Bastion

Conclave Executor Two sat down quietly, posture perfect; attentive, though of course the red mask could have hidden even utter boredom. He was the picture of contrast when placed as he was next to Dej Kilnar, a smirking, slouching reporter equipped with ready wit and not much loyalty to anything but the concept of the Empire. A long time ago, Two would have reprimanded the man for what seemed to be blatant disrespect in the presence of Governor Theren Gevel.

But things were changing, in Two’s world.

“Well, I’m sure you know why you’re here,” Theren began, seeming to regret the clichéd words as soon as they’d left his mouth. Nonetheless, he carried on. “This is a strange case, Two, and I don’t think the Executorial Legion is equipped with the… faculties, to fully examine it.”

The debriefing from the events on Bespin had taken a long time. The Executorial Legion operated independently from the Conclave – even from Theren Gevel himself, in many ways – and though information was passed freely through the intergalactic digital net connecting the brain implants carried by every Executor, synthesizing what had happened on Bespin had not been easy for a group so very used to rigid thinking.

And so, stripped of his armor and locked in a detention complex in the Bastion Underground for weeks on end, Two had sat contemplating the choices that had brought him there. The decision to let Dej Kilnar live, despite the decision that the semi-unified consciousness of the Executors to terminate him disturbed him, now that he’d made it. Even more so, his decision to flee the falling Cloud City with the reporter.

“It’s standard Executorial policy to terminate any unit disobeying orders, or causing the death of another Executor. I’ve never entirely agreed with that policy, but I try to let the Legion operate as a cohesive unit,” Theren said. “Many Executors – Three and Four specifically – feel you intentionally escaped when you’d both agreed to die as a way to fuck with the system – get ahead.”

Any time an Executor was killed or discovered – a fate one in the same, since self-termination was the accepted protocol in the event of an Executor’s mission being uncovered – his partner was expected to provide a sufficient reason for the other’s death, or be faced with severe punishment. Sometimes this meant death; sometimes it meant the end of that Executor’s authority, and their being moved to the “end of the line”, so to speak. That is to say, the Legion’s operatives were numbered one through one-hundred, and when one died, his partner would often be shifted to position ninety nine, and each of the other teams would be shifted up by two. To outsiders, this made very little sense, but to Executors, devoid of identity, a simple change of an identifying number was insignificant. “My liege,” Two said slowly, “please understand… this is not… no Executor would willfully intend such a thing.”

Theren raised an eyebrow. “I know that no Executor would, Two. But I’m sure that…” The Governor’s voice trailed off. “You and I aren’t the only ones who know.”

Two hung his helmeted head. “Is it so obvious?”

Dej Kilnar finally spoke up. “Now just one second here. What are we talking about, here? Are you saying that two isn’t an Executor just because he refused to commit pointless suicide?” He shot a look at Theren. “Because let me tell you something, he was ready and willing to go down with that station. I was the one who convinced him not to. I’m prepared to accept full responsibility for that.”

“That is not what he means,” Two said.

“Then, what?”

Theren sighed. “The Kaminoans have only ever made two mistakes during their time in my service. The first was involving the Alpha squad of the 3rd Legion’s 13th Century. An entire batch of clones was corrupted – during the genetic alteration process involving brain patterns. They were ready to kill every last fucking one of them, too, until I stopped them. You’re looking at the second.”

“What does that mean?” Kilnar asked.

“It means that the Kaminoans got better, but not good enough. This time, it was only one unit; Two. He was a child when they found out. No amount of corrective training could change it.”

Kilnar was quickly growing frustrated. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means that Two’s brain patterns differ from the norm. They are not as restricted as most Executors are; he enjoys the single-minded determination and collaborative ability of the others without incurring the cost – or curse – of their simple thought processes. He’s closer to human than the others.”

“So, what?” Kilnar said, frowning. “Is that something to be ashamed of?”

