CHAPTER FOUR - AXIOM
IN QUIET RECITATION: "There is no emotion; there is peace."
She breathed. The air filled her lungs and her chest expanded to compensate.
"There is no ignorance; there is knowledge."
It was routine.
"There is no passion; there is serenity."
She felt the spaces in and around her, but there was nothing, but she was sure that was once wrong.
"There is no chaos; there is harmony."
Maybe she was why.
"There is no death; there is the Force."
Lanee opened her eyes. Despite what she wanted, the environment never seemed to reflect the circumstances. Taylor or no Taylor, Duststorm would likely remain the same. Looks, smells, sounds - all of it. A ship that was a home had lost its tenant, but there was no reflection of that fact anywhere. Perhaps that was one of many small injustices of the universe, but for a Jedi, it wasa blessing. It made her code easier to follow when things seemed not to care.
But that wasn't truly the Jedi code, was it? To not care. Nihilism couldn't be the goal of a guardian of peace. Why protect a life that was meaningless? There had to be a love of life at the heart of it all. There had to be compassion.
And that made it very hard for her to ignore the suffering, and the betrayal, of her friends.
Time had cauterized the wound that Ryker left, and the mountain of experience she took upon herself to absorb in the training that occupied most of her adolesence and early adulthood buried whatever pain was left. But Taylor's was a fresh hole, and a monument to her deepest fear – that she had learned nothing at all, despite her vow to never let the darkness claim another. Now there were two out there, each instruments of strife in their own capacities, and Lanee could not help but feel responsible. That Taylor's enslavement and Ryker's fall were her doing was a thought that she could no longer banish. History, it seemed, was doomed to repeat itself.
Veshiram had warned her about cycles.
Her next move was mandatory, though, and it gave her the conviction she neded to keep from stagnating in her own mire of thoughts. She glanced from the floor up at the controls and saw the green light of the communications relay. It indicated Coruscant had a connection. Lanee stepped towards it, and pressed her fingers on the button. The waves relayed, and parity was met. It was a young Padawan assigned to clerical duties who answered her call.
"This is Patrol Zero-One-Six of Sector Z-A3," she spoke into the microphone.
"Yes, Jedi Knight Lanee Bindo, how may I assist?" the young boy answered with cool practice.
"I need audience with Master Zemner immediately. I have a matter of urgent galactic security at hand."
"Right away."
IT WASN'T CONSTANT. There was an ebb and flow. The rage, and the power that came with it, peaked only when Veshiram needed it to. Little valleys appeared in the moments of reserve that he was allowed, and in those dips, Taylor found space to think. His conclusions were varied. Control of basic functions was turned over to him when it wasn't necessary for the more granular tuning of the Rage Seed. He knew what he was doing was often not of his own volition, nor of his moral leanings. He never wanted to fight Lanee, although he deeply mourned the loss of his arm. She had been angry herself; he had sensed it. Jedi did not strike out of anger, so why did she cause him so much damage? He could not come to an answer. The Rage Seed could not seem to help him.
Their departure from the planet had been immediate and swift, he and Master Veshiram. The latter spoke of great things forthcoming, and did so in a way that made Taylor happy. His thirst for adventure was something the Master seemed to understand and want to satiate. He would allow Taylor to use his new strength to open doors for himself, to reach new heights. That was essentially all he'd ever wanted, and it just made so much sense for things to be the way they were. First, however, they had to outfit him with a prosthetic so that he might regain usage of both arms. That was to be done at a very reputable biomech shop Veshiram knew well.
"I've seen their work," Master Veshiram assured Taylor. "It is most impressive."
Taylor found himself smiling. He liked the way the words felt.
The prevailing sensation was that of just having woken from a luxurious nap. The sharpening of his senses and the increased focus the Seed afforded him allowed Taylor new insight. It wasn't that the Seed's influence was resulting in his abilities, but rather that it was freeing him to pursue what he had always wanted without the layers of inhibition years of living inefficiently had built. Like the water edging away the banks of a muddy river, carrying the sediment away down stream. The most important part was that he was still able to choose, despite not being able to make choices. Being honest with himself was the first step – Taylor had always wanted to be a Jedi, to wield the Force as they did, and effect change upon his surroundings. Now he could.
But still, his inate and nagging curiosity eventually prompted him to pose Veshiram a question.
"Master, what is the next step? What is the larger plan?"
Veshiram seemed lost in thought, and rather dismissive. Still, he spoke.
"Oh, after your arm? I suppose we'll go...build an army." He smiled.
RYKER WAS FACED with a dillemma: He simply couldn't decide what kind of tea he wanted to make. The ship's pantry had been bare; the most common item was a nutrient paste Ven had favored. Ryker's first decision was to space the bitter junk. From his quarters, he carried a satchel containing his private stash that he had accumulated at every opportunity. He had been the one to shop and restock the ship during shore time, but the rigors of having Ven for a master meant there was a distinct lack of room for luxury items. Ryker now produced bottles of Corellian wine and various cheeses and dry fruits, loaves of bright bread, and anything else he had managed to conceal. Eventually he settled on a berry tea from Malastare. Satisfied, Ryker ate his first real meal in days, soon finding his hunger to be ravenous and his thirst immense. Ven preached meditation techniques, sustaining onself off of the smallest amounts of energy. Efficiency only the Force could provide, but that was their privilege as its commanders. Every bite was in defiance to those words he had yet to drown out, stuck on replay in Ryker's brain.
When he finished at last, Ryker sat back and sighed, staring at the ship's ceiling and listening to its ambiance. A drifting thought popped up – he could outfit the ship with a soundsystem, using the intercoms, and play music…
On the whole, Ryker quickly came to realize he had absolutely no idea what to do with his freedom.
The plan was still very much in action, however. He had sent the broadcast to Korriban even as he hurtled away from the Apex Ascent hours before. His lieutenant, a young female Sith Hopeful had welcomed the news with joy, and swore to immediately enact the next phase. When Ryker would return to the Valley of the Dark Lords, his cloak sweeping grandly behind him in the dust, he knew the grin he would not be able to keep from his face. The coup would be swift and easy, as there were not many who would challenge his sizeable faction. The current headmaster was a Selkath from the lineage of those weak attempts at Sith Malak had overseen on Manaan. He would crumple as easily as a ball of paper. Ryker toyed with a droplet of tea he had spilled on the table, lost in thought.
There was one thing, however, that he would have to do before the ship truly became his.
Rising, Ryker intended to enter his master's meditation room. Some obstacle asserted itself first, however. Ryker experienced a hesitation he was not anticipating. He had no idea why.
The corridor leading to the room itself was dark, always dark. Ryker walked with is head up high, but a chill palpated his spine, and it was no longer a trepidation he could ignore. It was as if some warning was all around him, but he was deaf to its voice. He did not want to enter the room, but he did so anyway, out of pride and out of necessity. He found it shaded and still.
