For the Republic: Part 19B

A/N: Again, many thanks to TascaLumina and VengaFett for being great betas and everyone else for reading. :)

9 months before betrayal. [Victorious]

Revan’s slumber was unusually fitful. She flailed restlessly in her bed, twisting into the blankets. A voice, sweet and soft, was filling her head. A young, familiar voice.

Zana.

       Let him go, Revan.

Let him go?

       Jaq. He’s leaving. Let him go.

But…! Revan shot up in bed, covered in sweat, heart racing. A dream? If that was Zana, is she dead? One with the Force? She can’t be.

Rather than investigate Jaq’s whereabouts--she wouldn’t be able to detect him, in any case—she flopped back onto the bed, giving in to exhaustion. As sleep reclaimed her, Revan’s thoughts were of the boy who’d once saved her life and the girl who’d once been an immovable fixture in it.

8 months before betrayal. [Ord Radama, planetside]

“Another.”

“Are you sure, sir? You certainly seem inebriated enough to suit most sentient needs.”

“Another.”

“Right away, sir.”

“Thankshoo.” Carth Onasi tossed back his fifth shot of Corellian whiskey before repeating, “Another.”

“I’m sorry. You have reached the legal limit based on estimated weight and height, and I am no longer able to serve you alcohol in this establishment.” A swift punch set the droid stuttering.

“Fine. I’ll go shomewhere elsh.” Carth stood, stumbling and tripping toward the door. Looking back at the other partrons, his hazy mind grasped at his reason for being on ‘whatever planet this is’ in the first place. “Hash anyone sheen,“ Carth rummaged through a trouser pocket, producing a small square card, “thish boy?”

On the card, a child of roughly twelve years old played hologames with his father. Morgana had been filming, and it was the first of many times that Dustil would best Carth in the flight simulator game. Coupled with his love of ships and Carth’s credentials, Dustil was due to enroll in the academy next year. Was.

Turning a bleary eye to the moving images, Carth thought the year of retirement had been the best year of his life.

“We lived on Telosh; he may have been on one of the shuttles that eshcaped. Anyone? Pleash…”

A few of the patrons who seemed to be listening called out,

“Try Nar Shaddaa, buddy!”

“Or Bonadan.”

“Heard some of the refugees ended up on Donovia.”

Carth’s eyes fell, shoulders slumped, as he tried to smile, to show some sign of gratitude he simply couldn’t feel. “Thansh. I did…” Well, he hadn’t tried Nar Shaddaa, but it was the last resort. Carth slogged out of the cantina, unaware of where he was or where he was headed, and far beyond sobriety or care.

So it was that when Carth found his progress impeded and the world turned upside down, he was slightly confused. Where was he?

“Hey, guy, you okay?”

Carth groaned as he was turned over.

“Don’t we…Jerik, don’t we know this guy?” Uillie stepped close, the other members of their squad on her heels.

“Frig! It’s Carth Onasi; here, help me. Dyrna, Marius, c’mon!” The four grunted under the deadweight of the drunken pilot, hefting him into their speeder and back to their hotel room.

As Carth slept, passed out in one of the beds, Dyrna placed a call to the admiralty.

Yes, it is Carth Onasi…Yes, we’re sure…Missing since Telos?...Yes, sir…He’s currently passed out, drunk…Yes, sir. Of course. Out.

“Our instructions?” The four Republic pilots lounged in the kitchenette of their suite. Marius had lit a cigarra, filling the air with rich, bittersweet smoke, but he put it out as their squadron leader returned.

Dyrna arched a brow and gave him a half-smile. “He’s going back to the ship with us, of course.”

In the time it took Carth to clean-up and shape-up, he learned two things: the Republic was, again, preparing for war, and they were desperate for experienced officers. It was no secret he’d been in the Mandalorian Wars and that he’d made more than his fair share of spectacular maneuvers and close calls. The admiralty took all of this into account before welcoming him back into the fleet. He’d abandoned his post after Telos, but they were willing to forgive it, mark it ‘grief-induced temporary insanity,’ and bury it in his files…if…

Carth had wearily signed his name across the line, instantly promoted to commander, complete with ship and crew. His vessel, the Endar Spire, was one of the new capital ships produced between the wars to replace the Interdictors Revan had stolen. It didn’t have an interdiction field generator, but it was undeniably fast and capable despite its bulk.

