Chapter Three
Theyn seethed all the way back to the base camp. The injustice of it tore at him like a beast in his very being. Some Padawans had not even needed to take the Trials in the traditional manner to be given the rank of Jedi Knight. Theyn had been one of the hopefuls at a ceremony in the Jedi Temple soon after the outbreak of the war when many Padawans, including Anakin Skywalker, the black-skinned Twi'lek Tualon Yaluna, and the red-skinned Iskat Akaris of a species even she did not know the name of, had been made Knights of the Order in a mass promotion. Theyn had spent the entire ceremony waiting for his name to be called, to join Masters Yoda and Windu on the dais, and to hear the words spoken to every new Knight for the last twenty-five-thousand years: By the right of the Council, by the Will of the Force. Theyn Daras. Rise, Jedi Knight.
But his name had not been called. He had watched as Skywalker, Akaris, Okent, Zeeth, Onielle, so many of the Padawans that he had grown up with, trained with, learned with had been given this greatest honour, seen their Padawan braids fall away with a flick of Master Yoda or Master Windu's lightsaber. And he had stood there, waiting, and hoping, and in the end slunk out of the hall in bitter disappointment.
Since then he had fought on worlds the width of the Galaxy. He had seen combat on frozen Rhen Var, on the grasslands of Dantooine, in the jungles of Alaris Prime, and the cityscape of Muunilinst. He and Master Veron had returned to Coruscant and the Temple rarely and briefly, and while he frequently encountered his fellow Jedi on battlefields and briefing rooms, there had been scant time for meditation, training, and discussion of the Force. So what did Master Veron expect of him?
Theyn knew that his master was able to sense the powerful emotions coming off him in waves, but he did not at that moment care. If he was to remain a Padawan, then let him have a Padawan's shortcomings. Let him have his anger, his wounded pride. And it seemed that the Miraluka was content to let Theyn indulge in his emotions, for he said not one word during the entire journey back to the base camp. Not to Theyn, at any rate. Master Veron was eager to speak with Striker, and with Chief when the commandos returned successful from their mission to take out the listening post.
"This sector is as good as ours, General," Chief said as he saluted Veron. "Without that listening post we'll be able to catch the Seps unawares at the next planet, and the one after that, and the one after that all the way to Raxus."
Once at the camp, they found the clones still stationed there in a state of frenzy. The garrison commander, a sergeant nicknamed Pyro on account of his speciality with incendiary weapons, rushed over to Master Veron when he saw them approach, swiftly followed by other troopers.
"General, have you heard?" he said in breathless excitement.
"That rather depends on what it is you have to tell me, Sergeant," Harith replied.
Despite himself, Theyn stepped forward beside his master to hear the news that the clone was clearly so desperate to impart.
"The Seps attacked Coruscant," he said in a rush. Going on before the impact of those words could truly be felt he added, "Grievous captured Chancellor Palpatine, but General Kenobi and General Skywalker rescued him. And, sir, they-" He fell silent for a moment before beginning again. "Sir, they killed Count Dooku."
The words took a moment to register with Theyn. The idea that Dooku could be dead was incredible. He had been at the forefront of the Separatist Movement for five years, ever since the Raxus Address. He had been a revered Jedi Master, and although Theyn had not himself been born when Dooku had left the Order, it was an event that Master Veron and others who had been present still spoke of with a mixture of sadness and bewilderment.
And now, dead.
"The war must nearly be over," Theyn said, forgetting his bitterness in the excitement of discovering the news of this momentous development. "Grievous will assume command, but he is not the leader Dooku was."
"And he may not have the command for much longer," Pyro said. "General Kenobi has engaged Grievous on Utapau."
"If Grievous is captured or killed, the war could be over tomorrow," Harith said, even his voice now betraying a hint of anticipation at the prospect. "Peace would return to the Galaxy at long last."
Theyn smiled at the thought. They could soon be going home, back to the Temple. He would have the opportunity to study, to meditate. To pass the Trials of Knighthood at last and finally make Master Veron proud.