“I never said it was,” Theren muttered back harshly. “Two, do you know what the Executorial Legion has recommended for you?”

“I would assume their judgment to involve death. And if so, I accept it – I do not believe I can properly serve –”

“That’s enough. I’m not going to kill you, Two. I’m not even angry. I’m not a murderer and I don’t condone what you and One decided to do. And I know that it was more him than you – don’t try to tell me otherwise. Your unthinking obedience has always been more forced than natural.”

“My lord,” Two said, again invoking one of his flattering names for Theren, “you know I will accept whatever judgment you dole out. But you know the others will resent you for interfering –”

Theren had always wondered whether Two’s excessive flattery and loyalty to him was forced or actual. He knew that Two was a believer in the Imperial ideal and more so a believer in Theren’s ideals; he knew that his belief was not blind faith but intelligent trust. But he didn’t know whether the names were an exaggeration to hide his own deviant thoughts or genuine adoration. “Two,” he cut the Executor off again. “The other Executors are not like you. They don’t understand. They can’t understand. You have to stop being ashamed of that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Two,” Theren said again. “I mean it. You can say ‘yes sir’ all you want, but we both know you have a mind of your own. You have a gift.”

“Yes, sir.”

Again Theren wondered if it was forced or not. “Again, I’m not having you killed. In fact I’m offering you the position of One. I like the idea of someone who can think for himself in charge of the Executorial Legion. You’re free to decline of course, but either way you are returning to active duty.”

Two shook his head. “You know I have to decline, sir.”

“No, Two, you don’t.”

“I do.”

Theren sighed. “Well, then I will have a replacement One made.”

“Yes. And… thank you, sir.”

“Don’t mention it. Dismissed.”

The reporter and Executor got up and left, striding confidently away. “Well, that went pretty goddamn well, I’d say, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” Two said quietly. Under his helmet, behind the emotionless black of the dome’s eye-slits, there was something that few Conclave Executors had ever experienced; tears of gratitude. Things were changing, in Two’s world; but for better or for worse, he still didn’t know.

On Approach to Bakura

Samantha Koortyn rubbed her forehead and temples ineffectually in an attempt to assuage the throbbing pain in her skull. The swirling vortex of hyperspace almost always gave the smuggler migraine headaches, which was why she usually stayed far away from the cockpit of her YT-2400, Thera, while traveling at light speed.

However, she’d foolishly decided that the final trip from Utropollus to Bakura was the perfect opportunity to upgrade the instrument panel again, adding more shortcuts to compensate for her lack of a proper copilot. Sam had been so engrossed in the work that she hadn’t noticed the steadily increasing ache until it exploded like a thermal detonator behind her eyes, forcing her to quickly find her pilot’s chair and sit down before she lost her balance.

Now, her astromech Frak was making disparaging sounds and swiveling his dome back and forth as he extended a manipulator arm containing a stimshot toward the blonde woman.

“I don’t want to hear it, Frak,” she replied, her voice almost a whisper as she took the stim from the droid and injected it directly into her neck, the hissing sound masking her sigh of relief as the medication began to take effect. Stimshots never completely got rid of her migraines, but they certainly took much of the edge off, and Sam cursed herself for never having tried them before now.

Don’t be ridiculous; it was your Imperial upbringing, the logical part of her mind told her. And although she knew now that her particular upbringing was not quite typical, consisting of an abusive father and no mother, it was essentially true; she’d been taught from an early age to hide pain from others and ignore it in herself. This attitude had persisted until well into adulthood, and it had taken getting shot in the leg when the planet she had been vacationing on had been attacked and she herself taken prisoner – by the same Imperials – to change her attitude. The only way she’d been able to effect an escape had been the steady influx of analgesic, offered by multiple injections into the festering wound in the absence of real medical care, for two full days.

And since then she’d never looked back. Stimshots, the smuggler had discovered, had other benefits too; keeping the nightmares away being just one of them.