He was a good commander, too. Always available for his crew, reliable, competent, fair. No one knew the darkness he felt. The anger, a constant companion. The guilt. Each young ensign was Dustil. Morgana met him around every corner.

The only thing his crew knew was that the commander often sat alone in the cantina, glassy eyed, drinking nothing and sliding a small holovid card around on the palm of his hand.

6 months before betrayal. [Civilian Transport, bound for Corellia]

The captain was a wisp of a man. Brown skin clung to his skeleton, stretched taut and thin. A vein pulsed at his temple. His eyelid twitched nervously as he spoke, fingering his lapel and rocking on his heels. Bright eyes shone in his dark face and clean straight teeth peeked out of his mouth each time it opened. He seemed aware that he was being scrutinized, examined, but unable to pinpoint the source. Jaq smirked to himself as he stood at the back of the group of passengers. It was his third transport, the third leg of his trip, and his third captain--by far, the most interesting, with his tics and habits.

The captain licked his lips before continuing. “…First Mate Arneau will coordinate getting’ you to your cabins. We should arrive on Corellia in three standard days. She’s a good ship, and she’ll getcha there.”  He turned on his heel, retreating to the cockpit and leaving his crew to tend to the passengers. Jaq winced at a sudden flurry of emotions and thoughts around him as people began milling about, wishing again that he knew how to turn it off. Damned people. Damned Jedi. The new…whatever Celeste had done to him…it was making him into a bit of a hermit.

“Right, then, Mr. Dorton, follow the ensign.” The first mate motioned toward a teenage boy before ambling down the main corridor. The boy didn’t even bother to wait for Jaq before taking a separate thin, dark corridor. He stopped at one of the last rusty, gray doors. “Here ‘tis, Mister Dorton.”

“Mr. Dorton was my dad. You can call me Atton,” he drawled with a wink. Entering the dank room, Jaq…Atton pulled out a flask, pretended to take a long sip, then passed it over to the ensign. The boy peered at him, took his own long drink, and handed it back. With a grin, he left Atton alone and sauntered back toward the main hold. Good kid.

Glancing around at the meager accommodations, he had to laugh. “So this is what 500 creds’ll getcha?” It was basically a closet with a small cot and a threadbare blanket. But it was away from the others; no more thoughts invaded his mind. It was enough. Collapsing onto the makeshift bed, he closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep.


~*~

THWOOMP!

Atton sat up in the dark, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. How long was I… He hadn’t intended more than a nap.

THWOOMP!

He’d been dreaming, again. He’d never dreamed until Celeste messed with…It was about the war and…

THWOOMP!

“What the hell is that?!” Atton was out the door in seconds and inching his way along the empty hallway, muscles taut and coiled on instinct. Nearing the main hold, he paused. He’d learned to trust such intuitions since the day he saved that pilot on Courageous. They’d become more frequent over the years and they were never wrong. Currently, they held Atton’s feet in place. Peering around the corner and into the hold, he saw a hand…then the body attached to that hand. At least, what was left of it. A movement caught his eye and Atton pulled back in time to avoid detection by…

Mandalorians!? his mind screamed.

Thankful for the training that prevented him from gasping in surprise, Atton watched them pass through the hold. He only picked up mumbled bits of conversation, but gathered that they thought they’d found everyone. Killed everyone, in fact. I guess I’ll come as a shock, then. He grimaced at the familiarity of that thought. Of the situation.

With a deep, cleansing breath, he removed a short, curved blade from beneath his black jacket with the mental reminder to get a new outfit before attempting to blend in with normal society, assuming he’d live that long.