The story of who Ven was in life was not easily gleaned from his personal effects. His quarters were the definition of sparse, and only the meditation room offered some insight into his interests. Ryker knew there was an impressive collection of holocrons, but the sheer number of them was staggering. He had never seen Ven acquire even a fourth of these. What could they possibly contain? Secrets that would make Ryker stronger, with any luck. But it would take a long time to sift through the legion of hedronic shapes, to activate each and coax out its secrets. On a pedestal in the middle, however, just beneath the single dim light fixture in the room, was the holocron he had procured from Tersi for Ven, aboard that smuggler's ship. Lord Silarith brooded inside; Ryker could sense it.
In his time, Silarith had been an accomplished archaeologist fascinated with the Infinite Empire and its stewards, the Rakata. Ven, somehow, had learned that he might know the location of the Apex Ascent. Indeed, Ven had almost excitedly revealed that it was likely Silarith's body was at the installation, somewhere. Ryker cared little for such details, but now in the presence of the holocron, he had a strange urge to activate it. Perhaps because it was the only one he could be sure he could have an actual conversation with, although he did know that Ven employed some kind of translation protocol running through the intercom's software.
The holocron stirred at his touch, and Lord Silarith's image burst forth. He gave a critical study of Ryker's frame, and apparently did not like what he saw. Most holocrons were like that.
"You are not the one who woke me before. Tell me, frail boy, who might you be?" Silarith snarled.
"I am Ryker. This is my ship." Silarith scoffed.
"So said the last user. At least he was something respectable. Quite a strong Sith, that one. You...you do not look like one worthy of my time, but something in your stance makes me curious. Was the other one your master, by chance?"
"He was," Ryker said softly, then shrugged, smirking. "I killed him." Silarith raised his eyebrows at that revelation, and fell silent for a moment.
Then he burst out laughing.
The volume of his cackle was high. Distubingly so, in fact. Ryker cast a careful glance about the room, noticing the activation of tiny red lights on many of the holocrons. Silarith continued his nosiy racket, despite Ryker's raised hand. More activated. Inhuman sounds began to emanate, quiet at first, but growing louder and louder. They did not like to be stirred from their slumber. They did not like Ryker.
"They do not care for you, boy," Silarith said, settling down some. The chittering admonishments the Rakatan spirits were issuing him froze his blood in a way that nothing else ever had. These beasts were in a class all of their own. Ryker felt burning hatred when he looked at their ugly faces, the tubular eye protrusions and the nasty, scaly grey skin. He turned back to Silarith.
"You're the Rakatan expert. How do I silence them?"
"You have to earn their respect," Silarith said with a grin. "Their culture prominently featured honor, and love of strength. You do not seem to present such qualities as your master did. Tell me, how did he die?"
Ryker stayed silent. It seemed these onlookers were demanding the answer be, "fair combat". But it wasn't. Surely Silarith, a Sith in his time, understood...but something held Ryker back from telling the holocron. That mounting anger was now flowing through his system. What answers did he owe these machines? They were nothing more than projections of those who had failed to continue living. They were gone, and he was there, alive and strong, despite Silarith's mocking blows.
"You murdered him, didn't you?" Silarith mused. The feverish war chants pounded in Ryker's ears, beating his chest. "You waited until he was weakened, and then you delivered the final blow. Deceit."
Ryker narrowed his eyes and bared his teeth. The chorus of Rakatan was being translated, now. "Weakling. Liar. Deceiver. Coward." He shrugged them off. All but one. "Traitor."
Traitor.
That was the one he could not abide.
"Once a traitor," Silarith said, grinning smugly. "Always a -"
Ryker screamed, rearing back his head and summoning a tempest of lightning from his palms. It crashed into the walls, scouring for electronics. The blitz of energy was so great its sound drowned out the uproar of the holocrons, and as the blue tendrils gyrated around the room, destruction was left in their wake. Everything was destroyed in a glorious bath of power, and Ryker laughed and laughed until his head was light and his jaw hurt, until he collapsed to his knees and swore to himself that the moronic entities in those capsules hadn't the feintest clue what they were talking about. Now they lied smoking and dead, crisp black husks littering the room. He considered the paint job that would be necessary to glaze over the scorch marks.
He had never betrayed anyone that didn't betray him first.
IT HAD BEEN a boring summer. After the burnoffs of the crop stubs, there wasn't much to do for Lanee and Ryker, and in the simmering, bubbling sunlight they lay on their backs and disected clouds. There was a burning suggestion that Lanee felt close to making, but Ryker, always the cooler head, would almost certainly shoot it down. The boredom, however, overtook all else and at last she could no longer wait.
"Hey...want to try to find the Crystal Cave?" she asked casually.
"You mean the one place on this planet that everyone agrees is actually dangerous?" Ryker laughed. "Why are you so interested?"
"I want to see the crystals," she justified simply. "It sounds so pretty."
"There used to be a Kinrath nest in there. Everyone says so," Ryker replied.
"Used to be," Lanee corrected. "It's just as safe now as anywhere else. The hunters don't let anything live around here anymore."
"You sound upset about that," Ryker noticed. She stood, brushing the dirt from her skirt, and shrugged.
"I like animals."
Ryker had to concede that was true. The pair never had to fear the roaming Kath hounds in their expeditions. He, and everyone else that had met Lanee, assumed it was something in the utter calm she seemed to radiate at all times, as sure as the warm Dantooine sun.
They had some idea where the cave was; most people did. It was a popular bit of local lore. Carved into the side of small hill it was, a dark and damp nook in the earth. The rich smell of the soil greeted their noses as they brushed away the dangling strands of scraggly roots. The wind whistled a low note when it drifted past the cave's mouth, but soon enough that sound, and the light from outside, was gone. Only the white glow of their flashlights remained. Ryker did not appreciate the itchy, crawling feeling that fell upon his skin when he imagined the spidery Kinrath, skittering about in the dark – but there were none to be found. The cave was still.
And at last, after two strangely tense minutes of silent walking, they crystal chamber bloomed into view.
Lanee drew an audible breath. The wide area was painted with swaths of many different colors, and the light they refracted spread across the walls in little pools of color. A tall, winding spiral of green snaked its way to the ceiling; a stout patch of yellow bumps protruded from the floor in the corner. There was a small outcrop of purple blooming from the wall, which Lanee somehow knew to be rarer than the other colors. But the ones that held her attention, the ones that swept her away and made her gaze distant and mouth hang open in thought, were the blue crystals. She knelt before them, her face awash in their essence, entirely captivated. Ryker placed his hands on his hips and cast a wide glance around the room, acknowledging their splendor but not quite understanding his friend's rapturous enjoyment of the things. She was clearly experiencing something he was not.
It would be some time until the Force chose to speak to him, too.
"LANEE," MASTER ZEMNER said warmly, his voice grainy when filtered through the transmission across space. His eyes had a way of smiling even when his mouth did not, although it was certainly smiling this time. "It is so good to hear from you, though I hear circumstances are not favorable."
