Bastila's Lesson

The dripping water pooled and ran, cold and tickling, into my hairline and down the close-fitting band of the specialized neural disruptor. It itched, one more minor annoyance in a long list of them. Idly I imagined that the water would seep into the connections between the disruptor and my skull, and somehow disable the mechanism. Neural disruptors are normally designed to keep a humanoid in a stupor, and this does not work very well on Jedi, as the Vulkars discovered months ago. But the Sith, ever inventive, have found a new use for the things: interrupting my ability to use the Force. It is most irritating.

I did not know how long it has been since my capture - there were no days or nights, no regular occurrences to mark the time. I was fed irregularly, sometimes going what felt like a very long time between meals, sometimes one directly after another. Sometimes I was drugged to sleep, at other times I dozed off on my own, always waking later from nightmares that I could not recall. When I tried to collect feedings or periods of sleep and count them, the numbers swam and changed, so I got a different answer every time. Only a week? Sixty days? Half of a year? It was confusing and tiring.

When I bored of trying to calculate the time, I could focus on my physical surroundings. In periods when I was surely monitored but otherwise isolated, I was kept in a room. Perhaps a series of rooms, I did not know. Sometimes the walls felt close, at other times they were distant; at times the air was hot and still, at others it was chill and drafty. Sometimes perfumes or other strange odors were piped into the air that I breathe, sometimes barely-visible creatures moved about, silent or whispering. Sometimes a bright interrogation light shone in my eyes, at other times it was off. Otherwise it was always dark, there was always a flat slab of rock tilted at a forty-five degree angle. I was always laid back on that with my arms strapped above my head, my feet always bare, locked together, and bolted so that I could not kick.

When I focused past the neural disruptor’s buzzing I could always feel a strong sense of malevolence, as if the very walls seethed with Dark Side energy, strong enough that I sensed nothing else. There was always water, tainted with something oily, dripping or trickling down into my face.  Sometimes I felt bruises and mysterious aches all over my body, but they came and went at random. Sometimes I was dressed, sometimes I was half-dressed, and sometimes there was little if anything to protect my modesty. This and the inevitable result of drinking and being fed used to bother me, but no longer. It was always gone and I was cleaned when I stopped paying attention.

It hurt my arms to stay in this position, and the water drip was once unbearable. The cuffs and the neural disruptor used to chafe, and I used to dwell on the stomach ailments that plague me now. but by this point, the worst thing was the combination of fear and hope – I hated the Sith and what they did to me, but sometimes I could not help longing for someone, anyone, to talk to. Or was the worst thing the hallucinations? The times when I was hit between the eyes by one of Revan’s memories.  I couldn't tell.

And occasionally I rehashed past occurrences, things that have happened to me. I could endlessly replay the chance I had here, when a lightsaber was put into my hands and I was pitted against a minor Sith. After I had killed his underling, Malak himself had shown up and baited me, and I had acted in anger, somehow managing to reach the Force, if only for a moment. And then I had seen how much greater he was compared to me, and I had almost killed myself. But I hadn’t, and I wouldn’t try again. There was always the chance of future escape.

Not rescue. Not anymore. I had long known that the Jedi were not going to be able to find me, and that Revan was too focused on finding the Star Forge to devote much time to tracking me down. I had been fooled into thinking that an orderly was sympathetic to me and wanted to help, but that had been a deception. There was no one here I could turn to.

When I was caught, Malak had met my eyes and laughed that terrible laugh of his, like the laugh he’d had in Revan’s memories but hollow, void of all humor and joy. Memories through the bond I had with Revan showed me what he had been like when he was young, before the Mandalorian Wars and whatever had come afterwards. The man I half-remembered contrasted horribly with the Daritha Malak. As a Padawan and then as a Knight, he had been patient, steady in a crisis, observant, and so very faithful. Not at all like the Dark Lord. Jedi were not supposed to hate, but I made an exception just for him.

He’s coming. Even with the neural disruptor keeping the Force from me, I could feel him. The edge of his sphere of influence washed over me like a cold tide. I was unable to keep from trembling, and clenched my fingers and toes in an attempt to hide it. After the last time that I was... tested ... I had been dressed again in the ruined shreds of my old robes. They concealed my skin, but every tremor moved the ragged edges of cloth, telegraphing my fear to anyone with eyes.