Of course, he knew he would. Failure wasn’t an option for Jaq Rand. Nor for Atton. Even against five fully armed Mandalorians. Closing his eyes, he reached out to recount. Make that six. The Force slithered over his skin and dripped through his veins...Just a month before, it had seemed so simple. Until he realized he was using the Force with every breath, just as Celeste had told him. He’d always used it. He was one of them. Another wave of nausea threatened, and he lost track of his count. It didn’t really matter.

Fishing into another pocket, he palmed a small laser cutter and checked that the hold was now empty.

He slipped amongst the shadows, sliding up behind a lone Mandalorian raider who was searching through the cargo hold. Silently placing the laser cutter at the base of the enemy’s helmet, he discharged a single high-powered beam into the weakest point in the armor. The laser easily passed through the seam and into the Mandalorian’s brain stem, severing it as it had many Jedi before. He fell with a thud, softened by the crates and bags on which he landed. Atton winced as a pain shot through his own skull.

One down, five to go. And I thought I was done with this stuff.

He moved throughout the ship, repeating the same maneuver, catching the Mandalorians unaware. His mind couldn’t help but compare them to Jedi; they were easier, in a way, but he couldn’t reconcile himself with the violence. Not now, after he’d sworn off any more killing. Now that he was so damned sensitive.

~*~

Lugging the last of the lifeless Mandalorians into the airlock, Atton smacked the release and smiled faintly when he heard a satisfying “FWOOSH!”

The airlock was located at the back of the ship, so he used the opportunity to raid the galley, grabbing a case of juma and some kind of nutty wafers. Wandering through the silent halls, Atton wondered vaguely about the other passengers, where they came from, who they were. Normally, he wouldn’t care, but they were dead and he was beginning to get reacquainted with some long forgotten emotions: namely, sympathy and regret.

A better man would have saved them, somehow. A better man wouldn’t have slept through the whole damn thing. Hell, from the beginning, a better man wouldn’t have taken the cheapest accommodations possible just to avoid the others.

Atton’s frustrated expression screwed up his face for a minute as he tried to find self-control. He just had a lot on his mind, he told himself, and this was one more thing to deal with. His mood had nothing to do with the child he saw on the floor of the main hold has he passed through. Nothing to do with the bodies he stepped over on his way to the cockpit. The obvious, crude mistreatment of some of the hapless passengers.

He’d decided to barricade himself in the cockpit and wait for the autopilot to get him to Corellia. It would, eventually. He could deal with the passengers – bodies, just bodies, not passengers – tomorrow.

Trying to distance himself from the problem seemed to only call his attention to it.

The cockpit hatch stood half-open when he reached it and, steeling his nerves, Atton entered expecting to find a gruesome scene. Instead, only the gray durasteel tiles and viewport visors greeted his gaze. Apparently, the crew had closed the visors against the blue streaks of hyperspace, likely asleep when the Mandies arrived. Computers lined the walls and console, humming and beeping. One particular beep sounded more insistent than the others, commanding attention, and Atton inched closer, staring down at a small, red, blinking light. Tiny white print above the light read “PROXIMITY.”

He stared at it a moment longer before the noise became too much and he frantically started searching for the fix – a button, a lever, a voice command. Instead, his hand came down on the visor release.

The visors retracted, slowly folding into the bulk of the ship, and Atton gasped, going still.

He gasped again, breath heaving, and staggered back a few steps.

“What? What the fra--!”

The ship rocked, and the proximity alarm grew louder, more urgent. Looming, filling the viewports, was a planet. No streaking blue lines. No black space. The tan orb filled his vision, growing larger by the second. A pleasant feminine voice chimed above him, “Lockdown commencing. Autopilot cannot re-engage. Please prepare for descent and manual landing.”

Descent?! Manual landing!

Of course. It was something he should have foreseen. Would have foreseen if he wasn’t so preoccupied. Some part of his mind berated his carelessness, accused him of going soft and sentimental, but he ignored it.

Slamming into the nearest chair, Atton put both hands on the manual stick, wondering if anyone had ever even used it before, and watched as the surface of the planet rose up to meet him. His last thought was of the flying lessons he never took.

~*~

Cold.

Cold and sore.

Hungry, too.