"Master," Lanee responded, tilting her head. She suddenly felt more at peace with his hologram than she had in months. "I wish I did not have such dire news."
"Speak," he gently commanded, looking at her from beneath twin fuzzy eyebrows. "I can guarantee I've heard worse before."
"I've...found something, out here in the Rim. And so have the Sith. But they have the advantage, and I need assistance."
"I will spare all I can," Zemner said immediately. But Lanee shook her head.
"No, this is not a matter for the Order. We will need to enlist the Republic Fleet, I'm afraid."
Zemner eyed her gravely. "And just how big is this thing you've found?"
"It is a large facility. A Rakatan facility." The Jedi all knew the name. They had studied the Infinite Empire after Revan's reveal of it to the galaxy. It had been decided after the battle at the Star Forge that any further pieces of technology like it, were such things discovered, would be destroyed swiftly, for they all indeed fed upon the Dark Side. When Master Zemner heard the word, he quickly took to the protocol.
"Right away then. Allow me to patch us through to more appropriate channels," he said, looking down and fiddling with his terminal. "I have an old friend who seems perfect for this..." A new connection was established, encrypted with standard Republic Military code. The Republic crest briefly flashed into a hologram next to Master Zemner, before being overtaken by a stately looking human woman in full Navy décor.
"This is Admiral Yllona of the Republic Fleet. Master Zemner, it's good to hear from you again."
"Likewise, Admiral," Zemner agreed cheerfully. The proud assembly of Republic warships and fighters dotting the distant black horizon of space beyond her was always a comforting sight. Lanee found herself missing the noise and bluster of civilization; it had been years she'd spent on the Outer Rim. The thought of returing to her home at the Temple was warm and enticing.
"I understand one of your Knights has valuable intelligence for us," Yllona said. She looked towards the display showing Lanee's face within Duststorm's cabin.
"Correct, Ma'am. My name is Lanee Bindo, and I am assigned to Outer Rim patrol. I will summarize the situation briefly, and recommend you act with all haste." The Admiral nodded for Lanee to continue, folding her arms. "I am currently transmitting the coordinates of an off-chart world. Rakatan technology, dangerous much in the same way the Star Forge was, is present on the planet surface. Simply put, Admiral, there are dangerous entities who are aware of and seek to use this technology, and if they are allowed to do so, disaster will befall the Republic. The only way to prevent this as I see it..." she hovered, looking at the Admiral with direct intent, "Is orbital bombardment. This facility must be annihilated entirely."
"That's a bold claim," Yllona said seriously. "But if Master Zemner recommends it, I will certainly authorize the order myself."
"I do, Admiral," Zemner affirmed with simplicity. She nodded.
"Very well, then. I've known your master long enough to know to listen when he speaks." She smiled firmly at Lanee, who decided she rather liked the seasoned woman. "I would like to know just how you came across this information, though."
"I can say that I have had the misfortune of visiting the site myself, Admiral," Lanee answered softly. The Admiral paused for a moment, deciding that the answer had a lot more to it than at face value. The Admiral then turned her head, pressing two fingers into the communication device in her ear.
"You heard 'em. Glass it."
DRAGGING HIS USELESS legs through the rocky sand wasn't the hardest part. That distinction belonged to maintaining the mental fortitude necessary to bend the Force in such a way as to keep the nerves from spilling out of his spine. Veshiram ignored the pain entirely, and instead focused on the overriding emotion that blazed in his chest: Zealous joy. The Ascent would reward him well for his injuries. He did not regret letting his pupil injure him in the slightest.
It was a gamble that he had been willing to take. Ven could have killed him, as low as he let his guard, but he wanted to make sure that the injuries were definitively crippling, beyond any shadow of doubt. He did so hate to leave anything to chance, but sometimes it was necessary. The Sith, addled as they were, could not seem to understand that. The ancient adage of freeing something you love stood the test of time, here. Veshiram could read the portents much better than they could. He knew his plan showed auspicious promise, if only they would accept it. But he would need to become stronger to force them to capitulate. Much stronger.
Further plans were clearer – he knew how the Ascent worked, and what it required in return for its services. But he knew that Ven knew as well. He would take an apprentice, raise it to appropriate strength, and then sacrifice it. Veshiram resigned to be a silent observer, waiting until the day when that happened. Then he would strike, stealing the rejuvenating powers for himself and eliminating the strongest Sith all at once. In the meantime, he would quite literally plant the seeds of an army. And upon his rise to godhood with the help of that unholy Rakatan engine, he would activate his followers, and the resulting eruption from underneath the Republic and Jedi's feet would topple them with ease. He kept envisioning it to keep the agony at bay as he trudged into his cave. It was exquisite. The hard part was the wait.
VESHIRAM REGARDED HIS creation with pride. But with that pride mingled a sense of disappointment – the imperfection he suffered after the unfortunate incident with the girl was a set back to his plans. Ultimately, it was only a matter of time, but he did so hate waiting. It put him a rather inert mood, a brown shade of boredom that took longer to dispel for each moment he spent in it. Taylor seemed to not mind his new cybernetic arm that much, but to Veshiram, the thing was disgusting. It represented more than one thing he hated.
There were others. Seven at the Temple, and two graduates, elsewhere in the galaxy. He needed just one, though it would be difficult to acquire any of them. The Padawans at the Temple were in a place he simply could not go, and the other two would require time to locate. The galaxy was a big place, and they could be doing any number of Jedi things across its many systems. Veshiram drummed his fingers on the table of his ship, his heavy face held up by a tired hand. Perhaps it was time to make a new one; that might just be quicker.
"Taylor, fetch me the blood sampler," Veshiram drawled through his thick fingers. Taylor did as ordered, setting it down on the table before his master. "Thank you," he told Taylor dryly. "I suppose just..." he sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Just set us down at the next station or something. Just make sure there are people there."
He would have to make contact with his feelers once more, too. Finding a Force Sensitive was not enormously difficult, but it did take some legwork. Veshiram supposed he was lucky to have Taylor around now, for he could perform the task quite adequately. In the mean time, Veshiram planned to enter a long meditative hibernation, to save himself some of the pain of the doldrums now besetting him.
"Oh, but Taylor, there is one final matter," Veshiram called, remembering.
"Yes, master?" Taylor replied pleasantly.
"Your lightsaber. Where is it?" Taylor handed Veshiram the hilt, who began to turn the thing over in his hands, observing the craftsmanship.
"I'm impressed you built this yourself," he praised.
"I watched you do it. I remembered the steps," Taylor revealed.
"Ah. Of course. A strong memory is a good quality. But here, this will not do. Leave this thing with me, and take this – the very one you saw me crafting that day."
Taylor's fingers curled around the new hilt, which was a tad bit shorter and cast in a rougher metal. The emitter shroud was somewhat larger, too, and jet black. Sith runes were emblazoned throughout. He ignited it, and a red blade of plasma burst forth.