Absently tossing aside the empty stim tube, Sam stood and smoothed her military surplus pants, then ran her fingers through her short blonde hair and stretched her back muscles, tightened from hunching over the instrument panel for too long. To anyone watching, the tall young woman appeared athletic, if a little on the thin side, and attractive, despite dark circles under her ice blue eyes. But no one was watching save for Frak, and he’d long since given up chastising his creator for drinking more than eating, and using stims to avoid sleeping any normal length of time.

Instead, the astromech plugged into the scomplink nearby, and whistled a few low informative notes, a plaintive edge nevertheless creeping into his tone.

“Already?” Sam responded. “I was working longer than I thought, for us to be this close.” She resisted looking out the transparisteel windows at the swirling grey-white eddies of the vortex, lest her headache come back full force, instead leaving the cockpit and heading for her quarters in the aft section of the freighter.

Doing so required that she go through the cargo hold, empty now but recently filled with the latest shipment of high-tech medical equipment, the same cargo she’d been carrying for weeks now, from Bakura to Utropollus and then back again for more. Sam had just completed the last run for this particular job, and she was glad. The Black Dragon Empire had contracted her services for what on the surface seemed to be a completely legitimate series of shipments, at contraband prices, and she’d jumped at the chance to do something halfway legal for once, without compromising her income.

But upon commencing the initial run, and opening the first and subsequent crates while in transit, Sam had an increasingly bad feeling about the whole thing. The blonde smuggler considered herself an expert in advanced technology, but after fruitlessly examining the contents of each and every crate, she realized that the full shipment, easily carried in a larger freighter all at once, had been split up into smaller portions for exactly one reason: so people like Sam couldn’t figure out what the end result would be.

Well, none of my business, shrugged the smuggler, donning her black nerf-leather jacket over a grey knit shirt, and tucking a holdout blaster beneath it into the waistband of her pants, in preparation for her final landing. She re-entered the cockpit and took her seat just as Frak, through his link to the navcomputer, pulled Thera out of hyperspace over the Bakura system.

TIme to get paid.

<B>Bakura.</b>

The name evoked the same image in the mind of nearly every civilized being in the Black Dragon Empire. Bakura: Bright center of outside commerce in the Imperium, cynosure in manufacture of repulsor coils and exportation of namana fruit, crown jewel of the Imperium's outposts outside of the Tion Cluster. Bakura, the epitome of culture and learning for those within the Imperium who lived outside of Tion's borders, synthesis of many research and experimental facilities, including ID Tech.

The meeting place had been suggested by the contact; it was located in one of the outer-rimmed buildings in the capital city of Salis D'aar. Standing by the catwalk that led toward the landing platform, Caas Dom'or waited for General Grevious and his entourage of aides and soldiers. Caas, a handsome fellow older in age, was clad in elegant gray trousers, blue spacer shirt, and a flowing black cape. He stood, unsmiling, near Landing Platform 432, waiting for the smuggler, Samantha Koortyn, to arrive. He toyed with the datapad in his hand which contained the partial payment for her. He didn't speak but quietly surveyed the menacing welcoming party that was marching through the corridors toward him. An early morning wind began to sweep along the ground, making Dom'or's cloak fly up behind him like enormous black wings.

The General's party moved toward him until Grevious stopped, three meters apart, to face each other. For a long moment, each one eyed the other silently; the serpentine eyes of the General was studying this petty figure.

Finally Caas spoke, shaking his head and squinting at the cyborg General. "I don't like this," he said quickly, "I see no reason for you to personally involve yourself in this last transaction with me and this smuggler. The shipments have moved without question to their destination. The parts have been delivered. All she awaits now is payment."

The self-assured General appeared unruffled, seeming neither pleased nor displeased by his comments. "I see plenty of reason, Dom'or. You have paid this smuggler a considerable amount of credits to have these neural nanite devices delivered to its location. Because of this, it may have aroused possible suspicion as to why the high payment."