Sitting up slowly, Atton felt around. No broken bones or cuts, just a bump on the head. Shaken, he inched to his feet to assess the damage. The viewports, shattered on impact, opened onto a desert landscape, sand in all directions, a hot, dry wind flitting through the devastated cockpit.

The hatch was still locked. Two bottles of juma had survived, as well as the wafers, whose taste seemed to resemble sawdust, but at least he had food. For now.

Sure that the ship was junk – and unable to fly it, anyway – he wandered back to his chair to think. A glance at the main pilot’s seat caused his mouth to dry up, and sweaty palms reached up to flip a long lock of hair back behind his ear as he stared at a large slab of glass from the viewport, impaling the chair. If I’d sat there instead… Somebody, or something, wanted Atton alive, and he muttered silent thanks to the gods and, grudgingly, to Celeste’s Force, before scrambling over the console and out of the main viewport.

The gritty air was full of sand, it blew in whorls that traveled the landscape. Thin cyclones of dust and heat. Trudging across the shifting dune, Atton made his way to the back of the ship. It was in worse condition than expected. Ripped in half, the cockpit had landed some distance from the main body. But the galley was in that half, so he pulled his shirt up over his mouth and nose, and had started walking, making careful progress toward food.

Gathering supplies was easy. The cabinets, full of nonperishable space crap, had emptied onto the floor and Atton gathered everything he could find, filling pockets, his jacket rigged as a bag, shoving things down his tucked-in shirt. He took a huge bed sheet from the nearest passenger room and filled and tied it off. More wafers, juma, blue milk from concentrate, nutrient pills, and even a prized bar of choclat that he desperately hoped would make it back to the cockpit.

Purified water, likely the most important of his provisions, was also in the shortest supply. While much of the alcohol was kept in locked, sealed containers to prevent passengers from accessing it with frequency, the water bottles had been stored in plain sight. On impact, most had burst, running out of the bottles and into the ship’s disposal system. Normally it would be recycled and bordering on drinkable. In the ship’s current state, it was simply lost. Still, at least he was able to grab a few bottles of water. Maybe someone would find him before he ran out.

He took only slight comfort in the fact that he could drink himself to death, if needs be, on the sheer amounts of juma and whiskey available in the nearby metal containers.

On a whim, he threw in a handful of blunt dinner knives, as well.

Vaguely aware of the many dead scattered throughout that part of the ship, he stepped out into the desert once more. The journey back was slower. Leaden as he was, Atton’s feet sank into every step, sweat stung his eyes, and tickled as it ran in rivulets from his hair to his brow and down between his shoulder blades. A gust of hot wind tugged at his nearly shoulder-length locks, slinging more sweat into his eyes and plastering the hair across his face. Stopping yet again, he wiped at the hair and vowed to get it cut. He’d allowed it to grow, erasing the spartan military cut he’d worn since he joined the fleet. He would never wear it that short again, but something in between would be better than this.

His grunt was the only sound as he hefted the various packages up and over the side of the cockpit and into the viewport of the wrecked ship. Again, he was thankful to whatever or whoever was responsible for his survival. It certainly hadn’t been his piloting skills. I always had that dumb pilot before, the deaf-mute. Shoulda paid more attention.

As he sat in his chair, juma in one hand, wafers in the other, Atton found himself very much aware of the quiet. On his way back to the ship, he’d decided the lack of sounds wasn’t due to the disturbance of the crash. There simply weren’t any animals. No life at all. Just rocks and sand and wind. And while it was great to be alive, he supposed, he wasn’t sure how long it would last.

A few months ago, he’d nearly chosen death. But now that he had chosen life, he didn’t see how he was going to get out of this.

~*~

Three days after crash.

“Oh, gods, I’m bored!” With no one around, Atton had taken to talking to himself. Out loud.

~*~

1 week after crash.

