Chapter Four: Whatever the Sith Touch…
The problem with space travel is that it's boring.
Caecinius reflected on this as he stood on the bridge of the Warden, the Defender class ship taking him to Coruscant. "The starship of the Jedi," or so the Rendili Vehicle Corporation insisted. Two conference rooms, both equipped with an interplanetary link preprogrammed for Tython and Coruscant. Dedicated meditation space. Quarters enough to accommodate a full crew and up to 18 passengers, making the ship ideal for diplomatic meetings. Even more could be crammed into the generous cargo hold – which had led on several occasions to the Republic commissioning Defenders for evacuation missions.
All those rooms and spaces were empty. The secrecy of Caecinius's mission made a crew undesirable. The ship's course had been preprogrammed, its navigation functions set to automatic. Once he finished studying the information the Grandmaster had left him, there was nothing else for him to do, and no organic companions for him to talk to.
Not that Jedi were supposed to get bored. Jedi were meant to value solitude, to seize the opportunity for meditation and contemplation.
Unfortunately, neither mediation nor contemplation was a particular strength for Caecinius.
He left the bridge, descending to the lower levels. Down the short hallway, past the empty crew quarters to the engine room, where T7 waited on perpetual standby in the unlikely case of an emergency.
Droids never got bored. Caecinius envied the little fellow that.
"How are you doing, buddy?" he asked.
Beeps and whistles communicated T7's anticipation at leaving Tython. No, wait - not anticipation, but excitement. T7 was excited, or at least doing a good job of simulating it.
The droid beeped a question at him.
"Sorry," he said. "My Binary is a little shaky. I haven't really worked with… well…" He gestured at T7. He felt slightly embarrassed, and found himself smiling. "Guess I'll have to brush up."
More binary from T7. Caecinius strained to grasp it all.
"Tython = many Jedi." The beeps and whistles came more slowly now, and the droid kept his phrases simple. Like a settler talking to a primitive native. "Temple = well protected. T7 not needed there."
"And you think it'll be different on Coruscant."
"Galaxy = dangerous place. T7 = many skills. Eager to help."
"What kind of skills?"
"Sensor scans. Mechanical repair. Starship piloting. Was campaign manager for Senator Oodora."
Caecinius lifted an eyebrow. "Senator Oodora? Didn't she retire decades ago?"
Another affirmative beep, this one with a sad tone. "Oodora = good partner. T7 = useful. Fun time."
"You're that old?" Caecinius was surprised. "You still have memories from that long ago?"
Another beep. "Most droids = regular memory wipes. T7 = never wiped. Remembers all partners: doctor, merchant, smuggler. Worked with Jedi Master Ven Zallow."
Caecinius bowed his head at Ven Zallow's name. He had died during the Sacking of Coruscant. Like his own Master.
A mournful moan from T7. "Ven Zallow was good friend," he beeped. "T7 = misses him."
Caecinius nodded. He could still recall watching helplessly as Master Gos fell to Darth Thanaton; he could see it as clearly as if it was happening now.
"It's always hard," he said. "Losing someone."
Both droid and Jedi fell silent. There wasn't anything they could add – Their Masters were both gone, both missed. After a moment, the droid turned its ocular lens toward the Engineering readouts. A visual cue that the conversation was over.
Caecinius returned to the Bridge. Not much time had passed, and if anything he felt even less settled than before.
He thought of Satele Shan, of her assignment. She had never approved of him as a Jedi. Why would she trust him now? Because he had shown patience at the empty Flesh Raider camps? Because they had laughed together in the rain?
No, it was because she felt she couldn't trust anyone else. She needed an ally who would never serve the Empire. Not even an ally, really – a weapon.
"You are the weapon I came to forge."
Bengel. The studious young man, who had grown into a monster.
Caecinius reached up, traced the cross of the scar Darth Thanaton had left him. It could have been repaired, of course. He had chosen to keep it as a reminder. The Jedi Temple, Bengel Morr, his own face.
The Sith destroyed everything they touched.
Score one for Imperial Intelligence, Arkarix Krell noted. The Revanite camp was exactly where Cipher Nine had said it was, a mere 20 kilometers northwest of the great wall around Lord Grathan's estate. From the well-trod footpaths surrounding the area, the tents had been there for some time.
Zero chance that Lord Grathan is unaware of them, Krell mused. Did that make Grathan a Revanite? Or did he merely see some potential benefit in the cult's presence? Well, that wasn't for him to decide. He would convey his impressions to Darth Baras, and his Master would decide what, if anything, to do about it.
"Are you lost?"
He spun toward the voice, hand moving automatically to his lightsaber. That he had heard his observer before seeing or sensing him told him that this was a powerful individual.
Which belied the features of the old man staring back at him. The man's eyes were wary, but not unfriendly.
"If you've lost your way, you have my sympathies," the man said. "We can't help you, though. We have no food or water to spare."