The water drip ceased and the powerful light overhead switched on, blinding me until my eyes could readjust.

“Jedi!” I could see nothing but the painful, overwhelming brightness, but that was undeniably the tone of Malak’s vocabulator. “The Republic has four primary sites where fighter pilots are trained. Where are they?”

Blinking my watering eyes, I could sort of make out a vague blob where he stood, looming up over me. I tried to say something, but my throat produced nothing more than a croak.

I felt one of the visions coming over me, like a cloud of smoke. It was-

//Clutching the armrests in the passenger chair. Gravity forces pressing into the back, security belts pressing against ribs, disorientation and dizziness. “I don’t think speeders are rated for this kind of turn!” He turns his head to face me, laughing. “I’m an ace! No worries!” Not looking at the controls or where he is going; the Force will tell him what is ahead.//

“Answer me, Bastila,” In an instant Malak went from the memory of a laughing daredevil to the mutilated bastard he was today. I replied without thought.

“You’d know better than me.” My voice was clotted and rusty, but understandable. “You were an ace. A Jedi pilot.”

For a moment I thought that his vocabulator was malfunctioning, or that he was swearing using some language that I didn’t know. Then I realized that the word that I had heard, distorted by the prosthetic and by mingled emotions, was “Revan.”

Is he insane?

Then the light cut out.

Involuntarily, I gasped. Malak blurted “What-“

He was silent for a moment, in which my eyes adjusted yet again. For the first time, I saw emergency lighting blink on, a series of dimly glowing pods spaced along the walls.

“It figures,” the Dark Lord said, disgust evident in his voice. “Imitation is the most sincere form of flattery.”

“What do you mean?” I asked without thinking, my voice unusually high.

Malak’s response was to produce that terrible mirthless laugh, activate his lightsaber, and swing towards me, with no warning whatsoever-

I cringed – and then slid on my backside off of the stone slab, where I collapsed in a badly-coordinated pile as legs which had not borne weight for some time would not work. He had cut my bindings.

The drone of his lightsaber underscored the artificial sound to his voice, its red glow throwing everything into relief. “It’s part of an assassination attempt. I anticipated something like this – can’t go anywhere alone without something coming up. Damned inconvenient.”

Trying to struggle to my bare feet, I stiffened as the Sith gripped my upper arm, one hand easily circling my bicep, and hauled me bodily to my feet before releasing me. This time I stayed up, rubbing at my wrists uneasily. It can’t be that simple. This is another trick.

“Show yourselves, you cowards,” Malak – well, he didn’t spit the words. He couldn’t. But that’s what it sounded like.

And there was no response.

“I thought so,” he said, deactivating his lightsaber and hooking it back onto his belt. “Can’t face me directly. In the old days, it was different. They would band together, and then they would tell us how we had become weak, and then they would try to fight us. Now, of course, I have to put up with constant attempts to be clever.”

Here was another one. It was as if the Dark Lord’s presence was triggering them.

//Collapsed on the deck, trying vainly to breathe. Fury, resignation, grudging admiration. Even the best of plans should not have worked. I am the Daritha Revan, Dark Lord of the Sith, and no trap can kill me! He cheated! Black spots appearing in eyes, darkness spreading.//

The man who had cheated looked towards the door, and briefly up into the shadowy recesses of the ceiling. “The room is in lockdown. It’s supposed to keep prospects from escaping. Usually it works.”

"Those idiots." He seemed to be talking to himself, ignoring me as if I couldn't understand. "Thought they could confine me when mine is the master hand? The Star Forge is keyed to me; I can override any other commands. They really don't have a choice - I can find out who they are and pick them off one by one, or they can come all at once and die as a group."

I have no idea what to do now, I realized. I couldn’t run. Even if my legs hadn’t been so stiff, where could I run to?

“Akuta naii, roey ra bess,” Malak ordered. The words sounded like nonsense syllables – and yet, at some level, I understood that he was ordering the security system to tell him… something about the air.

“Daritha, wonna coom bess, hepven roey raa,” The voice that responded, coming from one of the speakers, had the melodic tones of a computer system. It was calling Malak the Daritha - the "lord who conquers death" - and telling him that the air was good.

“Dono aku bai ses!” Malak barked, ordering the system to unseal the room.

