Chapter 22
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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO:         Korriban’s dark mistress stalked into the forward cockpit of the EREBUS, the train of her obsidian robe dragging along the metallic grates of the deck at her feet. The Sith Lord whom she called her lover sat silently in the pilot’s chair, staring out of the forward window and through the magcon field into the twinkling stars of deep space. His expression betrayed an inner tumult, but she need not see his face to know his mood.

            She took her place at his side and ran her fingers through the silvery-white strands of Korriban’s hair. “What troubles you, love?” Her voice was a soothing purr as she leaned her chin atop his shoulder.

            He responded in a lie and kept his gaze out among the distant stars. “There is nothing which troubles me.”

            “A falsehood.” She accused.

            “A decision.” He retorted.

            Jadeite sighed, more out of concern than exasperation. “One can not decide such things, my love,” she placed her hand under his chin and slowly drew his gaze to hers. “No more than he can change the course of the stars.”

            The Sith Lord met her eyes for a moment and then again turned aside, “My concerns are mine and mine alone.”

            Noting that her tactics were not working, she chose a different route, leaning closer to his ear and whispering sourly in his ear, “It’s because of her, isn’t it?”

            Korriban turned his eyes back to her, but didn’t speak.

            Jadeite only stared back at him, searching those twin amber coals for any sign of a reaction. She had hoped to bait him to anger, force him to reveal his true emotions. But he only gave her that steady gaze and something in his glowing eyes told her she had failed to provoke him. The Sith Lord’s mistress was about to apologize for her failed ploy when Korriban spoke.

            “If you truly wish to know, then stay your speech for but a moment.”

            “I—“

            “Shh.” He put a finger to his lips and Jadeite recoiled, taking a seat in the copilot chair and settling a quiet gaze on him.

            Though she had known him as a lover for some years, it was rare that her paramour would share more than mere physicalities with her. Their union, though fiery at times and outright violent at others, had been designed for the good of Jadeite’s clan; not unlike the arranged weddings between noble families that had happened on countless other worlds for millennia untold. Though Korriban was hardly noble, his position in favor with the Emperor had earned him respect and high status in the eyes of his peers, gaining him—among other things—Jadeite’s jealous devotion, whether he wished it or not.

            After a moment of contemplation, Korriban looked away from her and turned his eyes back to the stars. “Many years ago, when I was but a dapawan, I traveled with my instructor for an opportunity to kill my first Jedi . . .”

            A sea of glass shards littered the floor around the body of the fallen Jedi, the three cloaked figures standing around her in dark triumph. Though grievously injured, T’meal Aylait still lay conscious, her reddened vision staring defiantly into the shadowy faces of her attackers. They had hunted their prey for a long time, and now intended to prolong her suffering as long as it so pleased them.

            One of the three, the tallest of them, knelt down and gathered a jagged piece of glass from the floor. He examined it a moment, turning it in his hand and grinning with an unnatural cruelty when he found the most serrated edge of it. With a steadiness only capable of a Forcer, he lowered the glass blade to the Jedi’s cheek and began to draw a line of scarlet across her cheek.

            The sound of floorboards flexing under weight drew the attention of the three assassins, most notably the smallest. From across the room at the foot of the stairwell they spied a tiny a girl, nary more than a kitten, staring at the grizzly scene with wide purple eyes, frozen in horror.

            Perdia Detami awoke with a start, sitting up on the couch in Elizabeth Denver’s quarters and clutching the heat-blanket in shock. Her heart was racing and her breaths refused to steady as she stared around the dark room, peering frantically at each of the shadows as if any one of them could be a Sith Lord.

            Jadeite’s eyes widened and her pupils dilated for a moment as she reeled back from the sense of contact.

Korriban simply kept his gaze steady and waited for his mistress to compose herself.

“D—did you?” Jadeite gasped.

“Aye, I felt it.” Korriban nodded, “as I said, she is near.”

“Should you not tell the Emperor?”