Atton was starting to worry. Both about his water supply and his diminishing mental health. “One thing at a time,” he muttered, digging a bit deeper into the pit. It needed to be deep enough to hold the bucket he’d scrounged from the ship, but wide enough to put more surface area into contact with the air. Every planet he’d ever seen had water…somewhere. Even if it was just the minuscule amount found as water vapor in the air. He spread a large, worn tarp across the hole, securing the four corners carefully with excavating spikes, also scrounged from the ship—the crew must have been sometime treasure hunters, as well. At the center of the suspended tarp, he added a small empty case from the cargo hold.

In theory, it should work. His survival trainers had certainly thought so. He’d just never thought he would need to see it in action.

Each night, the temperature around Atton had dropped drastically, only to warm again in the morning. With the tarp, he should be able to gather meager amounts of condensation from the air during the cooling phase. The case caused the tarp to angle toward the center in all directions, toward the bucket, and the condensation should, hopefully, flow down into it, ready to be gathered in the morning.

He’d spent a costly amount of sweat on the pit, but with luck, he’d get it back soon. There was no way of knowing how long he’d be here. “Forever” sounded so final that he snorted and rolled his eyes. “Okay, ‘til I get tired of being nuts and blow my head off.” That wasn’t much of an improvement, he decided. Instead, Atton just sat back in his chair and watched the waves of heat in the air, sure he’d found the planet’s water.

~*~

2 weeks after crash.

The pebble lifted, shaking and jumping in all directions. It hovered for a moment before clattering to the durasteel floor. Atton let out a whoop, jumping around, as well. “I did it!! I did it!” The all-too-familiar thoughts regarding his sanity went unheeded as he closed his eyes and focused on a larger object, an empty juma bottle in the corner. In his mind, he saw the bottle steadily floating above the floor and, opening his eyes just a crack, he nearly fell over. The bottle was, indeed, floating in front of him. Of course, the moment he lost his careful concentration, it crashed to the floor, shattering among the scattered pieces of viewport. He set to cleaning it up, biting his lip in contemplation.

He’d only started practicing because pazaak had finally gotten boring. You could only play so many solo rounds before it happened, and he cringed at the thought. Now that he knew he could still do that kind of trick, what good was it?

With the glass cleared, he sat again, sipping on sour, distilled water from the vapor trap and wondering just how long this could last.

~*~

3 weeks after crash.

“Fracking Celeste and her fracking FORCE!” He kicked more sand into the wind and it blew back into his face. Again. He’d been out of food for two days. He still had water, but it didn’t feed him. The rest of the food in the galley had been ruined by the crash and lack of refrigeration, and none of the passengers had smuggled snacks along.

The wind picked up, blowing sand in whirling arcs, bringing it around to hit him again. More began to blow. A storm! His ears were full of sound, a roaring that grew louder. Which direction?

Spinning around to find the storm and an escape route, he found a ship instead. It hovered over his own junk pile, easing to the ground, and finally coming to rest in the sand.

Atton’s first instinct was to run. Right up to the ship, toward people. But the still sane portion of his mind took over and he dropped flat to his stomach. Peering over the top of a dune, he watched the others as they checked his ship for life, stopping near his vapor trap, regarding it with interest. They seemed to discuss for a moment before turning in Atton’s direction. “Oh, frig!”

He scrambled back down the dune only to come face-to-face with the barrel of a carbine rifle. “Going somewhere?”

“No.”

“Good. C’mon.” The man was thin and tall, but he held the rifle naturally enough for Atton to see that he could use it. Without protest, he marched over the dunes, meeting the rest of the group halfway to the crash site.

The apparent leader frowned at Atton, looking him over.  “How long?

“Three weeks? Maybe more. I lost count a while back.”

“How’d you know to come here?” Atton’s confused expression was answer enough. “Anything for salvage on that mess?”

“Why the hell should I tell you?” Of course, his training said not to piss off your captors, but they were the first humans he’d seen in nearly half-a-month and he wanted to keep them talking a while longer.

“Let me rephrase that: I have the option to take you with us or leave you here, at my pleasure. Answer my questions, and we’ll at least stick you in a cell until we get back to ‘Public space.”

“Where are we? What planet?”

“Uncharted. Answer the question. Any salvage?” He glared at Atton, who decided to play along for a while.