The door opened with a hiss. From what I could see, it wasn’t much brighter outside, but the light was an odd and sullen shade of red. The Dark Lord strode towards it, jerking his head and muttering “Follow me” in Basic. He paused at the doorway and rattled off another string of syllables, which basically sounded like a demand to know where various individuals were.

Since I had no idea who these people were or what measurements were being used, the system’s reply meant nothing to me. But its voice, I realized, sounded rather like that of the holographic alien interface that had guarded the Star Map in the lowest levels of Kashyyk.

“Passwords and codes can be memorized and recited,” Malak mentioned offhand, as I tentatively moved closer. “I have a damned vox chip instead of vocal cords, so it isn’t very difficult to mimic my voice. Even life-sign signatures can be falsified. But only I and one other are fluent in archaic Rakatan. I suppose I have Revan to thank for that.”

I was silent, uncertain as Malak switched back to that alien language. Since my capture, interaction has gone one of two ways. Originally I went into fits of defiance at every opportunity, but lately that hasn't been worth it. Lately I've just passively accepted what was happening. It's easier. Defiance and rebellion earn me nothing but pain. Why bother?

The Dark Lord of the Sith had his back turned to me. Shouldn't I be doing something about that? I hated him, hated the man hard enough to make my head ache. He was a traitor, and a sadist, and he had given orders that killed countless thousands. But -

This reluctance to attack him - was it weakness, the fear of what he would do in retaliation? Or was it wisdom? He was strong, fresh, armed with a lightsaber, able to wield telekinesis and Force Lightning to great effect. I was weak. If I hadn't been chained up-

I would still be too weak, I realized of a sudden. When I had fought alongside she who had once been Revan, I had thought myself to be strong, fit, powerful. But the most adept Sith we had faced together had been Darth Bandon. Bandon had once been a stalwart, skilled Jedi, but when the Sith took him and broke him he had become far less - still difficult to fight, but without the same degree of energy and enthusiasm.

Besides Malak, Bandon had been nothing more than a shadow. And when I had killed Bandon, I had not been alone or unarmed. Even with the help of Jolee Bindo and she who had once been Revan, it had been a struggle. On the Leviathan, alone, it had taken all my skill just to delay Bandon's Master.

And now? He could probably take me without looking. Despite the mild heat that suffused the corridor, I shivered.

Oh, not again –

//Side by side, walking down a corridor. Stretch legs, make each stride longer; he shortens his own steps. I never realized that we do that… We go well together, Malak and I. He is my friend, my partner, my brother. Side by side, together.//

"You're coming with me." He was looking straight at me again, turning his head at a sharp angle. "The fools might try to use you as a bargaining chip or kill you, Bastila. Not all Sith can think ahead." Unsaid, the phrase hung in the air - fall behind and I won’t come back for you.

“Y-yes,” I managed, biting down on the “sir” or “my lord” that threatened to follow. I hated that I feared him, that I was not just repulsed by him, but also fascinated. He was awful, and yet... he had once been so bright.

But this is not the time to think about these things!

With his long legs and clear irritation, Malak’s pace was just shy of a full-on charge; the Dark Lord strode forwards as if to shoulder past or plow through anything between him and his destination, fast enough that the trailing ends of his garb fluttered. It was the kind of pace that left underlings scuttling in all directions when they saw it, trying to find something, anything, to do that would divert his attention away from him. I had to trot unsteadily to keep up, the grating of the floor biting into my soles with every step.

I knew that I looked like a kath hound’s chew toy next to him, ratty and disheveled as I was. It had to be intentional. Pick me in a weak moment, when I am filthy and ragged, and then make me run along behind you when you are immaculate… all my life, that is all people do. Arrange things to shame me, to inconvenience me, to make me look like a child in need of guidance.

I hate that. I clenched my teeth together so that my jaw began to ache. I hate it when they do that.

Weakened as I was, I was soon breathing hard. The Sith continued at the same pace, and he began to draw ahead.

I do my best, and I work as hard as I can, but they never appreciate it. Ever. I try, and I try, and I give until I have nothing left, but it's never enough, they always think I have more, that I’m hoarding effort. And when I have nothing left to give and they have stopped demanding more, they leave me in the dust.

