting my time here, and -" Taylor was interrupted by a strong hand on his shoulder.

"The name you know is not a name you should know," mused Taylor's new Sith drinking buddy. "Why don't you tell where you heard it?" That prickle of intuition was not a full-blown brushfire of warning. He was suddenly too scared to try to talk his way out of this one.

"Oh, you know. Around." Taylor bashed his elbow back into the Sith's nose, and was pleased to find that it connected with a satisfying break of cartiladge. The Sith recoiled, hands on his face. Taylor kicked his stool over and sprinted for the door, but it slammed shut before him. He whirled about. The now injured Sith, nursing the flow of blood from his shattered nose with one hand and holding a silver saber hilt in the other, had sealed him in.

"That," growled the man, "Was ill-advised." The saber ignited.

The bar was filled with a few other folks, none of which seemed particularly concerned about what was unfolding. Some watched with mild interest, while others seemingly didn't even care. This must have been a common occurence, Taylor reasoned. He reached down his leg for his blaster, but hesitated. No. This was a different circumstance. This was his moment.

His yellow lightsaber exploded into life in the bar, and suddenly the patrons took notice. A Jedi had come to Korriban. The Sith looked rather taken aback, but curled his lip into a nasty snarl nonetheless and charged at Taylor, who barely raised his blade in time to catch the crimson beam. There was no feeling of material resistance, as there was with vibroblades. Through the connection of their plasma, Taylor could only feel the strength of the man opposite him. Through something else, Taylor could feel his seething hatred.

Taylor battered the blade away, planting his feet firmly. A stab, aimed at his face, hissed by as he twisted his torso to dodge. He jumped backward to avoid the following slash, then raised his blade vertically to block an incoming swipe. The Sith didn't pause between blows, definitely able to sense his own advantage in the contest. Taylor ducked and wove, knocking low tables over in an effort to put space between himself and the flurry of lightsaber attacks, but that didn't work so well against a warrior like this. The bar in the middle of the cantina was a U-Shape in the middle of the building, and seating wrapped around it. Taylor quickly felt himself cornered towards the back, and with no other choice, stood his ground with his lightsaber out before him defensively in both hands.

"What is this?" Taylor's opponent scoffed. "You are no Jedi, but you wield a lightsaber. If you could call it that."

"I was actually a janitor at your school," Taylor retorted. "I found this thing in the trash."

"It's a shame that you stand a decent chance to be trained – were I not about to kill you."

The bar had a series of steel cylinders mounted atop, each filled with various liquors. In haste to preserve his life, Taylor swung wildly at them, and a carbonated burst of frothy drink shot outward between he and the Sith. Taylor vaulted over the bar, then darted around the bend towards the door once more, but the Sith cut him off, raising his blade with deadly intent. Taylor rolled forward, somehow narrowly avoiding a lethal cut, and urged the door with all of his might to fly open.

And so it did.

Taylor surged forward, out into the dusty street, looking frantically to the right and the left. If the Force could open the door, then surely it could guide him to safety. He turned off his saber before it could draw looks from anyone outside, and ran as fast as he could. He didn't care where he ended up, so long as it was far enough away from the cantina. An open area appeared, somewhat of a thoroughfare. There were people cloaked against the dust milling about; he had to avoid bowling them over. A fearful turn about – the Sith was relentless, pounding after him with sanguine fervor. There was no where to hide, no way to use the environment as a tool. Taylor had to fight.

It was a fast engagement. That was preferable, Taylor reflected, because without time to think he had no time to hesitate. Two whirling lightsaber blades erupted in the streets, and suddenly passersby that would typically not even blink at so much as a minor public disturbance were pulled into an ancient war that had been playing out for thousands of years. No particular fanciness influenced this Sith's movements; he struck hard and fast, recognizing his superior swordplay and pressing that advantage. Defense was the only option, but Taylor was finding his lightsaber battered away and scraping across the ground far too often for his comfort. He danced backwards, leaping over any small changes in elevation, desperately wanting the commotion to attract Lanee. Of course, that probably meant other Sith, too. The whole mission was ruined. Taylor found that a frustrating pill to swallow, especially since he had been the one to have his cover blown so early. As the red slashes fell upon him, a mounting anger swelled up inside. At first, it was turned inward, as Taylor swore at his useless confidence and self-sure nature. If he hadn't have fancied himself as a damned Jedi hero, he would have carried out this task just as he had any other, staying in his wheelhouse. His over-zealousness was going to be the reason this crazed Sith hacked him to pieces in a storm of molten-hot plasma. It wasn't any part of the future he had envisioned for himself. He'd just been a stupid child with a pipe dream.