“No. No salvage. It was a transport from Druckenwell to Corellia. Most came from Tatooine and Eriadu before that. Some were refugees. Not that it matters; all dead—Mandie raiders.” He didn’t miss the glint of steel that entered the man’s eye. “Damned Mandalorians killed everyone, including the pilots.”

The leader didn’t look convinced. “And where are they? Killed in the crash? They weren’t among the dead, apparently.”

“Oh, I killed them.”

“You?” An arched brow. The crew mumbled around them. There were a few chuckles. But, before they could react, Atton summoned the last of his strength, kicked back, and squatted as the man with the rifle fell forward, rolling over Atton, who expertly disarmed him on his way down. It’d been risky, but he thought maybe a demonstration…Tossing the rifle to the sand, he offered a hand to the fallen scav.

“Yer good, I’ll give you that. You killed a raiding party by yourself?”

“Look, it’s no big deal. I just wanna to get off this sandbox and you’re the first life I’ve seen in weeks. I’m good with a blaster, unarmed, melee. Hell, I’ve been a spy, a soldier…” He didn’t want to give too much of his past away, but enticing them with a good story seemed reasonable.

The leader watched him, obviously contemplating the odds of betrayal, so Atton adopted a calm expression and simply waited in silence.

“Okay.”

As they turned to walk away, Atton watched, confused. “Okay?”

The only response was a shrug and a wave to follow. Another silent “thank you” to…the Force? Maybe. Rolling his eyes, Atton hurried to catch-up.

Aboard the small ship, he introduced himself to the crew as Atton Rand. He didn’t really like the last name Dorton, anyway, and he figured lying as little as possible would keep things simple. Safe.

“Welcome to the Soma. She ain’t much, but smuggling and scaving don’t really require the raciest little number. She’s reliable; more’n you can say ‘bout most schuttas.”

“Where we headed?”

“Gotta take some cargo back to the boss, so we’re bound for Nar Shaddaa.”

Atton’s half-grin quirked into a crooked smile. Nar Shaddaa. He thought it sounded like a good place to get lost.

5 months before betrayal. [Jedi Temple, Coruscant]

It was hot in the council chambers—a tactic on Atris’ part, no doubt, to move the meeting along as quickly as possible. She grew impatient with their debate-and-discuss routine. Unfortunately, it was in her nature, a problem since Kae brought her to the Jedi over 30 years before.

Kavar eyed the other masters who sat around the chamber. Zez-Kai Ell’s empty seat drew his eye more than once, as did the young padawan, Bastila Shan, who sat between Vrook—his old master—and Vandar—an oddity like Kavar, as both masters only returned to Coruscant when called. Neither felt particularly comfortable on the bustling city-planet.

As he watched Padawan Shan, Kavar could feel Atris’ eyes on his back. The familiar sting of jealousy he’d only lately come to recognize and associate with the Echani master. Had Zana been aware of it? He recalled how the two had been friends at one time, though Atris was closer to Revan’s age. And then, one day, they weren’t. What Kavar had mistaken for Atris’ busy schedule, he now saw as active avoidance.

The other emotions coiled within the jealousy were unmistakable. He turned quickly to find Atris still staring before she turned to look elsewhere. She had smiled before looking away, concealing her emotions as best she could, but every thought and feeling was revealed in her posture, the flick of a finger, the delicate flare of her nostrils. She has feelings for me.

As others filed into the large, round room, he continued to muse. It seemed the stories of her cold heart weren’t necessarily true, but nothing good could come of it. He loved Zana—Shouldn’t even have allowed that much…—and no one could fill the gap that was eating at his heart. It had been too many years in the making.

Kavar patted his robes above a hidden inner pocket. Zana’s latest letter from the Outer Rim was tucked within, and he forcefully stifled a grin as Vrook asked for their attention. Vandar stood, looking at each in turn before speaking.