That is why I have not been rescued. The Republic’s war with the Sith recently swung in the Republic’s favor, if only by an insignificant margin. There isn’t a desperate need for my Battle Meditation. If they are searching for me, they aren’t trying very hard.

That is, if they even know that I've been caught. Would Malak or any of his lieutenants have broadcast the news of my capture, announcing or gloating about it over the HoloNet? Would the information be shared between Sith in the Fleet, allowing Republic Intelligence or the Bothan spynet to learn of it? If not, only the Sith who had come into contact with me and the crew of the Ebon Hawk would know.

Would they have told?  At the time I had thought that we were all cooperating well, that we respected one another, but now...  Carth, the only crewmember to officially serve the Republic, had never respected my authority as a Jedi. He had felt, in his paranoid arrogance, that I was not fit to instruct him, only to act as his equal. Canderous was a Mandalorian and there was no reason for him to tell anyone. Jolee claimed to be neutral and felt that I was too indoctrinated, and Mission and Zaalbar had never owed anything to the Republic or the Jedi. Juhani might, but she was a very private individual, and I had no idea what action she would take. And Kyta, she who had been Revan?

She hates me. Oh, when Malak had told her, I had seen her reaction, heard her speak and felt emotion through our bond. She had been accusing, but I had felt no real animosity. She had been blank, but I had felt hints of other emotion – excitement and a sort of sickened, lurching horror. There had been nothing like loathing then.

But, by now, after Carth told everyone, as he must have done, after an unknown period of time where everyone on the Ebon Hawk must have regarded her with hostile suspicion… She had to hate me. She had to think that I was getting what I deserved.

And that thought... It hurt.  Maybe I do deserve it.

No!  I had no choice.   I did what I had to do.   Why can't anyone understand that?  I had no choice!

No matter what I do, no matter how much I try, everyone that I am supposed to trust turns on me. Abandoning me when I need them, attacking me with criticism, holding me accountable for things that weren’t my fault… people are scum.

Ah- here was another one. I tried to focus on Malak’s back, but it faded into –

//Anger, impotence, frustration. “Communications up and down the Perlemian Trade Route have been cut off, Mandalorian scouts were sighted in the Sigil system, and all the council can do is accuse me of warmongering! ‘Lak, I have no choice. I have to act outside of their jurisdiction.” “I’m going with you.” “They’ll condemn you, too. Bar you from the Temple.” “You’ve never done anything really big without me. Let’s not start now.”//

“Follow, Bastila!”

“I’m coming,” I hissed thoughtlessly, then flinched as he turned his head and stared at me.

What was left of the mobile portions of Malak’s face, his brows and the skin around his eyes, did not move. It occurred to me that I had never seen the expression on that facial skin change – he blinked, but his brows were frozen and there were no little wrinkles around his eyes like I had seen on virtually every other Sith.

All the same, he didn’t seem to be angered by my outburst. If I could tell, he seemed more… amused. In the sadistic way that was typical of him, of course.

“Something wrong, Jedi?” I bit my tongue to stare back at him, knowing that he would probably cuff me if I broke eye contact. “No, I didn’t think so.” He was definitely amused, and yet the remains of his face were static, unmoving.

“You stare so. I don’t suppose there’s anything personal you’d care to ask me?” After a moment of silence he prompted me, voice teasingly cruel. “Do you think I would make an offer like that if I didn’t mean it?”

I’ve already seen that he doesn’t want me killed or seriously hurt. And I don’t know – I think some of the Jedi Masters know, but they won’t share it, not with me. Why not? The worst it will do is earn me another set of bruises.

“What happened to your face, anyway?” There. I’d said it, there was no taking it back now.

Darth Malak’s initial response was to exhale slowly through his nostrils. Then, his voice mocking, he started to complain. “It’s the jaw. It’s always the jaw. Never ‘Daritha Malak, how have you managed to improve Sith methodology’, never ‘What does “daritha” mean and how is it different from “Darth”’, never ‘Why did you become a Sith’”. It’s always the jaw.”

“Well, what’s your specific question?” he demanded aggressively. “’Why did you get such an obvious prosthetic’, ‘Is it true that you got a minor scratch during a duel that went septic and rotted your face off’, or my personal favorite, ‘How do you eat?’”

I opened my mouth and shut it again, uncertain. I’d never seen Malak in quite this mood.  Except in Revan's memories, when-

“Well? You still have salivary glands. Spit it out.”