"But we must not get ahead of ourselves," Harith went on. "We must carry out our mission as though nothing has changed. It is vital that …"
He broke off. The Miraluka's hand flew to his head and he staggered, as though suddenly ill. Theyn felt it as well, like a wave that crashed over him, drowning him in the Force. A shift had taken place, larger than anything he had ever felt before. Time and space seemed to open up before him for a fleeting instant, and he saw snatches of events, though whether past, present, or future he could not tell. A red and black tattooed Zabrak kneeling in a cell. A desert village littered with corpses. A purple lightsaber blade meeting blue tendrils of electrical energy. A black-helmeted cyborg rising from a table. A woman's scream.
He forgot each of the images as it passed. A feeling of impending disaster filled him utterly. He collapsed to his knees and scrabbled in the grass and dirt to stand.
Unnoticed by either Jedi as they struggled to remain on their feet, Captain Striker's holocommunicator chimed. A blue, hooded figure emerged in the palm of the Captain's hand, and at the very edge of his hearing Theyn heard the words it spoke, though he knew not where they came from or who spoke them.
"Execute Order Sixty-Six."
In an instant of perfect clarity, the Force spoke to Theyn as though a voice inside his own head.
Defend yourself.
Activating his lightsaber without conscious thought, Theyn was just in time to deflect the first of the blaster bolts that sped toward him. How the Separatists had managed to ambush them he neither knew nor, in that moment, cared. He had to survive. He leapt over the head of a clone trooper and deflected another blaster bolt back at its source. The droid that had fired it fell back with a cry of pain.
A cry of pain?
Theyn stopped, for a fraction of a moment, to take in his surroundings. There were no droids anywhere. And the blaster bolts were being fired by the clone troopers. At him and Master Veron. Was this some sort of training exercise? A live-fire session to truly put him through his paces? Such things were highly unusual, but not entirely unheard of. But no, Master Veron had drawn his lightsaber too, and was using it to not only deflect the bolts now coming at him from all sides, but to attack the clones as well. Theyn's mind reeled. Had Master Veron turned traitor? Had the clones? It was all too much for him to take in.
Chief appeared in front of him. The commando said nothing, gave no explanation, just raised his rifle and fired, the weapon's report rapid and loud and deadly at close range. The lightsaber's blue blade came up to block as best as Theyn could, the Force moving his hand as though he were a mere puppet. Bolts ricocheted back, and somehow found the sergeant's chest, felling him. But the other three commandos were on him now, and Theyn was forced back by their relentless assault. One of them threw a thermal detonator, and in the moment that he used the Force to hurl it back to explode in the clone's face, one of the others landed a bolt on his upper thigh. The spot where it had made contact seared and stung, and it was all Theyn could do to keep his lightsaber up and moving in the defensive motions of Soresu.
"Master!" he shouted in blind panic, his voice cracking, but Harith was surrounded now. Theyn watched as Striker and his clones poured blaster fire at the Miraluka. The yellow lightsaber blade flashed and span and flourished faster than Theyn had ever seen it. Clones fell on every side, some struck down by the lightsaber, others hit by their own returned fire. It was plain that Harith was fighting as he had never fought before. Fighting for his life, against an enemy he had never once anticipated.
"Run!"
The single word shook Theyn more than almost anything else that had happened in the last few moments, for never once had his master told him to run. And never had he heard so much fear in Harith's voice as filled that one syllable. Theyn tried to obey, but his legs would not move. His feet remained planted in place as the two remaining commandos came at him, their weapons blazing. Throwing one back with a Force push, Theyn took the opportunity to hurl his lightsaber at the other. Two more blaster bolts grazed him, but he hardly noticed them as adrenaline flooded his body. The lightsaber cleaved the commando's head from his shoulders just as his comrade regained his feet and resumed the attack.
"Traitor," Theyn heard the commando hiss, before in an explosion of rage Theyn reached out with the Force to snap the clone's neck.
He had no time to ponder what he had just done, to reprimand himself, or even to see if Master Veron was behind him. He took off across the grassland plain with the Force under his feet. Tears burned his eyes. He did not stop running until he reached the Separatist fortress, now eerily deserted and still filled with the broken remains of destroyed droids and slain clones. His body was trembling when he stopped. And still the Force wave continued to break over him, continued to drench him in the feeling of all-consuming darkness and despair.
His final thought before he drifted into unconsciousness was; What has happened?