"There," Veshiram said with a faint smile. "Much better."
HIS RETURN WAS met with optimism. Twin rows of dark robes kneeling in respect. He passed between, counting the bowed heads, and he glowed with pride. Ryker never knew how much he'd wanted this until it was is.
The bodies of those who would not capitulate lay strewn across the foyer. Most disadvantageous for them was their lack of true leadership – there was, and had not been, no unifying force behind which they could rally against Ryker's followers. Ven had never cared to establish such a sect for himself, and the others who called themselves Lords of the Sith were too disinterested with the youth of a new generation. It was their downfall. Only Lord Dominus has sought to consolidate his power on Korriban, but unlike his adopted moniker, he was not a presence often felt in its dusty shadows. It was mostly those who merely thought they might be loyal to him that made up the dead.
"And where might he be?" Ryker asked his chosen lieutenant, pulled away from the others.
"Dominus was away on business. He is expected to return shortly, but he will sense this, certainly," she replied. Her name was Xander, a young woman not quite Ryker's age but exceedingly competent at managing his affairs while he was with Ven.
"And turn tail, yes," Ryker thought out loud. "I'd rather he didn't get away. I'd like to be done with all of this in short order."
"Yes, my lord," Xander answered. "But it is hard to say at what distance he will be competent enough to perceive the waiting trap."
Ryker shrugged. "If he lands here, he is dead. See to it. If he never does, so be it. He has no one to back him. We will meet eventually." She nodded in the affirmative.
The Headmaster's Quarters were now his. It wasn't a particularly prestigious line of Sith that preceded him, though Ryker wasn't entirely sure that he was in fact a, "headmaster". He had no intent to conduct things as they had been done in Revan's time, and had been attempted to be done since. The Sith had withered without true direction, and were hungry for victory once more. Ultimately, that was Veshiram's problem: Lack of public appeal. Ryker said the right things and looked the right way, a sleek manifestation of strength, with youthful, unblemished vigor to garner the sympathy of a new generation. He new his advantages, and was too smart to squander them. Ven had been a respected master, and his slaying of the man cemented Ryker's status amongst those who followed him.
But there was something lingering, and its repulsive grey skin and manipulative capabilities made Ryker thoroughly uneasy. He could not rest, even as he sat in quiet meditation, the single illuminating beam from the skylight in the ceiling falling across him. Ryker stretched out across the stone halls with his perceptions, inching across the vast history entwined with the walls themselves. Like smoke stains from many fires he tasted the influence, catching fleeting images of days gone by when the glory of Revan's Empire was at its zenith. It was a short lived thing. Not just the Empire that established this place, no, but the place itself. For despite the well of power it sat upon, despite the red energy seeping from the tombs in the valley below, it was not meant to stay here. It was an aberration, something new in a place of old – much like Ryker himself. He opened his eyes, having seen the future.
He was to lead the Sith in exodus.
IT WAS ALMOST foreign, for on the surface, she had forgotten. Deeper though, in her fibers, she remembered Coruscant, the Temple, her training. It was a part of her that would never lag behind, and as Lanee set Duststorm down on a landing pad, a timeless calm set over her. The Jedi Temple had a way of healing through proximity. She felt her soul edifying, strengthening. Civilians with business and robed Jedi with their Padawans strolled through the amber halls. It was more people than she was accustomed to seeing in one place, yet it was all so quiet. There was a softness about the place that did not easily leave her. It was comforting – it was home.
And Master Zemner's smile seemed to take away the weight resting upon her shoulders.
"It has been four years since you left this place," he said, eyeing her down his nose. He put his hands on her biceps firmly; it felt good. "You've done some growing."
"Master," she said, and only then did Lanee hear how tired she was in her own voice.
"Lanee," he replied kindly. "It is so good to have you back."
He advocated rest and nourishment before they talked, and Lanee listened to her former teacher. She always did, and never found fault in his methods. Besides that, though, it simply felt right. She could not maintain. She was on the brink of collapse.
A lack of sleep and a thin diet widely supplemented by Force-aided persistence had worn her ragged. She was worried she would find it hard to rest without the noises of space travel she had become so accustomed to, but those fears proved insubstantial quickly. She gratefully accepted a basin of warm water from a knocking servant on her door, and bathed herself properly. Fresh fruit from the kitchen waited for her when she stepped out, draped in a towel. Lanee had been so eager to leave and join the ranks of the patrols, but that now seemed like another lifetime altogether. She didn't want to leave the Temple again.
"Your walk," Zemner said as they strolled through the garden. "That's where I see it. It's guilt. It echoes in your voice too, in the hollow spaces between words."
"Believe me, master, I have attempted all methods to purge it. But I can't," she said.
"Then it is there for a reason," he said. "We're so quick to rid ourselves of our negative emotions that we don't pause to consider why we have them in the first place. Perhaps that is one of the shortcomings of our teachings." Lanee bowed her head. "Don't fret. Just tell me everything."
She did. She told him of tracking Ven and Ryker across countless systems, standing in the ruin of their wake. She told him of meeting Taylor, saving him from Ven, only to lose him to a different darkness. He knew immediately; Lanee could see it. Zemner saw the parallels that eroded her confidence and left her cold, because she had once told him during her training of her friend back home, Ryker.
"I see," he said, stopping to rest on a bench. "I see, I see." He took a long moment to gather his thoughts. "You know, many would consider what you have done to be impressive. The Republic fleet moves to destroy this Apex Ascent as we speak, and to have survived encounters with no less than three Sith...some would even find that promotion worthy."
Lanee was taken aback to hear that aloud. "I certainly don't see myself as…"
"As a Jedi Master?" he asked. "Neither did I. But a master I became. So too could you. You are strong in a way few are. The Force swells around you like a hurricane. It is no accident that your influence is what it is."
"You're speaking of Ryker and Taylor," she said.
"Of course. Two powerful users of the Force in their own right. The Force has a way of bringing its adherents together, you see."
"But master," she said painfully. "How could I possibly become a master myself, only to take on a student of my own and...fail again?"
"You didn't fail them. Not in the slightest. Ryker made his choice for himself. Free will isn't always the thing we want it to be. But for Taylor, he was not afforded the luxury of choice." He focused his gaze on his former student. "He's still out there, somewhere. And only you, I suspect, can hear him."
She saw him, then, for a brief moment. Just one flash. He was her responsibility, her charge. It didn't matter how much she was afraid to fail. Only she could change things. So with the sun shining down on that garden, she listened to the birds chirp, and smiled the way she knew Taylor would. Then, she was reminded of something she knew she must tell her master.
"There is something more. I can't allow myself to be so preoccupied with my personal struggles," Lanee said. "Taylor's affliction stems from a particular Sith who troubles me far more than Ven ever did."