“Fine,” I muttered under my breath. I was not going to ask about the jaw, although part of me wanted every answer he could give me and more. “Why doesn’t your expression ever change?”

“So you noticed,” the Dark Lord said, his voice momentarily quieter, surprised. “It's the result of a relatively successful attempt at cleverness. It’s called facial nerve paralysis. There was also damage to the hypoglossal, accessory, and statoacustic nerves, but prosthetics can get around that.”

…That actually makes sense. Paralysis of the facial muscles, tongue, and throat, damage to the nerve that conveys sound and balance – how is he still alive? What happened?  Duel?  Toxins?

His yellowed eyes were bright. “Since you’re so interested in the topic, Bastila, perhaps you’d care for some first-hand experience. I wouldn’t know, but they say that a mechanical hand is stronger and indefatigable. We can take care of that as soon as I kill these incompetents.”

What does he - Oh. Ohh. He’s going to… he’ll have my hand cut off and replaced. I gritted my teeth and found that I was rubbing my wrists nervously. Callous bastard. I knew he was leading up to something. It figures.

Still, I continued following Malak through the wide, high corridors of… wherever this place was. It didn’t look like the inside of any ship or space station that I had ever seen. He had mentioned the Star Forge, but - no. Surely not. Why would I be imprisoned anywhere near the Sith's best-kept secret?

No idea where we are, where we are going, what will happen when we get there... I know that I am a prisoner of war, but would a touch of common courtesy hurt?

Again! Why does this keep happening? I had almost none until Malak took me here!

//”If we take the fleet from Pertax, the planet will be defenseless. There’s no way the entire populace can evacuate in time. But… if we don’t, the Mandalorians will have Bonadan. Malak, what does your intuition say?” Voice flat, expressionless, not giving away any inner turmoil. He looks up from tightly-clasped hands and says, “Take, leave… bad things happen either way. I don’t think we have any choice - Pertax exports luxury foodstuffs. We can afford to lose it. If we lose Bonadan-//

"Finally. Cue pathetic rank-climbers," the Dark Lord observed grimly as he bent his legs and took a fighting stance. That was all the warning I had before the robed Dark Jedi appeared in both ends of the corridors and started to charge.

There couldn't have been many of them. Six, eight, perhaps as many as ten. Which was plenty, but surely not enough to actually fill my vision when I looked back the way we had come. They only seemed to be a numberless horde. I was unarmed and battered - two would have been overkill.

Stepping back involuntarily, I collided with the Dark Lord of the Sith, which provoked revulsion in me and a hissed "What are you doing" from him.

The usurping Dark Jedi were seconds away. "I have nothing," I cried furiously, passionately wishing that the neural disruptor was gone.

"Fine. Stay down." It seemed then that a huge hand pressed down on me, forcing me quickly from my feet to my hands and knees all the way to the grating of the floor. The wisdom in staying out of this was fairly obvious, but the casual way that he had just used the Force to flatten me made me grit my teeth.

Then it occurred to me that with or without any change on his face, even though I didn’t hear him laughing, Darth Malak was smiling like a Bothan who’d just been promised a favor.

The Dark Lord drew his lightsaber and flashed it in a brief but eager salute, and then they were upon us.

The Dark Jedi weren’t Younglings with their ‘sabers, I could tell; they had some practice in fighting as a group, and they knew when to press close and when to leave space between each other. I thought that I saw one or two gripping hilts long enough to belong to a double-bladed lightsaber, but only one side was activated at a time, which is always wise when fighting as a unit. But it really didn’t matter.

Maybe it was training, more likely it was a very strong connection to the Force, but Malak somehow managed to be everywhere and nowhere at once – every time an usurper’s lightsaber looked like it would connect, it either missed or was parried by the Dark Lord’s blade.

He was good, I observed with apprehension. He’s very good. I had watched him duel with she who had been Revan, although that fight had quickly moved out of my view, and I had faced him myself, however briefly. But many of the forms used against a single opponent weren’t really appropriate against several.

Never mind that he was surrounded, Malak whirled and swung his weapon to intercept – usually defensively, but sometimes he slashed his red lightsaber and a moment later one of the usurpers cried out, separated from fingers or a hand or worse. His technique was almost shockingly aggressive but… flawless. I could not help but notice. Perfectly controlled, meticulously executed … flawless. I had never seen anything like it. Somehow one man was able to fight like four. The air was quickly suffused with the scents of ionization and vaporized blood.