The Sith Lord grimaced. “To do such would be to admit my failure. I must find a way to locate her and either turn or kill her of my own accord. Only then can I report to His Holiness with honor.”

Jadeite caught her breath and nodded to herself, sympathizing with her lover’s predicament, but a little unnerved by his comment. “You still speak of him as a god, I see.”

“Still?”

The tone of that word snapped her back and she fell silent a moment. “I—I would not expect one of your influence to still . . . speak of him in such a manner.”

“And why not?” Korriban retorted. “He is the very embodiment of the DarkSide, an avatar of the Force.”

After the steely response she decided that this would not be a good time to debate such things with him. Though Jadeite served the Emperor with every bit of zeal as he did, she had never believed him a god. On the contrary, she had known all too well about the Emperor’s origins to give any stock in such a myth, but if it suited her paramour to refer to him as a deity, she would not contradict him. “I am sorry love, I spoke without thinking.”

“Indeed you did,” Korriban said quietly. “Next time, see that you choose your words more wisely.”

————————————

Zannah Lyles returned to the captain awhile later, having checked their progress through hyperspace and given herself a few moments to mull over her situation. A bit frazzled still from the whole ordeal, she resettled on the bunk opposite her unexpected guest and cocked her ears slightly. "How are you feeling?"

“Been better,” Xavier muttered, sitting up halfway. “I still can’t see . . .”

"That will pass with time." Zannah assured him as she nodded to herself. A moment of awkward silence followed her words and she took the opportunity to weigh her next question. “If I might be so bold—how did you happen to be frozen in carbonite? The Empire doesn’t usually go that far unless they feel the person is extremely dangerous, or . . . special."

"I don’t remember," Xavier said, shaking his head. "They had me hopped up on so many drugs I couldn’t tell which way was down.”

The smuggler frowned, leaning forward. "Well, you certainly don’t act like any criminal I've even known and believe me; I've known a few in my time. But you must remember something . . . they don’t just throw people in the carbon freeze for no reason."

Marc frowned, growing uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was going. The last thing he was certain of was that he had been captured by hostile forces intent on getting information from him. When Zannah had first released him from the carbonite, he had been highly suspicious that this might have been another ploy of his captors to get him to talk. His vague Betazoid sense of her intentions, however, told him otherwise, and he had allowed that intuition to allay his anxiety.

Still, Xavier remained acutely aware that he was dealing with an alien culture he knew little about. Until he could get more information on where he was and what was going on, it would be his duty to divulge as little information about his origins as possible to avoid violating the Prime Directive. But Marc was not the best liar, nor did he particularly wish to deceive her, so he answered her remark with a standard response.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss it. StarFleet proto—“ he paused mid-sentence when he realized his mistake and chided himself silently for not thinking. But it was already too late to take the comment back.

As he had feared, Zannah latched onto the phrase. "Starfleet? What starfleet?"

"Uh, sorry, I misspoke." Marc answered quickly. The lie was transparent, though, and they both knew it.

The Lemorian’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. "No, I don’t think you did. You gave me a pat response, something automatic to you." She leaned back against the far wall of her bunk. "Let me give you some advice, don’t try to feed me a story, I can tell when you're not giving me the whole truth.” Zannah glanced at her feet, “You know what?" she mused, "I don’t even know your name.” She looked up, “You wanna tell me who you really are?"

The captain sighed, "My name is Xavier. Marc Xavier."

She eyed him curiously. "Marc . . . that's an odd name. You're a very secretive person, Mr. Xavier. I don’t think I've come up against mental defenses quite like yours. I wonder . . ." Zannah shifted position, ". . . as you can't seem to tell me why you were an Imperial prisoner; I'm beginning to develop a theory of my own. Mind if I try something on you?"

Xavier gave a half-smile, blinking in the direction of her voice. "Doesn’t seem like I'm in much of a position to resist . . ."

Zannah shrugged, though she knew he couldn’t see it. "So I'm nosy, humor me." She moved over and knelt beside his bunk, reaching up to catch his face in her hands.