"I was wondering when we'd get to this," Master Zemner replied. "It is always this way with their kind – tiered, the next problem only visible from the height of the previous one. It is because of how they use each other for their own gain."
"Yes, I see that," Lanee said. "However, this Sith seems particularly adept at the practice. Ryker feared him greatly. He was Ven's master, and his name was Veshiram."
The old man Zemner stiffened. "Have you met him?" he softly inquired.
"I have. And he was odd, even for a Sith. He tricked us – he tricked me, at first, with a false identity. He made it seem as though Ven were the true threat, that the Apex Ascent was a problem to both of us."
"He is good at that," Zemner said to the ground quietly.
"Do you know him, Master? He skimmed through my thoughts with such ease, and he seemed to recognize you." Lanee shook her head. "I don't know how he did it."
"Indeed I do. You have met a monster, in every sense of the word." He looked at Lanee with wrinkled concern. "He was no Jedi. Always a Sith. From whence, I do not know. In the years after the war, after the Triumvirate was dismantled by the Exile, he appeared. There were no Sith, then – not in the way we know them now. Just ghosts. But he was strong, stronger than anyone without a powerful master had a right to be."
"How did you encounter him?" she asked.
"He always knew they would return," he told her grimly. "Despite what we told the Republic, and what they in turn told the galaxy. Revan's Sith were not the true Sith, merely imitators. When he left in silence, without telling the Council, we knew it was for one reason only – he had remembered what he found that blackened his soul the first time. The True Sith lie in wait. And Veshiram might just be their vanguard." He turned to Lanee. "Do you know why we even have patrols such as yours on the Outer Rim? When our numbers are so few and resources stretched so thin? It is so we will have advanced warning when they return. You are not merely police in a distant realm; you are scouts."
"I do so gladly," Lanee returned. "I perform my duties, regardless."
"I know," he said with a sad smile. "That is what makes you, you. There is no one better suited to your task. We are lucky to have you."
Lanee bowed her head to accept the compliment, though she was not finished. "If there is a larger Sith presence, then what is Veshiram doing here, now? He seems at odds with the current Sith."
"Most likely because they perceive him as a threat. Their pride sets them against him. As for his machinations, given what he has demonstrated with poor Taylor, there only seems to be one logical thing." Zemner gave a resigned sigh. "He is building his masters an army."
THE END OF a hyerspace lane was a bit like the end of a massive, twisting slide. You didn't see the end until it was upon you, and it came all at once. The Republic cruiser Crashing Wave was a Hammerhead vessel dispatched to a sector none of the crew knew about, nor had even heard of, but moved in confidence nonetheless. Outfitted with turbolasers overcharged to twenty times the typical payload, they prepared to rain down democratic justice upon an unassuming world of flora and fauna.
"Admiral, the ship has rounded and is in position. We have the targeting vector locked in," the first mate informed. Admiral Safra took a look out the viewscreen to confirm. Whatever this desolate green ball of mud contained was about to be obliterated.
"Acknowledged. Fire when ready."
The whine of the turbolasers filled the cabin and, indeed, the entire ship. Everyone wanted to get this over with quickly and return home. It was an old navy superstition; being too far out into the unknown gaps between the well-traveled lanes and known space for too long would make a crew go mad. Something in the void did it.
They were not wrong.
"Roger that. Delivering ordinance." Switches were flipped, and buttons were pressed. It was all very formal, crisp and clean. There was a faint glow around the side of the proud Republic ship as it prepared to fire. And then, nothing at all.
"What just happened?" Admiral Safra asked, looking around at his crew in confusion. On all sides, he was surrounded by fistfulls of well trained experts, but all of them were bewildered.
"Something is sapping the power conduit to the turbolasers," someone at last piped up, looking at a read-out chart on his monitor. Indeed, there was a red line drawing from the central reactor to the weapons systems.
"What the hell..." Safra mumbled. It was the last line he ever spoke before a red beam of energy ruptured through is chest from his back. It held there for a moment, the lightsaber sizzling away at the flesh and clothing. Then he dropped to the floor, dead.
"MASTER ZEMNER!" CRIED the young Padawan. He charged into the garden where they sat, ignoring Lanee but thrusting a communicator into Zemner's face. "You have an urgent call from Admiral Yllona. She says she must speak to you immediately."
Master Zemner narrowed his eyebrows. He took the black oval into his hands and activated it; a mini-hologram of the Admiral spilled out into his lap. "Master Zemner. Dire news."
"Speak," he said, with more roughness than Lanee was accustomed to.
"The ship we dispatched to the system your Knight specified...it's gone dark. Total communications blackout. Going on six hours now."
Lanee looked at her master, but he did not return the glance. She felt like she knew the answer the question about to be asked.
"Dire news indeed. The Temple will investigate further; I'll dispatch a squadron immediately," Master Zemner assured the Admiral.
"Thank you. Your assistance would be appreciated. Now, between you and me...just what the hell did I send a crew of three-hundred into?"
"I'll let Lanee answer," he said simply.
"I didn't think they would have stayed in the system," she said, confused. "Taylor needed medical attention. There was no reason..." Then a chill gripped her. There was someone she was forgetting. "Master. I need to go. Right away." He nodded to her.
"So be it," Zemner said solemnly.
"I'M GOING TO Coruscant," Lanee said to Ryker. They were standing on a windy hill, on yet another summer day, doing much the same as always. "I'm going to become a Jedi Knight."
"But why?" Ryker asked, doing his best to feign disinterest. Inside, he was gutted. "The Jedi aren't what they used to be. You know that. Just look at the ruins of their school, here. They don't even have the power to rebuild it."
"Just because the Jedi can't be seen doesn't mean they're gone," she said.
"I didn't say gone, did I? Just worthless," Ryker replied.
"I don't understand why you hate them so much," Lanee asked, confused and somewhat hurt.
"I don't understand why you don't."
That night, a storm blew into their settlement, and a violent one at that. Ryker remembered the brooding moments he spent in his window, watching the dark swirls blacken the dark blue sky, and the white splinters of lightning cracking it all apart. He was seething. His best friend was leaving. They used to plan their escape from this grassy prison together. Ryker supposed that was gone now, too.
Then, like the furious black winds outside, objects in Ryker's modest room began to spiral. He didn't notice at first, lost in his rage as he was, but as it crested, the Force began to stir the environment. First it was articles of clothing, rustled gently. They rose to the ceiling, as did other person effects. When Ryker looked up with tear-stung eyes, his mouth opened before twisting into a snarl. Finally, it seemed, something had broken in his favor. If she could, then so could he. All of the tiny flaunts she had been making since that day in the cave – the lifting, the persuasions. Those were his now too and, he suspected, more to follow. Much more.