Several times, as the combatants advanced or fell back a few steps, I was stepped on or kicked, rather savagely in one or two cases. Malak stepped on me once, which put an abrupt end to my reluctant admiration. The damned Sith weighed about as much as a full-grown Gammorrean. I would have stood to get away, but I didn’t want to draw attention. The usurpers whose feet contacted me tended to look down in surprise, but they also tended to get killed or maimed directly after.

Dark Jedi were dying like animals. I felt no pity for them as some died instantaneously while others screamed and writhed on the floor. They had known what they were getting into when they set this up. They really were rather pathetic. The weakest among them fell, dead or crippled, in the first few minutes.

Their companions took a bit longer; they had a rather more spirited defense, evading as best they could and using several offensive Force techniques. This was just enough of a show of skill to convince Malak to take his time putting them in their place, toying with them, rather as he had done with me. Leading them into traps where he locked blades with one or another of them so that he could savor their shock and dismay when they felt his greater leverage and strength. Enjoying the fear one exuded when the Dark Lord seemed to target her specifically, advancing as surely and implacably as the rotation of a planet.

Again, since I was not the one facing him on the other side of crossed lightsabers, and I was now being stepped over instead of on, I could admire his skill and attempt to pick holes in his technique. I’d seen great duelists before. If I looked closely – yes, he was leaving himself open here, and here… If only I had a weapon and the strength to use it…

As nobody was standing too close to me, I propped myself up by my abused arms to see better. Yes, he was very skilled, and fought with a fire and ferocity that I hadn’t seen in any other duelist, but he was only human after all. Not some embodiment of the Dark Side, invincible and invulnerable. Better than me, certainly. But not unkilleable.

He’d been so cruel in his callous, unthinking way. So ready to shame me, to use me as a surrogate for whatever displeased him. I’d almost fallen into the trap of thinking that, because of his control over me, he was invulnerable. Flawless.

My attention was diverted by movement that wasn’t purposeless writhing. One of the fallen Dark Jedi, robe in tatters and missing some fingers on his left hand, rose to his feet, staggering slightly. By plan or coincidence, he was behind Malak - and the weapon he pulled from its holster was not a lightsaber, but a tiny holdout blaster.

The neural disruptor buzzed and rattled distractingly, but I pushed past it and, for a moment, time seemed to slow. The disruptor's influence kept me from speeding my reactions to match my thoughts, and the effort made my vision go gray at the edges, but I had a moment to think before the blaster could get in place to be leveled at the Dark Lord's exposed back.

This might mean that Malak was about to suffer a serious, crippling injury. He would be killed, and the galaxy would be well rid of him. This would leave these usurpers in charge of the Sith, but I might be able to handle them. They just weren't as impressive, physically or otherwise.

Maybe. I might be able to handle them. There was that little problem of the neural disruptor, making it very hard to touch the Force. Compounded with the fact that I was a prisoner, that might make things more difficult. I knew that Malak kept me alive without outright breaking my will because he wanted me to join him, to use my Battle Meditation to make victory absolutely certain. These Dark Jedi, though...

They might think that the Star Forge was the only thing they needed to crush the Republic. Certainly, as soon as they were in control of the Sith their fragile alliance would crumble and they would begin to squabble amongst each other for a greater share of power. Which would leave me - what? Surely something of a rival, at least. I might have my mind blasted and reworked to make me into a dull servant, but more likely I would simply be killed.

And... Malak might survive somehow. The Force might carry him a warning in time. He was as tricky as a monkey-lizard, and if whatever had damaged all those nerves in his face and neck hadn't killed him, would a blaster bolt to the back serve any better? He might get hit somewhere nonessential and be able to ignore the pain of a bolt, he might dodge or deflect it somehow, and then he would finish mopping up the usurpers, and then... and then...

And then he would know that I had seen it and just sat back and watched. I did not know what he would do then, but...

What do I owe him? I am a prisoner. Not one of the Sith. He wants to cut off my hand on some twisted whim. Why would I want to save - wait. If I did, if I saved him, he might be...