“I have known war. I have known many wars through many human lifetimes. It is never easy, and there are always regrets. Even Jedi have regrets, on occasion.” He whispered the last part, dark eyes no longer seeing the council chambers, but a past long distant. With a small shake of the head, Vandar continued. “But we should not allow such regrets to stifle us into fear, into doubt. Revan is counting on this reaction. She is sure we will again hesitate. If Revan returns from the Outer Rim—“

“Not if—when!” Atris hissed. “She has done so once; she will do so again. We shall lose more than Telos.”

Vandar watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable. “If Revan returns to wreak havoc against the Republic, we must have a plan. Let me suggest that our plan,” he gestured toward Bastila, “sits here. Padawan Shan has developed the seldom manifested skill of Full Battle Meditation. It is true that many Jedi can use a basic form to coordinate the actions of a small squad, but Bastila is able to coordinate still larger groups: armies, fleets. We have tested this and what she lacks in experience, she makes up in skill.”

Atris’ brow arched gracefully, but her expression was hard. “You can’t be serious! She has developed Battle Mediation? The last to do so was Master Sunrider, and even she couldn’t control it well. With her gone, who will train the padawan to—“

Kavar hadn’t noticed the red-head sitting across the room until she cut Atris’ diatribe off with her cool, confident voice. “Fear not, Atris. I will do it. I am not my mother, but she taught me many things before she left. I will guide the padawan.” MasterVima Sunrider watched Atris stutter and finally give up. Her own complacent expression never faltered, something her mother would have praised. He was impressed, both with her self-control and the blatant resemblance to Master Nomi, and returned her nod in his direction.

Vandar made a minute movement, the gesture somehow always enough to attract the attention of the other masters. “It is settled then. Bastila shall train with Vima. Then, she will join the fleet to be placed at their disposal. Is this satisfactory, padawan?”

“I only wish to serve the Republic and the Order as I am needed, Master Vandar. I am grateful for the opportunity.”

He smiled as Vrook stood to gaze around the room. Many of the masters felt the urge to squirm under that glare and it was only through years of self-control practiced as his padawan that Kavar was able to resist. “Members of the Council, it has been proposed that we not only allow my padawan to aid the Republic—a move to which I have tentatively agreed—but that we send other Jedi to fight in their war. Every Jedi who followed Revan is now either dead or fallen to the dark side. Is this the future of the Order? A risk we are willing to take?”

Kavar pursed his lips, tuning out Vrook’s tired argument. All of them, except one, he thought, imagining what she might be doing just then. He was yanked from his reverie, however, when he heard Master Vandar call his name. Everyone was watching him expectantly. “Kavar, did you have something to add? Regarding the war?”

He eyed his former master, who stood proudly beside the small alien. Pride. It was a glaring insult to Kavar’s understanding of the Code.

“Masters, I too know war. The stench of death, the soulless stare of glassy eyes as another life has ended by my saber. I know the pain of arriving moments too late, unable to prevent the atrocities of a conquering army. I have ended the life of more than one child because they begged me to do so, quickly and painlessly. They could not live with the violence done upon them.” He shook beneath the weight of the years, having never uttered these things to another living being. Everything he’d wanted to spare her. “I do not wish to repeat those times. I wish never to arrive too late, again. I suggest, with due humility and reverence to my esteemed master”—he nodded to Vrook, who just scowled—“that we set up defenses now, soon, to prepare for her inevitable return. And I suggest we strike her hard and fast.”

“Very well; we shall discuss this further this afternoon. As for other matters, Master Tamash, you wished to address the Council?”

“Yes. I have come to discuss the agricultural proposals for Drasas VII…”

It was a hollow victory, and Kavar sat quietly through the rest of the meeting, fingers trailing across his lightsaber hilt, visions of Yavin and a younger Vrook filling his head.

4 months before betrayal. [Star Forge]

“Holoreports, my Lord.” The newest of her administrators stepped forward carrying a disk. As he slipped it into the slot below her viewscreen, Revan mused that he seemed more reliable than her last, though none of them had truly done their predecessor justice. It was important for Revan to be surrounded by competent servants. Replacing those who were not, well, it made sense.

Smirking beneath her mask, she wondered what it would take to replace Malak.