"I NEED YOUR help," Lanee wrote, signing her name. It was her note in a bottle, cast out into the sea of space. She hoped Ryker would find it, and that it might move some small shred of humanity left within him. It was a message broadcast on a frequency any ship entering or leaving Korriban would hear, which meant few would, but with any luck…
Lanee and two Jedi from the Temple were strapped into their fighters. She elected to leave Duststorm behind in favor of something more agile. It also didn't feel quite like "hers", though she'd never truly owned a ship of her own. Her travelling companions were veterans, and people she could trust. Ujiri was an Iktotchi male, and Rannawann a Wookie male. Both were Knights, though Master Zemner implicitly placed control of the operation under Lanee's command. She begrudgingly accepted.
"We're ready when you are," Ujiri noted over the comm. She looked up from the canopy at the approaching night sky, like blue bleeding into orange. Not for the last time, she swore to herself. The next time, it would be with her apprentice.
Three starfighters roared away into space.
"These coordinates...you weren't kidding," Ujri said once they broke away from the atmosphere. "This is some ways away." Rannawann growled his agreement.
"It will take sometime. I suggest you meditate. Conflict is surely ahead," Lanee responded. This was a game of imperfect information, but the Force whispered disturbing things to her. There was a presence she knew well, but it not the same. Not entirely.
A thought popped into her head. It was a small thing, but those typically ended up being larger beneath the surface. She called Master Zemner.
"How goes your trip?" he asked warmly.
"Fine so far. There's something I hope you'll be able to help me with," she answered. "These Sith we're dealing with – they're fragmented."
"As they often are," Zemner agreed.
Lanee chewed her lip hesitantly. "Is there any strategic value in attempting to turn Ryker's faction against Veshiram?"
Zemner chortled. "Surely you're capable of answering that question yourself. I think what you're really asking is, will I grant you permission to attempt to save Ryker from the fate he barrels towards." Lanee frowned, but did not speak. "Is he in power on Korriban, now?"
"I have a good sense that he is," she answered.
"Then do as you see fit. Be organic with it. Shape your plan to fit the situation as it evolves. There is nothing absolute about our work, now."
"Thank you, master," she said. He chuckled again.
"I have faith in you. As always." The comm went silent.
Twenty-four hours into their trip, Rannawann rumbled into his microphone. He wanted to know more about their enemy. Lanee waited to give him an answer, wanting to find the right one. For a Wookie, she desired to be direct and concise. But for the delicacy of what she sensed she was about to find, she needed to be intelligent.
"The Dark Side's most twisted potential," was the answer at which she arrived. He gave a semi-disgruntled reply, but seemed to accept it nonetheless.
"It is nothing we have not faced before, Rannawann. I am certain," Ujiri reassured his partner. Lanee wasn't so sure herself.
WHEN HE ACTIVATED the Rage Seed, Veshiram felt a satisfying click, like a block sliding into its matching hole. It just felt right. Veshiram truly believed he was merely returning things to their true nature.
"Rage is not a sentient idea, as the Jedi would have us believe. Far from it. We cannot ever truly part from it. It is basic to our nature. Think of the crucible all existence was forged in. That white hot density. The fury of a star, or of a planet's core. All matter is the same, all of it connected. When we dive into our anger, we are but taking within us and harnessing a primal energy – the energy of the universe itself. It is not a destructive thing, but instead, it is the very essence of creation. We allow ourselves to become builders. Artists. The shapers of our own destiny. And rage...it is our ally."
He had taught that lesson to Ven. It seemed quite long ago now, even though it was only some small number of years. He didn't need to teach it to Taylor. Nor any of his other Seed-bearers. It was built-in, and he marveled at the efficiency. Lessons it would take one an entire lifetime to learn, baked into a brain within seconds. Now if only Veshiram could have a body capable that was equally efficient. Soon, he told himself. Soon.
In the meanwhile, Taylor was proving himself to be quite the asset. It effectively allowed Veshiram to double his search efforts, and already he found fruit. More than thirteen would be necessary for the coming war. These Sensitives, however, were different from the original thirteen, as they were never to be bound for the Jedi and their Temple. These would mature with him, though he did elect to search for the vulnerable two. Outer Rim patrol, he knew, just as the girl was. Veshiram liked to think of her. She had pleasing aesthetics. He wanted to kill her. The remaining ten, however, would have to be freed forcibly. And that was acceptable – Veshiram had been meaning to pay the Temple a visit.
RYKER HAD A choice to make. It was evident as soon as he received Lanee's transmission. At first, he considered drowning it out, like crumpling a note in his fist that she might have passed him in school. But he saw opportunity. Veshiram was a threat. Her allusions to something greater standing beyond Veshiram left him grinding his teeth. He had worked so hard to develop this network. Ryker could not stand to watch this power he had so smoothly garnered for himself washed away. The notion that Veshiram was responsible for any structure at all this current flock of Sith had established was wounding, because Ryker interpreted it to mean Veshiram didn't perceive him as a problem. Like he let Ryker have it all.
And after seeing the tenacity of Veshiram first-hand, Ryker knew he was in danger.
It was the most rational plan to work with Lanee in some capacity to take Veshiram down. That was what Ryker wanted to be – purely rational. Invasive thoughts that he might be doing this for any other reason frustrated him. Mentally, he expected himself to be so sure, so sleek at all times. But Lanee was a fissure he was always skipping over. Killing her was the only real way to rid himself of attachments, were there any left. But that wasn't possible for now. It was even contrary to the interests of his Sith. He hated everything about the situation.
There was perhaps one cruiser from Revan's failed empire left, and it had been hidden under the sands of Korriban. The Academy, or rather, those who lived through the insurrection, had boarded it at Ryker's behest and set off into spaces unknown. He said Korriban was no longer safe, but that was only a partial truth. The whole was that Ryker knew the Sith had to undergo a metamorphosis. They could not so openly carry out their practice. It must be secreted for now. Ryker had to admit that Veshiram had the better tools. Taking raw Force users and blasting them into perfect Sith overnight was what he needed. Some of his followers were not strong enough to survive, and natural selection would be taking place in short order. Those closest to him, such as Xander, had prepared an ultimatum under Ryker's oversight to send forth to the remaining Lords: Adhere to Ryker's rule, or face excommunication, and death. Those who had sat at the table that curried Ven's favor were weak and would take a knee before him to retain what little power they could scrounge up for themselves; Dominus, however, would likely challenge Ryker.
Ryker was thoroughly comfortable in his ability not only to best Lord Dominus in combat, but also in the strength of his army over the opponent's. Dominus had lost popularity to Ryker simply because the man wasn't charismatic. He was strong and silent in a time when that kind of Sith was almost worthless. Ryker's rhetoric was simply too powerful. When they clashed, if at all, it would be a simple affair. But foremost...
If Lanee and Ryker could forge an alliance and destroy Veshiram, then he could find the space to consolidate. A new academy would have to be established, and new pupils would come to his allure. He would make the Dark Side attractive in ways it had never been, and the Jedi would look weak for leaning on him for support in the upcoming battle. This was how he would win the war of recruitment. The Jedi were rigid, old, and unpopular. The public would not trust them so soon after their perceived civil war tore the galaxy to shreds. Ryker imagined politicians sympathetic to him in the Senate, even one day himself delivering a speech. And most glorious of all: Reclaiming the lost title of Darth. It was exhilarating. Things were ripe for change. Just a few scattered fragments of the past remained in his way.