Grateful might not be the word, but-

Time was almost up. The short barrel of the holdout pistol was swinging into place, the Dark Jedi was starting to squeeze the trigger. No time to be comprehended if I shouted, no way that I could stand and get closer before it went off. There was only one thing I could do.

I couldn't, though. The neural disruptor. I might have been able to get past it enough to use the Force for something small, like temporarily stretching my perception of time, but I just didn't have enough energy for anything bigger. The thought caused something like a pit to open up in my stomach. It wasn't fair. The galaxy hated me.

Well, that didn't really matter. I was going to lose my chance, and then Malak would do unspeakable things to me, and it wasn't even my fault!

In my head the neural disruptor's influence was almost painful, threatening to buzz free of my skull. Angry and sickened, I punched past it, feeling something bend or warp, and touched the Force, felt it rush into me for the first time in far too long.

Something had changed since last time. I felt rage, and bitterness, and all sorts of Dark Side impulses in the ambient Force, as thick as Zaalbar’s celebratory stew, even more powerful than what I had felt on Korriban. Some was produced by the Sith close by, but more, strangely, came from the walls and the floor and the ceiling, all around, as if the very architecture was malignant.

I called it into me, stretched out my arm, and pushed.

The Force pulsed through me, immediately obedient to my desires in a way I had never felt before, and the Dark Jedi was flung like a toy, actually lifting into the air before impacting violently into the wall. His finger did squeeze the trigger, but his arm was off and his intended target was only slightly grazed.

Through the Force, I felt the Dark Jedi’s surprise and crippling agony, and from Malak a little frission of pain and outrage, and as I pulled myself upright I was surprised by how good it felt.

I twitched a little in reaction as I heard the signature sound of controlled Force lightning and smelled the sharp taint it lent the air, remembering the all too many times when Malak had hit me with it. But this time the technique was not aimed at me.

Force - generated electricity arced from Darth Malak’s hands and forked repeatedly like the branches of an inverted tree, playing over every body, standing or prone, alive or dead. Every body except his and mine, although the hair stood away from my body, prickling. The surviving Dark Jedi cried out piteously and jerked as the electricity ran through their bodies.

He could have ended this at any point by doing that. But he hadn’t. I knew why. It would have been easy enough to win quickly and with relatively little effort, but it wouldn’t have been a challenge. The Dark Lord was testing himself.

I can use that. If-

This is really becoming annoying.

//Pale, nearly invisible lightnings jump from his fingers and play across the target, then dwindle and finally fizzle out, leaving burn marks like abstract art. “I’m getting better at this,” he says, brows set stubbornly. Reach out, catch his hand although he tries to turn away, examine palms and fingers. His palms are charred, and his fingers red and blistering.//

“Why do you keep doing that,” I protested, momentarily caught in the vision after it ended.

“Do what?” Darth Malak, crouching over one of the crumpled usurpers with his deactivated lightsaber in hand, did not look up. It was hard to tell, but although he seemed mildly surprised, he was also concentrating on his subject.

For a moment I hesitated, uncertain. The dichotomy with Revan’s best friend on one side and the Dark Lord of the Sith on the other – it wasn’t as clear-cut as I would have liked. Revan’s memories hardly hinted at what he was now – he had always been in her shadow. And every time I saw a fragment of one of her memories, I was briefly caught between hating him and thinking of him as a former friend.

Memories or no memories, I don’t really care. He’s hit me with electric discharge often enough. While laughing. Does it really matter if he burned himself at the same time? That would make him a masochist as well as a sadist, but… What is he doing?

As I came closer, I saw that the collapsed Dark Jedi was still alive, although in no condition to do much of anything, twitching and mumbling to himself, wisps of steam rising from his robes. His hood and facial veils had fallen away, leaving his pain-twisted face bare. As with nearly all Sith, his skin was ashen and prematurely aged. I was mildly surprised to see and feel through the Force that this was the Sith that I had pushed, the one who’d had a holdout pistol.

“He’s a new recruit. Korriban academy, too. I’ve started considering whether it would be feasible to phase Korriban recruits out of the Sith. We have the facilities here, after all.” I startled a little, and Malak still did not look up. He spoke again, this time to the Dark Jedi. “That jumped-up idiot Uthar told you that you were something special, didn’t he?”