A twitch of his ears was the young captain’s initial response as he felt her fingertips come to rest gently on his temples. As much as this might have awakened his apprehension, all he sensed from her was idle curiosity, though he wasn’t exactly sure what she was planning to do.

The Lemorian’s eyes fell closed and she began to stretch out her senses, even as her mind’s eye gazed into the imprints his thoughts left within the ubiquitous field of the Force. But once Marc sensed her thoughts, benign as they seemed, he hastily reached an unsettling conclusion and snapped his hands up to grab her by the wrists. “Wait a second, you’re a Vulc—?“

But before he finished the sentence, something like a spark passed between them, so sudden and violent that it threw them backwards, more Zannah than Marc. The Lemorian lost her contact and was met by a sharp pain on the back of her head as she smacked her skull against the far bunk.

After a few stunned moments, Zannah let out a deep sigh and reached around to the back of her head with a mutter. “Augh . . . well I expected a response but not that much of one . . .” She sat up and checked her hand to make sure she wasn’t bleeding. “Ah—what did you say? A Vulc?”

“Nothing,” Xavier mumbled, suddenly stricken with a splitting headache. “It’s impolite not to knock before trying to barge into someone’s mind, you know . . .”

Zannah nodded to herself. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “But, it seems I was right. You do have Jedi potential."

Xavier craned his head over and stared at her blindly. ". . . what potential?"

A look of surprise and disbelief crossed her face. "Now don’t tell me you don’t know what a Jedi is . . ."

He shook his head.

Zannah was incredulous. "Are you kidding me?" she exclaimed, "Everyone knows something about the Jedi, even if it's only half-remembered bedtime stories.” She folded her arms. "You expect me to believe you had no idea of your ability and you don’t even know what a Jedi is?" She flopped onto her bunk. "What is the galaxy coming to?"

Xavier had the look on his face of a man who was expecting to wake up from a bad dream. "Uh . . . I wouldn’t be able to help you with that one."

Zannah sat up and again narrowed her eyes at him. "Who are you, really?"

"I've told you everything I can. I'm not authorized to disclose any further information." He made a face and ran a hand through his hair, “Now I would appreciate a little quiet.”

The smuggler-Jedi wrinkled her nose, but finally realized she'd met a dead-end. So much for my persuasive nature, she thought dryly and stood. "Alright then, I'm going to the cockpit. Your blindness ought to wear off fairly soon. We're headed for a safe world where you can get to a refresher unit and grab a change of clothes and a warm meal."

Before Xavier could reply, she had already made her way out of the cabin. Left alone, the captain let out an exasperated sigh and tried vainly to get some sleep.

In the cockpit, Zannah dropped into the pilot's seat with a huff. This isn't going as I'd hoped, she thought. Mother always said I was too nosy. I never should have bothered him with all of my questions. I've probably alienated him for good. In any case, I'm going to let Kain deal with it. With her thoughts settled for the moment, she allowed the thrumming of the engines to lull her into a light doze.

———————————— 

Stripped of ever-present thrumming of the enormous command-ship’s ion engines, Sher Khal’Saad sat at the center of his quarters, bathed in silence and darkness. The colorless horizon of the DEATH STAR was visible through a series of viewports, cutting out the lower corner of the otherwise unbroken starscape. As the battle station spun silently on its axis, a series of scorch marks on it superlaser lens came into view, a silent reminder of the boldness the Alliance had shown in their half-successful assault on one of the Emperor’s most treasured symbols of power. But even as the dismal sight persisted, Khal’Saad’s mind laid upon other things, concerns darker even than the empty chambers that surrounded him.

It was not as if the TYRANT lacked the power for lighting; to the contrary, secure and repair efforts were proceeding at a rapid pace. Though the damage to the mighty Super Star Destroyer had been severe, it was not as grave as many had feared. Thousands had perished, but tens of thousands more could have if the Admiral had not been able to prevent his broken ship from diving into the side of the DEATH STAR.