He returned her plea with an affirmative.
THE CRASHING WAVE hung in orbit, inert. The ship was dark, and the trio of fighters slowed their approach to get a better look. Their search lights hovered over the cruiser's surface, and Ujiri noted the deployed and aimed turbo lasers on its planetary flank. Lanee, nor her companions, could say it was anything other than ominous.
"I have bad feeling about this," she muttered to herself.
Because the hangar was locked, they docked in sequence with each other to the exterior portals, and the resounding slamming of metal echoing throughout the ship. The noise elevated Lanee's heartbeat, but there was no way around it. It was impossible to dock quietly. Whoever, or whatever, was aboard the ship was going to know of their insertion, one way or another.
"We're going to emerge in separate bays," Lanee issued as a final warning. "It's unfortunate but we'll make do. Our first priority is to reconvene. We cannot split up until we know what we're dealing with exactly."
"Agreed," Ujiri grunted. "Let's make haste." Rannawann roared his affirmation.
Lanee and the Wookie were docked at the bow near the bridge. However, the third exterior dock was on the ship's undercarriage, meaning Ujiri would be levels away from their initial location and only accessible by the turbolift. It was a dangerous proposition, to say the least, and when Lanee saw the flickering lights over ahead, she knew. The strobing white and black flashed a subliminal message to her that this was a graveyard.
Calmly, she walked to Rannawann's dock, lightsaber switched off but in hand. As she did, the commpiece in her ear hissed to life.
"Lanee, there's another vessel docked down here," Ujiri said, keeping his voice low. "But it's...strange. It looked as though it were made from stone. And it's attached like an insect, legs wrapped around the docking point. I've never seen anything like it."
The description made Lanee's blood run cold. "How many passengers do you estimate it could hold?"
"Six to eight," he replied.
"There's only one that's alive," she said, though she felt as if it were a lie. "Be mindful of droids. Head directly for the turbolift, and do not stop moving. Rannawann and I will meet you on the bridge floor."
"Copy that," Ujiri said. Then it was quiet.
Rannawann ducked out of the door from his bay, and nodded once to Lanee, who returned the gesture. She noticed he preferred a saberstaff, and that it too was in his fury grip. Lanee had never seen a Wookie in combat, let alone one with Jedi training, though just from the stories she had heard on the Rim, it was likely something an enemy would never want to experience. That was some small comfort, she thought.
Rannawann growled softly to indicate his discomfort.
"I know," Lanee replied. "I sense it too."
The turbolift was down the glossy main corridor. It offered their reflection as they strode across, angled towards the heavy metal door. Lanee hovered before it, looking up above, and seeing that the lift was currently on the bridge level. She and Rannawann exchanged looks, then tensed themselves in preparation as Lanee called the lift down to their floor. A stressful moment followed. Lanee strained to sense anything, but there wasn't a hitch in the Force. It was a still pond, and somehow that was all the more disconcerting.
When the lift arrived, Lanee felt a compulsive tightening in her grip around her saber hilt. She feared nothing, but her battle senses were alight involuntarily. Her heart was in control, and it knew far better than she did. It seemed to take an age for the door to open. And when it did, a Republic crew-mate slumped out and on to the floor before them, dead.
Rannawann ignited his green saber, and roared defensively. He peered into the lift, but it appeared as though the dead man had been its only occupant. Lanee reached for her comm and contacted Ujiri.
"We just accessed the lift. We found one casualty. Please be careful," she said.
"...Just one, huh?" Ujiri asked solemnly. Lanee curved her yes into a question. "You should see what I see down here. There must be a hundred bodies."
An icy wedge drove down sharply into Lanee's gut. Rannawann gusted frustrated air from his massive nostrils. "We have to get to the bridge," Lanee repeated. "We're coming down to your floor to meet you."
"Get here fast," Ujri said through gritted teeth.
THE PEACEFUL GLOW of the Temple just before the sun set on Coruscant was Zemner's favorite aspect of life there. The Padawans concluded their training, scrambling eagerly to the dining hall for their meal. A soft murmur of conversation fell across the halls. It seemed that, then, everyone was most together. The Temple was unified at the end of the day. It felt like a family gathering.
For many years now, he had experienced this wonderful section of the day. Indeed, he found himself looking forward to it on those days when his workload was particularly stressful or boring. Zemner was a Jedi that was honest with himself, and in that way he knew he was never quite capable of being the busy worker his peers strove to become. He was not efficient, nor terribly productive. He considered himself a simple man who flowed with his surroundings, tuning in to them to a greater degree than those who were more task-oriented.
This was how Zemner knew something was amiss.
A lanky shadow had slunk into the Temple, and he had every intention of finding it. To keep the peace, he strolled about calmly, his trademark smile etched across his weathered face. The dining hall was filled with chattering children munching happily, and Zemner wanted to keep it that way. His eternal smile was a bright beacon. Whatever had infiltrated these halls was very good at remaining undetected. He had almost failed to notice it at first; it was a tiny wrinkle in the Force, barely perceptible, and yet...it could be that it was leading him onward. Like it had wanted Zemner to be the one that found it.
And in a secluded alcove, where scholars might sit in the easy sun with an old text or holocron, he found it. Now that place was dark and draped in shadow, though he could still hear the distant sound of the dining hall. Master Zemner calmly approached, allowing his footsteps to be heard in the echoing grandeur of the Temple's corridors. He came to a stop near a plush chair.
"Master Zemner," the figure said, without turning. He could only make out the silhouette of a head. Zemner did not recognize the voice.
"What troubles you, friend?" he asked politely.
"My master has sent me on an errand. You have something of ours."
"I don't doubt we have something you want, though whether or not it belongs to you is another matter."
"He has claimed those hearts, you know. They are his."
"They are not," Master Zemner answered with gentle strength. The air changed. He peeled back his robe to free his lightsaber on the belt. The figure rose slowly, taking its time. Then he stepped out into the light from the dining hall and glowered at Zemner from beneath his black hood, twin yellow eyes gleaming.
"We beg to differ."
"We?" Zemner asked.
Ten more dropped from the ceiling, and their red blades slithered out into the dark.
"You must be Taylor," said the calm old man. "A pleasure to meet you."
RANNAWANN LET LOOSE a small roar when his friend entered the lift. He seemed relieved; Lanee didn't take the time to step out and try to find what had upset him so much. Something was aboard the ship, and it was a killing machine. There was great danger in lingering.