How long had he been watching? Certainly, long enough to have seen that Krell approached with purpose.
Cipher Nine had advised that he be as truthful as possible. The advice struck him as sound. "I am no lost wanderer," he declared. "I am here for the Order of Revan."
The old man's wariness grew. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about." Nothing friendly in his voice now.
"I come bearing gifts," Krell reached for his pack. "May I?"
The man nodded. Krell opened his pack and removed the carefully wrapped contents. Even through the packing, he could feel its power.
So could the Revanite, whose eyes widened.
"Is that…?"
Krell smirked. "The Mask of Revan. Fully authenticated. But if you don't know what I'm talking about, then I suppose you'd have no interest."
He made to put the mask away. The man raised his hand.
"Stop!" he said urgently. "I apologize for my caution. We have learned to be suspicious of outsiders."
The old man stepped forward, extending a hand. Krell passed the mask to him, saw the man shudder as he made contact.
"I am Dzoun," the Revanite said. "I guide initiates along the path."
"I am Arkarix Krell."
"We know who you are. Apprentice to Darth Baras, the Sith spymaster. You handed the mask over very easily, Arkarix Krell. Tell me. Why should I not just take your gift and kill you where you stand?"
Dzoun's voice was calm. No sign of fear or agitation. A test, Krell decided.
"You would not be the first to try," he boasted.
"Acolytes on Korriban?" Dzoun sneered. "I battled Jedi on Coruscant before you were even born, young Sith."
"Twenty years past. Your reflexes have likely slowed, old man." Krell let his hand hover near his lightsaber, but he did not draw it. Instead, he grinned. "Besides, if you kill me, then you'll never know what else I might have to offer."
Dzoun chuckled, nodded. "That is true. And you spoke truth about your identity. But two truths don't make you trustworthy. Tell me. Why are you interested in the Order of Revan?"
Krell shrugged. "I am Darth Baras's apprentice, as you say. I came across information about your Order. Many influential Imperials are known or suspected to be Revanites."
"You are already Darth Baras's apprentice, and a Pure Blood. You don't require the Order's help to gain influence."
A fair point, but one Krell was already prepared for. He recalled Baras, plotting to eliminate the scientific team that had studied the Force-shielding armor. Not as a response to disloyalty, but simply to ensure the secret was kept.
"My Master is a ruthless man," Krell said. "At the moment, I am useful to him. But if he can gain advantage from my death or disgrace, then he would not hesitate."
"Ah." Dzoun nodded. "You believe we can offer you protection. We cannot."
"Not directly. But if I gain influential friends, then my Master would feel less safe in targeting me." All of which was true enough.
Dzoun seemed to respond to the honesty, his expression and posture relaxing almost imperceptibly. "You are wise to be wary of your Master. Baras is a viper. Sooner or later, he turns his venom on everyone. Follow me."
Dzoun led him into the camp. It was sparsely populated. Krell supposed most of the Revanites lived normal lives: The military in their barracks, the Sith in homes or in the Sanctum, and the politicians in their lush housing. Those in the camps were the professional Revanites. The true fanatics.
The dangerous ones.
Dzoun spread his arms to indicate the tents surrounding them. "This is where we study the mysteries of Revan. Revan, who began as a Jedi, then grew into a Sith, before finally becoming something more."
Krell lifted his chin defiantly. "There is nothing greater than the Sith. Nothing 'more' to achieve."
"Is that right?" Dzoun seemed amused. "It's true that the Sith are a path to power. But are you so confident that Sith philosophy alone is where that path ends?"
Krell frowned. He would normally have denied any such possibility. However, something about the old man's presence made that absolutism feel foolish.
"We learn from those who come before us," Dzoun continued. "We gain strength from their triumphs and failures. As a Jedi, Revan was a warrior who slaughtered armies. As a Sith, he was a teacher who trained a thousand dark apprentices. Eventually, both Jedi and Sith turned on him – but instead of being destroyed, he was reborn."
"What do you mean, 'reborn'? What was his final fate?"
"He was stripped of power. Stripped of life, of memory. Left to rot. But he relearned the ways of the Force, and the reborn Revan destroyed Sith and Jedi alike before coming to Dromund Kaas. We do not know his fate beyond that point. If the truth is known, it has been suppressed. But all he accomplished before he came to this world? That is worth preserving and studying."
Now it was Krell's turn to laugh. "You expect me to believe that you're just historians, that your entire Order exists just for study?"
Dzoun shrugged. "We learn to be better, more powerful. Revan mastered both the light side and the dark, war as well as peace. We seek to walk the same path, to master that same power."
Then he extended a hand, palm up. An invitation.
"Take part in our rituals, Arkarix Krell. Walk the path. Learn Revan's path to greatness. Succeed, and we may just give you power to stand against Darth Baras or anyone else."
Krell found himself staring at that open hand. When he reached out to take it, he found himself wondering if his gesture wasn't at least a little sincere.