Turning his head away, the Dark Jedi produced an inarticulate moan. Darth Malak treated it like a response.

“Of course he did. Do you know how many of you he’s praised like that? You’re nothing, any of you. Why is he on that monument to the dead endlessly preaching the same lessons to countless wet-eared whelps while I am Daritha, Lord of all the Sith?”

The ‘whelp’, apparently starting to revive, was shaking his head aimlessly, eyes unfocused and barely open.

“Uthar and his predecessors are of the old way. They follow the teachings of the Sith who lived and died before Exar Kun. Uthar was never a Jedi. Sith teachings are all he has ever known. His idea of a promising student is Force-Sensitive, cruel, and clever. Nothing else enters into the equation.”

Maybe I’m not supposed to hear this, I thought uneasily. The Dark Lord’s distorted voice was heavy with bitterness and mockery.

“You were never a Jedi either, little one. Hah. The Jedi would have packed you off into the Service Corps, growing crops or healing sick or mapping star systems. They would have seen that you are fit for nothing more than menial tasks. As I see.”

“You will never amount to much. You were never there to answer Revan’s call for support; if you have ever seen Mandalorians they have only been the pathetic cast-offs of a once great nation. You were never there as one by one those you had known and respected since childhood died or changed past all recognition or repudiated you. You were never there when the galaxy dropped out from around you and the Force itself went mad.”

Malachor… I shook my head, very disconcerted. Is he talking to me? It feels like it… but he isn’t even looking my way. I don’t know.

“All you have ever known, all you will ever amount to, is as nothing. You are worthless. The only value you could possibly have to anyone is here, with us. And trust me in this: it’s not much of a value. But your talents may be of use. Taking a blaster to a lightsaber fight is just unorthodox enough to make things interesting. Of course, treachery must not go unpunished.”

Malak stood up… and up… and up… rising slowly enough to make me nervous even though we weren’t even facing each other. He flicked his wrist and the blade of his lightsaber blazed into existence, droning menacingly. I had the feeling then that it would be wise now to look away, but I did not. “Welcome to the Sith Empire of the Star Forge.”

The fallen Dark Jedi spasmed and shrieked as Malak’s lightsaber came down once, and again, severing the limbs on the right side of his body. Involuntarily I sucked in a breath, feeling his pain as it resonated through the Force. The ambient Force seemed to strengthen in response, as if the walls felt it and returned the power.

It felt... good. Warming. Rushing in to fill a void that I hadn't known was there.  I shut my eyes for a moment to linger in the sensation.

Then I opened them, to meet Malak's unchanging gaze.

"You thought I was going to kill him, didn't you?" The Dark Lord's voice was quiet. "I might still. They tend to behave better after being lessoned such, and to have them look upon cybernetic replacements every day helps to remind them, but traitors usually turn again, given time. Jedi don't believe in killing prisoners, and I don't particularly care for the practice myself. The dead are hardly useful. Really, what better weapon is there than to turn an enemy to our cause? To use their own knowledge against them? Even if they are only warm bodies, they can still make a difference."

He surely saw my expression. Darth Malak's eyes did not narrow, but I had the feeling that they would have, at one time. "You know the saying. You should. It was Revan's, although she only ever said it in private. You picked up more from her than you know."

And maybe you're right, I allowed, keeping silent and expressionless. Maybe it's even enough to bring you down.

“You have showed some willingness to cooperate, Bastila.  The rewards of this will quickly become apparent to you.  Now.  I told you that you would have some first-hand experience with prosthetic replacements, and so you shall.  This next pathetic imbecile has been with us for almost a year - I'm almost surprised that he's never tried anything before. Should he keep his right hand, or his left? Be honest.”

I studied the semiconscious face of the indicated Dark Jedi, critical. Pathetic man, to think he could be rid of Malak.  “Ehh. Neither. I don't like his face - get rid of his nose.”

//Stare out the viewport, past the planet below into the endless panorama of stars and nebulae.  My first ship.  My first command.  I am now cut off from the Jedi, condemned by the Order.  How appropriate that the name of the ship is "Silver Lining" - now I can finally do some good.  I have the Force, I have the first rung of the ladder of command, and I have my friends.  Malak moves up alongside, looks into space, similar thoughts passing through his head.  I have Malak.  They won't know what hit them.  Smile; there is hope at last.//