"I told her because she was the best," he answered his concern.

"Playing on her ego will not convince her suspicions," Grevious replied. "No matter," he added with unmistakable finality, "this will be the last time you and your smuggler will serve our purposes."

"What do you mean by that?" Dom'or urged. "What have you planned?"

"The shipments have concluded, therefore, our business has concluded," Grevious said, glancing to one of his Dameun droid guards.

Instantly, the droid bodyguard raised his TC-11 and fired two shots into Caas. He staggared a few steps back, then crumpled by the entrance of the catwalk.

"Unfortunate accident for Dom'or," the cyborg hissed. "Dispose of him before the smuggler arrives."

<center>***</center>

As <I>Thera</i> began its approach through the planet's atmosphere, it soared past several of the Black Dragon Empire's capital ships and patrols. As the ship neared, it swerved to avoid a billowing canyon of clouds that swirled up around the planet.

When Sam finally lowered her ship through the clouds, she got her routine glimpse of the emerald world of Bakura. And as she maneuvered toward its capital, she noticed she had been flanked by three starfighters on their patrol. She recognized the craft as being the Imperium's Deathgliders, but was surprised when one of the fighters began to bank close to her freighter and shot forward. It was a wicked-looking little one-pilot job, its external elegance more reflective of the advanced state of BDE's technology than any demand of design.

The lead Deathglider transmitted a static-obscured message over <I>Thera</i>'s comm system.

"Yes," Sam snarled in reply. "I have a landing permit. I went through your damn blockade just now and transmitted it. My registration is--"

"Stand by," the voice cut her off, "confirming permit." Another Deathglider suddenly appeared on her scopes and began to trail her from behind.

The voice that blared again at her via the comm was an odd mix of empathic and anxious. "Permission granted to land on Platform 432. Any deviation of flight pattern will bring about your immediate termination. You will follow my lead."

Angrily, Sam switched off her comm. By then she could clearly see Salis D'aar through the cockpit window. The city was immense and seemed to be spreading in all directions to the far horizon. <I>Thera</i> dipped closer to the huge city and veered in the direction of its landing platforms, flying past the rising towers and spires that dotted the city's landscape. In and about these structures cruised more Deathgliders, soaring effortlessly on their patrols of the capital.

Sam gently brought <I>Thera</I> in to land on Platform 432; and as the ship's ion engines whined to a stop, the smuggler could see the welcoming party moving toward the landing platform. Unlike her previous welcoming parties, this group included BDE death soldiers, droid guards, and humans who appeared to be military aides. The one who led was the group's leader, who was palely clad from what she could see in the distance.

The smuggler appeared at the entrance of her ship, standing upon the boarding ramp, with her holster unfastened. She didn't speak but quietly studied the figure approaching, who now broke off from the welcoming party and leaving them behind, accompanied by two of his droid guards. His head was composed of interlocking bands of an alloy she'd never seen before. A pale, cowled robe cloaked its body. Through its folds Sam glimpsed his true form: gleaming metallic limbs, six-fingered hands like robotic claws. When he turned his head to face her, the smuggler saw its eyes[font=Times New Roman]. [/font]

[font=Arial][font=Verdana]Golden reptilian eyes, the pupil a black slash, set within blood-colored sockets. He blinked once behind his mask.[/font] [/font]

General Grevious wasted no time with pleasantries. "Captain Koortyn-- are the shipments completed between Bakura and Utropollus?"

<center><img src="http://home.earthlink.net/~swtales/sitebuildercontent/sitebuilderpictures/grev2.jpg"></center>

A few months ago...







The Imperator Class Star Destroyer entered the system during the "Third Watch". The system was nonaligned officially though everyone aboard knew whose interests ran through this part of space.

Grand Marshall Kaine was in an abandoned conference room reading when the ship made the transition from hyperspace and knew it was almost time.