“Lord Revan,” the report started, “as always, it is a pleasure. We have many fine young students to present to you, as always—those nearing the halfway point in their training. They began their careers with us as children, our youngest recruits, and their progress has been astounding.”

A roster appeared before Revan and she grunted, “All.” Uthar’s voice began droning in the background, commentary to each of the portraits being displayed. A young girl, blond, thin, passed across the screen. “Stop.” The child was around fourteen years old, but those eyes…She made a note on her datapad: “Selene Dennat,” followed by “Seer?”

“Continue.”

More droning and passing of portraits. Revan’s mind wandered. So many young recruits. By the time they are adults, the war will have ended and they will be the new citizens of the Sith galaxy. The new nobility.  Master Kavar always said—her heart didn’t even clinch—that children are the embodiment of hope for the future. So much potential shouldn’t go to waste.

“STOP!” A sharp, mechanical voice boomed across Revan’s sitting chambers, reverberating in the silence that followed.

“Malak? I was just thinking about you.” Behind her mask, Revan sneered at her husband, who stood gawking at the screen. Try as he might, he couldn’t hide the underlying current of excitement…and something darker underneath, something hungry.

“Can I…can I have him, Revan? I need an assistant, and it states he is an historian. I need an assistant…”

The need amused Revan, who answered with a non-committal nod and a “We’ll see.” Revan added another name to her datapad: “Dustil Onasi,” along with the notation “For Malak” written alongside.

~*~

Sith Training Academy, Korriban, three weeks later.

Lord Revan’s heavy presence filtered through the corridors, permeating the dark corners of the academy. The young Sith felt the darkness roll over them, and there were few who didn’t blanch and shudder. She stopped at each “niche” in the dormitory wings, conversing with the students, making small talk.

When Revan reached Dustil, she looked at him for a moment, reading his presence in the Force, perhaps even his thoughts. He tried to think proper Sith thoughts—power, strength, victory—and pushed all of his thoughts of home, Selene, and Father to the back of his mind. She wasn’t as tall as he expected, and, when she spoke, her voice was neither loud nor soft. It was a clear, ringing bell in the darkness, filling up the room…yet, at the same time, cold and steely.

“Hello, Dustil.” He hadn’t told her his name. “Are you enjoying your time at my academy?” A black and red mask hid her expression, but he hoped she was smiling.

“Yes, my Lord Revan.”

“And what, exactly, do you enjoy here?”

“The…the knowledge I…gain each day, my Lord. I enjoy learning.” It wasn’t what he’d planned to say. It was as if the thought compelled him to speak of its own will.

“Knowledge…Yes, knowledge can serve us well. Curiously, it is also one of the tenets of the Jedi Code.”

Dustil paled further. She’s going to kill me.

“No, I’m not going to kill you.” She paused, as if considering. “Malak would like you, Dustil. The Star Forge contains a vast archive of knowledge gathered from across the galaxy, which he has undertaken to study. When you’re finished on Korriban, you will come to the Star Forge to serve as his assistant. Does this please you, young apprentice?”

A terrifying vision flashed before his eyes: He was lounging in Lord Malak’s bed, the Dark Lord’s apprentice gently stroking his hair; his own hand reaching out toward pale flesh… Revan laughed. It was a terrifying sound, but only fractionally so compared to his vision. Her vision; what Revan wanted him to see.

There was a long, silent pause that followed the echo of her metallic laughter and it seemed forever before she spoke again. “Dustil…yes, you will be Malak’s assistant. He will like you very much.”

“Y—yes, my Lord Revan.”

The Dark Lord abruptly reached up and touched his cheek with a gloved hand. “Shame about Telos.” She laughed again, moving away, her entourage close behind, as Dustil desperately held back his tears.

What he couldn’t know was that Lord Revan had made a decision that day. When she saw into his mind—his mother dying in his arms—something twisted inside her. Her own mother’s screams filled her thoughts and Revan bit back a sob. She would deny Malak’s request, though she wasn’t going to tell Dustil. Maybe he could use his fear to grow a backbone.

The Sith Lord nodded, vowing that Malak would not have the boy with whom she had found such fundamental common ground.