A blow that his brain interpreted as fatal before it even connected was swung. The aggressor raised his saber high above his head, his teeth bared and gritted, the intent to kill etched into every line of his face. But something happened. Perhaps whatever spark he had found within that had made the cantina door open remotely was still lit, and it burned as Taylor's shield. Perhaps he was always ready for this moment, even as he dreamt of being a Jedi and fighting in so many. The Force guided his arm, and the red saber locked with the yellow. Taylor was kneeling, but soon he stood, his strength finally feeling adequate enough to push back against this monstrous assault. It was a change that had overtaken him, and the Sith noticed, confusion spreading across his expression. Taylor glared at the man, his will to live a flame behind his eyes that he was certain his opponent could see.

"I guess this is what being a Jedi is all about, huh?" Taylor said through gnashed teeth.

"There is far too much fury in your presence to be a Jedi's," breathed the struggling Sith. He was beginning to lose his ground.

The plasma screeched and crackled. Taylor wasn't sure what he had expected, but his first lightsaber duel was almost unpleasantly warm, the heat from the blades cast across two competing faces. They were lines drawn across a plane, and if he intersected just that small strip of color in any of three dimensions, he would lose a limb – or worse. The strangeness of that concept struck him in battle, and suddenly he didn't feel like he was there anymore. This was something that couldn't be happening, or at least, something that couldn't be happening to him. But still his body moved, sliding down grooves cut long before his time. And eventually, after so much hacking away, Taylor had battered his opponent into submission, leaving him breathing ragged and limp against a pile of crates.

"I'll admit," wheezed the beaten man, "I didn't know a Jedi could fight like that."

"Neither did I," conceded Taylor. He had yet to fully realized what he had just done.

"I accept death. Go on," he told Taylor, closing his eyes. Taylor watched his chest heave up and down. The man was exhausted. He also was aware of the many eyes watching him.

All around him, in the red, dusty streets of Dreshdae, the denizens of Korriban regarded blankly the first Jedi they had seen in their lifetime.

LANEE FOUND HERSELF in a small bazaar of sorts, an isolated little pocket in the shade of larger buildings. The Force had led her there, she believed. She garnered no suspicious looks from even the shadiest of vendors, be they on the ground with their items spread out on a blanket or behind a shabby kiosk. This seemed a place that, if found, meant you were supposed to be there.

Only one small whisper gave her pause. A beckoning finger invited her to the blanket of a figure in worn, holed robes, and a head wrapping that obscured his face. He seemed almost like a buried mummy, though Lanee dryly supposed that if one were to come crawling out of the sands here it wouldn't be that out of place. Lanee sat cross-legged, more curious of the strange vendor than of any of the bits and pieces he had collected before him. Briefly, she scanned his wares. There was some residual energy clinging to a few; she felt their hum in the Force. Pieces of cloth, fragments of what could have been lightsaber crystals. Perhaps this merchant was a tomb-plunderer, though in his frail state, he seemed like more of a re-seller.

"Jedi," he whispered. Instantly, her guard was raised. "Do not worry – I am no enemy of your kind. You've come here because you felt it. There is something in this market that you seek." Lanee cautiously chose not to answer, instead inclining her head slightly to indicate he should continue. "Yes. What you seek is beyond a mere trinket. It is a piece of history – of your history." The small crinkle behind his head wrapping suggested to her that maybe the man had smiled.

"Doubtful I would find such a thing here," Lanee said in a low voice, monitoring a large man who had just entered the market. She could tell by his walk that he knew battle, but not much else.

"Isn't that what life is about? Finding these small fragments before you in such unexpected places," the merchant said, rubbing his long fingers over their respective palms. "The Force speaks in a way we call mysterious, but in fact is so obvious. You merely have to open yourself to its truths."

"Very well, merchant. Show me"

He twisted his thin torso to reach behind him, and produced his bounty with pride. Holding it in his battered, wrapped hands, a Kath Hound horn Lanee knew unmistakably well rested. The thin strip of lighter discoloration over the grey bone was still there. He hand instinctively flew to her mouth.