Evacuation efforts were still underway, an unending chain of transports ferrying the shaken survivors off the orbiting command vessel. Khal’Saad, however, remained behind, opting instead to meditate in stillness and silence. Far from simply disquieting him, the impressive and destructive display by the Amazons had built within the admiral a resolve to see this issue properly dealt with. Information on the Yuufusions had become woefully out of date and it was no small failure on the part of the Ubiqtorate to have let the signs of their impending treachery with the Alliance go unnoticed. No doubt, now that this debacle had been laid out for the entire galaxy to see, Sher would be the one tasked with dealing with it.

Captain Ferris warily made his way down the corridor that hosted the living chambers of the admiral, carefully masking the bit of apprehension that he felt. These were, by far, the least traveled corridors of the entire command ship, officers opting instead to go around or take turbo-elevators to their destinations rather than to pass by the gates of the tiger’s den.

As the captain approached, something like a chill swept over him, as if someone had set the air recyclers several degrees too low. But Ferris knew better, this haunting feeling was familiar; Khal’Saad was the type of man who could make one aware of his mood from across a crowded room without as much as eye contact.

Before Ferris’ hand had moved to key in the chime code, the heavy durasteel door to Khal'Saad's chambers hissed open to reveal the shadowed interior. The admiral sat in a pool of dim light projected from above and Ferris received the distinct impression that the lighting was solely for his benefit. The stark illumination deepened the lines of the tiger's face and turned his eyes into glowing coals set into wells of shadow; the effect only served to deepen Ferris' unease.

"What have you to report, Captain?"

Ferris removed his hat and twisted it slightly in his hands. "It's the Emperor, milord. He demands to speak with you . . . without delay."

Khal'Saad nodded, once. "Very well, Captain. Our communications capabilities are fully restored, I trust?"

Ferris indicated the affirmative: "As ordered, milord."

"Excellent. I shall receive the Emperor's communication here; you are dismissed, Captain."

The officer bowed and made no hesitance to leave the room. Once he had departed, Khal'Saad rose and keyed several points on a small console near the far wall. A second blast door slid into place over the main door and locked, completely sealing the room's only exit. A slight whining sound resounded through the darkness as a set of internal sensors swept the entire room, before enabling a privacy field designed to foil even the most ingenious eavesdroppers.

With his chambers secured for transmission, Admiral Khal'Saad walked down to the Holocomm ring set into the floor of his inner sanctum, kneeling and activating the transceiver simultaneously. His voice lost the edge of command which it always held and he spoke with quiet reverence into the stillness.

"What is thy will, my Master . . . ?"

The Emperor’s face appeared before Khal’Saad as an apparition, horizontal lines thrumming across the image as the diminutive fennec looked down upon his servant.

"More perplexing, this mystery grows." The Emperor’s voice was grave, "And now, the treachery of the Amazons. Suspicious, the timing is . . . expected this, even you did not."

"You are correct, Master . . .” Khal’Saad noted. “No one foresaw their arrival. Their capabilities have grown much since they clashed with the Republic." Khal'Saad spoke without expression, his anger with the Amazons and their ill-timed interference carefully restrained. There would be a time and a place to unleash it, this he knew well, but such outbursts were not wise when the Emperor's displeasure was already a distinct possibility.

"Deal with them, you will," the Emperor nodded, "as with Qual'radii and Rith'aiin if you must.” The transmission flickered, “To Kuat you shall come; a ship for you is waiting." The diminutive figure leaned forward, his apparition looming closer to the kneeling admiral. As he spoke, his tone grew ever more serious, "and this time, Khal'Saad, an option failure is not."

————————————

Deano Fuhrer did what he could to crane his head toward the sound of his cell door sliding open. His injuries had been untreated; there was a stale bruise on the back of his neck and the back of his uniform bulged grotesquely from a severe swelling on his spine.

            Lieutenant Moore peered up from where he'd been sitting curled up in the fetal position and looked inquiringly at the new source of light. The old man with strange glasses and greying hair stepped forward. Two other men in white suits appeared behind him and began to carefully move Deano onto an anti-gravity stretcher. The man had the ranking marks of an Imperial Grand Moff on his shirt, but Jamarr wouldn’t have realized that even if he noticed the bars; he was too busy staring in terror at the familiar Imperial.