Never had she been so wary. The Force shimmered with an odd pattern as the lift swiftly climbed to the bridge floor. Lanee closed her eyes, feeling the ship, and all that returned was the stench of death. Yet, there was motion where there could not be. A distant scream from the past reached her perception, and she opened her eyes in horror, having seen a glimpse. Metal and flesh and bone, crawling, sprinting, gnashing. Cold prickles on her skin percolated. Her jaw felt heavy, as though she might be sick.
"Lanee? What's wrong?" Ujiri asked with nervous speed. The lift slammed to a rather abrupt halt. All eyes turned to the door, and it opened to a dim hallway. A tremendous gash in the ceiling was visible, and the guts of electronics sparked in calamitous destruction. Something like giant claws had rent open the metal on either wall here and there. The floor was a pool of blood and viscera.
Rannawann made a strange, low hum, rough and staccato. His lips trembled and his nostrils flared; his pupils dilated buy his eyes widened.
"I'm fine," Lanee said, straightening. "What's wrong with him?"
"He says..." Ujiri translated. "That he is all of a sudden home. In the Shadowlands of the forest floor."
Lanee twisted her mouth and looked back down the hall. The bridge was dark, but tiny dots of light from the instruments and navigation computers twinkled. Carefully, they picked their way through the carnage. Soon, they were surrounded by the dark. Rannawann would not stop sniffing the blood. It seemed old primal instincts were pushing the boundaries of his Jedi training.
"Where's the light?" Lanee whispered. She did not receive a response.
Instead, an inhuman wail wafted down the corridor behind them. The bridge was shaped like a "U" – one path led to the turbolift, the other, deeper into the ship, towards the escape pods. It was from there that the noise originated. Rannawann blasted a roar to challenge it.
"What is he doing?!" Lanee cried.
"There are creatures on his home planet that have developed the ability to sound like an injured Wookie in need of help," Ujiri explained. "They are predators, lying in ambush. He is saying...he will not be had so easily."
"Rannawann, calm yourself! Find your peace!" Lanee shouted. Her command was desperate.
"He will not stop. He fears this is life or death."
The Wookie charged forth, lightsaber extended. His great footsteps thundered through the ship, and his battle cry was fierce. He rounded a distant corner. Lanee and Ujiri sprinted after him, but there was no trace after turning that same bend.
"Where..." Lanee breathed. A roar further off had them running again.
Rannawann was fighting, twirling his blade, and only in its green glow could she see the enemy. Silvery metal tentacles, slashing and driving him back against a wall. There was a ferocity in his strikes that would have been unbearable for any human opponent, but the plasma didn't seem to have much of an effect on the machinery. He swung, roaring in righteous fury, but the blow was battered away. Then, rearing back, the long arms lunged forward, pinning the Wookie against a wall. His saber fell to the ground. He struggled, biting and pounding at his assailant, but when the full body of the monstrosity surged forth to engulf him, there was no more sound. It rippled and pulsated, seemingly absorbing Rannawann. Some number of tentacles on the side parted, and Lanee saw who stood at the center of the cloud of metal.
"Run," Ujiri commanded tersely. "We cannot fight it here."
It took Lanee a moment to relocate her legs, but when she did, so tore away after Ujiri. He was right; the narrow spaces here only favored the cephalopodic entity. They needed to retreat to their ships and blow the Crashing Wave from orbit.
"Come on," he said anxiously. "Come on..."
The tentacles rounded the corner, staring them down within the turbolift at the end of the hall. The door shut just in time.
"Rannawann..." Ujiri said, rubbing his temples.
"He was brave," Lanee consoled. Her own heart was loud.
"He was foolish," the Jedi lamented. "But we will not make such a mistake." He looked at Lanee. "What struck so much fear into you for that brief moment? I couldn't help but sense it."
Lanee shook her head. "It only looked like someone I once knew."
Somethings just weren't meant to be, however.
"Stay with me. Take Rannawann's ship; it's on my level," Lanee said. He agreed, and they stopped on that floor, then dropped into dead sprints towards their bays. Lanee arrived just in time to see her ship disengage it's locks and tumble away into space, towards the planet below. She swore under her breath and ran back to the hall, where Ujiri emerged to confirm that his ship had met a similar fate.
"To the hangars, then. We'll override the hangar locks and use fighters," Lanee suggested.
"As good a plan as any." There was a loud rumbling in the vents above them, and the pair of Jedi exchanged looks. Then they ran.
Thankfully, there were some number of Republic fighters around the hangar. The blast doors at the bottom, where they would have dropped out into space, were closed tightly. Lanne was immediately concerned that the ship's power fluctuations meant that the stasis shield that normally kept the vacuum of space at bay when the blast doors did open was not working. If that were the case…
A crashing in the ceiling. Ujiri ignited his purple blade.
"There is no Death..." he recited. The monster burst from the ceiling with a metallic screech.
Fighting it was like fighting many opponents at once. Lanee realized quickly that space was at a premium in this duel, and as much of it as she could get, she would take. It felt very hard to do damage, however, not only because of the staunch material from which the thing was made, but because of the speed at which is adjusted to her attacks. Lanee was an exceptional duelist – against other lightsaber wielding opponents. This was a new challenge.
She and Ujiri synchronized their attacks to come from both directions simultaneously, trying to split up the thing's attention. That proved much harder in practice. Lanee estimated there were something like forty total tentacles, each the girth of a muscular human bicep. But the way they moved indicated they were attached at a small point of origination; one that swayed and moved with their momentum. A sickening realization occurred to her that they were sprouting from the back of a human host.
When Ujiri fell, the tentacles engulfed him, much the same way as Rannawann. There was a muffled cry of agony, but the absorption was too fast. The tentacles receded from the bloody spot on the floor where Ujiri had once been. Lanee snarled. This had gone too far. The tentacles then turned to face her, cleaning the blood off of one another like a pack of Kath hounds from back home might. Lapping tongues.
"Why don't we finish this the proper way?" she said, switching off her saber. The tentacles swayed, seemingly confused. She had to make an appeal to what was behind them if she wanted to live. "I know you're in there." Something did seem to change.
The tentacles no longer propelled across the floor. Instead, they hovered forward, as the legs of their true body walked towards Lanee. Their mouth-like ends stopped just before her face, gently brushing her teeth. She felt a cold jet of air from their intake; it was tasting her. Lanee held her ground. And then, somewhere past that forest of machinery, she heard the sound she was waiting for: A lightsaber ignition.
A jumbled mess of synthesized words spilled forth. Lanee had an inkling as to what language that was.
"I might not speak that language, demon," she remarked, extending her own brilliant blue blade. "But I do speak this one." More garbled mess from the beast. Lanee looked over her stance, shoulder tilted towards the creature and her blade at angle towards the floor. "You once said this was an ancient style, didn't you? An ancient style for an ancient machine." The tentacles whirled and parted like a waterfall, revealing the human core bearing the weight of it all. Lanee could almost see the computer algorithms hard at work as they processed a response.
What came up was something of a smile on Ven's face.
TO BE CONCLUDED...