"Where did you get this?" she whispered incredulously.

"A hunter's trophy. He sold it once, and the buyer sold it again, and in the cascade that is the Force, it found its way to me. And now to you." She was certain of his smile.

"It was no hunter's trophy," Lanee corrected quietly, fixated on the horn. They had found it on Dantooine as children, sitting there in the tall grass. She still remembered how hot it was to the touch, having sat there in the summer sun for time untold. Perhaps it was all that remained of a dead beast, or maybe still it had been ripped from his head in battle. They had speculated, Lanee and -

She touched the horn, and a great flood of images overtook her senses.

IT MOVED FAST, like a holotope on fast-forward. She watched him gather his things in the moonlight of his room's window, fast and frantic. There was a palpable excitement – he was going to face his destiny. And somewhere mixed in was anger. Anger at Lanee.

The clothes hurtled into his bag, along with any other possessions he felt he might need. He paused, hovering over the Kath Hound horn on his dresser. He packed it in. Now he was fleeing out into the moonlight, hoping he hadn't awakened his parents. The man was waiting for him at the ship, he had said. He tore down the dirt path towards town, hoping, praying that this was real. The chance he had always dreamed of. The bright spotlights of the administrative building – he sprinted underneath them, only the quiet chorus of singing bugs to be heard. The landing pads were just beyond, and there, standing with folded arms in the bright white glow of the ships lights behind him on the loading ramp, was the hooded man who had caused so much stir earlier that day. He stoically watched as the young boy raced up to greet him, and then wordlessly, coldly took his bag from him. He rifled through it, looking to see if the bare necessities were all that were present as he had commanded. When he found the horn, he looked quizzically at the boy – for there was to be no bringing of any object with sentimental value.

"It...it might sell. I have no money to my name," he attempted. Fear ripped through him, but only for a moment, as the man nodded and returned his bag, horn and all. Together, they boarded the ship, and the sheer elation rippling through her best friend's body gave Lanee an ache that she could not soon will away.

She remembered where she had been that night – alone, in her own room, looking at the star. Lanee had an unexplainable feeling that it had been the last day she would ever see her dearest friend, and indeed, the next morning the surrounding farmsteads had awoken to a chaotic search orchestrated by his parents to find the boy. But he was gone, up there amongst the stars, a darker course intended. Lanee knew that her best friend likely died that night, at least in spirit. That was when she resolved to become a Jedi, as he had turned from her to apprentice himself to the Sith. The ghostly name she had long yet to utter appeared on her lips as her hot tears rolled down her cheeks in the window's moonlight.

Ryker.

LOW THUNDER RUMBLED in the jungle, and Ven stood resolute beneath the swirling tempest above. A slight rain pelted his armor with tiny, wet clicks, inducing a thin film. The planet featured a nitrogen-and-oxygen rich atmosphere, and the flora was unimpeded and overpowering. Like on so many lost worlds, the Force was a muted thing, not having touched sentient life for countless ages. Ven relished the quiet ambiance. Ryker seemed less comfortable so far from his creature comforts. Ven's most potent observation of his apprentice was that the young man needed the background noise of the universe in order to have a foundation upon which to build the roar of the Force. A curious disparity, given their respective backgrounds. He supposed it was really just an extension of their desires.

There was a treck through the trees to be made. The scanner had indicated something massive beneath the canopy, but it hadn't been visible with their naked eyes upon circling in the ship. The clearing they had found to land in was the closest amenable spot. Ven eagerly initiated the march, Ryker following in toe. His apprentice had served him well for many years, Ven thought. When he was but a boy, Ven had been unsure of his promise, but that quickly faded. Ryker had proven himself competent many times over, and more impressively, stylistically independent of his teacher. So many young Sith merely copied the mannerisms of their masters, but Ryker had shown a flare for his own methods. Ven found some measure of pride in himself for creating such a successful piece of his legacy. But moreover, Ven was relieved to have found someone capable powering the Apex Ascent.