            Despite an order to rise to his feet, Jamarr refused to budge, and the governor's mood quickly soured. He waved to the guards behind him and they dragged Jamarr from the cell. Once they had vacated the room, Tarvik looked curiously around. "Where's the other one?" he asked.

            "What other one?"

            "The other prisoner." Tarvik said, "There was another one. A tigress I believe; feisty young thing."

            "There have only been two prisoners assigned to this cell since the interrogations, milord.” The man replied, “The detention records show it."

            "That's not possib—" he stopped mid-sentence and then ground his teeth a bit as he realized what had happened. "Korriban . . ."

————————————

            Governor Willhuff Tarvik stalked into Landing Bay 216-4-B, one of the smaller abandoned docking areas of the DEATH STAR where Darth Korriban had opted to station his transport. Though utterly filled with contempt for the Sith Lord’s circumventing his authority, Tarvik knew full well that a frontal assault on the Emperor’s right hand man would be a fool’s errand.

            The Imperial Navy’s interaction with the Emperor’s Sith agents had always been an ambivalent affair at best. The Emperor afforded his Force-gifted followers much latitude when dealing with the military, often to the chagrin of many-an-admiral as it left them with little official recourse when dealing with them. It was not unheard of for a clever and ambitious enough Sith to usurp the official authority of an Admiral, making him or her a slave to his will or even replacing them entirely.

            Men like Tarvik, however, had to rely only on their wits and command of authority to keep the malevolent Force-users in line. Korriban was a man used to doing as he pleased when he pleased, and in full confidence of the Emperor. It was that attitude which had doubtlessly “justified” his abduction of his prisoner, an error in judgment that the old governor would not let go unchallenged.

            An unremitting rapping on the Sith Infiltrator’s access hatch notified the Sith Lord of the governor’s arrival. As he waited, Tarvik composed himself, draining away any signs of inner annoyance or self-doubt and replacing it with a nearly perfect façade of paternal authority. It was that same tactic which had worked so many years before on the last major Sith Lord he had dealt with—a black-masked villain named Darth Vader.

            The hatch to the EREBUS slid up and open, revealing a stark crimson lighting which silhouetted for frame of Darth Korriban.

            Tarvik looked up at the man, unimpressed. “Mr. Korriban, as I understand it you’ve taken custody of one of my prisoners. I demand now that you return her to me.”

            Korriban simply shook his head, the scarlet light lending a tint to the stark white strands of his hair. “I am afraid that’s not possible; she is not fully recovered from her ordeal.”

            Tarvik clenched his jaw slightly, “we have med-droids who can attend to that.”

            “I—“

            The governor leaned forward, craning toward the Sith Lord’s ear. He spoke in a whisper, his tone softening a bit, “I can understand if you fancy her, but she must be returned to her comrades in good health. If you’ve any unsavory plans for her, I suggest you carry them out when she is not conscious, I don’t need to lay out the diplomatic difficulties it would cause if she were to remember . . .”

            “Ahem.”

            Tarvik turned around at the sound to find the cold eyes of Amaranth Jadeite staring at him. Tarvik took an involuntary step back and bumped up against Korriban. "M-Mistress Jadeite," Tarvik nodded, "I was not informed of your arrival."

            “Obviously.” She growled.

            Korriban stepped past the governor and took his place at Jadeite’s side. "Milady prefers to travel unannounced.”

            No kidding, Tarvik thought. All at once, it seemed, the governor’s plans were coming crashing down around him and all he was left with was a set of demands to lay at the Sith Lord’s feet. “Her colleagues will be departing the station in 72 standard hours. I expect her to be prepared for departure before then, understood?”

            Korriban nodded and allowed a slight smirk to cross his face, “As you wish, Governor Tarvik.”

            With that, the older man made a hasty retreat.

Chapter 22
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