It was something he had known long before acquiring the holocron; Rakatan facilities that were fueled by raw Dark Side energy all shared a common thread in their building, and that was the sacrifice of the massive slave forces that had built them. Their lives served as the catalyst to the Star Forge, most prominently. But the Apex Ascent, when Ven had found the whispers of it, was rumored to be of a different nature. The burning of souls in some cosmic crucible seemed infinite in some technologies of the Infinite Empire, but this one was different. It needed one-to-one parity for each healing it dispensed. And the only way Ven had conceived it to be possible to find someone approaching his strength yet gullible enough to traverse with him to this place was to grow him himself.

Perhaps there was some irony in the fact that it was Ven's former master Veshiram who had told him the price of the Apex Ascent.

Ven did sense something stirring inside of his student, however. It was an anxiousness he couldn't place over any particular source. It was but a flicker of emotion, but Ven was able to catch it.

If Ryker had caught on to his plan, doubtless he would have fled much earlier. In the bowels of the jungle in which they now found themselves, it was too late for deviation. Their fates were intertwined regardless.

They made their journey in silence.

ACROSS THE GALAXY, Taylor felt the ripples.

The Force was now very much in the forefront of his perception. It was a like a drug that he had (somehow) never tried before; utterly intoxicating, but uplifting in a the best way possible. He felt awake to a world previously hidden from him, and in the full light of its dawn, Taylor felt whole.

But it was that new found connection that turned his head to the sky at a seemingly innocent vector. While far away, there was something profound happening out in the galaxy. The new world he had woken up in was decidedly bright, but there was a dash of pure terror if you turned just the right direction, like the shrillness of a string instrument. It left Taylor humbled, watching the sky, and he felt the presence of the Sith that had almost ended his life on Tersi station. He was reaching the end of his race, too.

Taylor bounded through the gawking crowd, ignoring the devastated Sith opponent behind him. He needed to find Lanee, and the two of them needed to leave – now. He had no real evidence to present as to why, but the feeling of impending dread was strong enough on his spine and the back of his neck to surge him forward. Of course, he was not unnoticed.

TAYLOR NEARLY RAN straight into her, but stopped just short of Lanee at the last moment. They stood in an alley outside of the small merchant's corner, Lanee with the Kath Hound horn's weight in her waist pouch. She could quickly see he was under immense stress, the harried signs of battle strewn across his person. Most concerning of all was the position of his lightsaber. Not on the ship, as she had asked, but neither looped on his belt; rather, it was tightly gripped in his hand.

"What -" she began.

"We, uh, might have to leave," he interjected, nervously looking over his shoulder. He froze, his vision finding something unwanted. Lanee followed his gaze only to spot an unnervingly awkward figure. He, assuming that it was, stood with a great malformation afflicting his back, bending the poor creature over and cocked to the right, almost as though his spine was twisted by two strong, cruel hands. His arms were hanging like twin hooks, one seemingly larger than the other due to the deformity of the back. The dark robes he chose to wore rested over the tremendous resulting hump in his back. Such unfortunate medical problems typically did not affect Lanee, and usually sparked Jedi empathy, but this was somehow different in a way she could not identify. The sight of the thing down alley left her feeling a tad ill, and certainly far more uncomfortable than her training was thought to allow.

But Lanee, unlike the similarly-disgusted Taylor on her side, new immediately why she felt that way. It was a haunting stream of the Force flowing from the man, beckoning disease and malady. He was a Sith, but not like any kind she had ever encountered before. This was one who had chosen to master an aspect of the darkness that asked for much more than the simple modes of raw power typical Sith sought. Lanee steeled herself against whatever was to come, but doubt began to cloud her judgement. She glanced at Taylor cautiously. She wasn't sure she could escape this while protecting her charge.

What she found etched in his face, though, was a terror so primal and evident that she was taken aback. His jaw was locked, his brow was a series of terrified waves, and his eyes glistened with stinging tears. Nostrils flared and retracted quickly, and he clutched at the saber in his hand as though it were a life preserver and he lost in a storm at sea. He was paling, and she could hear his stomach's protests at merely being here.

"Taylor, you have to block it out," she hissed, keeping her vision fixated on the mystery figure. "You have to harden yourself to his presence. His technique is old, but not indefensible. You are strong enough."

"It's not what he's doing," Taylor grunted through gnashed teeth. "It's what he's already done." Lanee narrowed her eyes, curious. "This was the man who kidnapped me.

Lanee heard the crackling of his dry lips as he raised them in a grotesque smile.

"Hello. My name is Tulag Zan. And I hear you were looking for me."

TO BE CONTINUED...