He felt tired.

The "war" between the Outer Rim Sovereignty and the Galactic Coalition had finally ground to a halt on the battlefields of diplomacy. Many had wondered why the Empire did not simply destroy the Coalition once their war-making capabilities had been stripped but Kaine had a ready answer.


They were not the threat.


At least, the Coalition was not the greater threat. Having adopted the defunct New Republic's ideology the Grand Marshall knew it was only a matter of time until it too would vanish.

No, the greater threat was the power that pulled the strings from within the Coalition. The threat felt were from those who orchestrated the war from the beginning, those who held to no decadent philosophy as the New Republic had and the Coalition did.

The greater threat was the Sovereignty. With Kaine settling with the Coalition and reducing their first strike capabilties (much to the consternation of the Military Command and the Regent), the stage was set for Theren Gevel's master plan of hammering the Ison Corridor into submission. The stage was set for the Black Dragon Empire and Farfallen to strike back after the Soveriegnty's own ill-conceived attacks against them. And yet the Sovereignty still clung to life.


Until now...


This was why he had stayed the Empire's hand.

Once Theren Gevel's rage was sated, once the Black Dragon Empire and Farfallen revelled in their day, the Sovereignty was found to still live. A ghost of it's former self to be sure but existence nonetheless. Identity would still be there to tempt fate.


And so, surprising as it was and as Kaine hoped it would be.... It was the Coalition that finally beheaded the dying giant and killed their identity.


And the Sovereignty lived no more.


It had played across the holonet system as many star systems joined in the fanfare and joy. The Grand Marshall smiled for the Empire too had reason for joy. For these times marked the end of yet another enemy.


And the book closed forever on the Outer Rim Sovereignty.


With this "new" Coalition being formed, most within would be in competition for power, in competition to win the people's hearts and spin tales of deeds to come should they vote for him, her or it.


All in all, a lesson never learned. That most of the voters are fools. That most of the voters have no idea what goes on around them. Most have no concept of the politics and pressures when the game is played at such a high level.

And yet, those fools in power put that very power at risk in hopes fooling the fools for another term of several years. If even that.


Still, the Coalition's befuddled politics were no more a concern to Kaine as the thought of Darth Bane rising from the grave to cook him a meal of bantha dung beetles.


The comm sounded and the officer of the bridge watch informed Kaine of that which he already knew.


They had entered Coalition Space.


"Set scans to maximum. Our hosts shall be along soon enough." he commanded.


Admiral Chandler was on Carida lecturing a number of recent TIE Fighter graduates allowing Kaine use of the Victory, a vessel Kaine used as his flagship until the Galactus had been built. His own flag was being refitted and would soon launch, a day that Simon looked forward too with much anticipation.


A good ship, a good crew... and an Empire to back them.


Yes, these were good times...


Kaine's eyes narrowed.


and a time of darkening shadow as well.



In the lull of peace, Kaine had been able to contact High Lord Regrad and arrange this meeting. Given their two government's respective ideologies, a chance like this would not come again.


The High Lord had agreed and they settled on an out-of-the-way place that served as a sort of retreat for the Azguardian.


But Kaine's thoughts were on others.


They are ready. Ready to take their place. Already, some were functioning, serving in different capacities until the full reality of their office takes shape. Karrix went to the Bastion Conclave...


An insular organization to be sure. One that would be the missing piece, the last gear in what made up the machinery of the Empire. A self propelling machinery that would be hard-pressed to be stopped.


After this.... there would be no turning back.


And so, Kaine desired information. Information from the one organization who claimed to watch the happenings of Republic and Empire.


What would their name-sakes think of them, I wonder? Kaine thought.


He idly spun a piece of metal bearing the insignia of the Jedi as he waited for word of Regrad's appearance.


It was almost time.

Sam’s uneasy feeling increased exponentially when she caught sight of the rather large contingent assembled near her landing platform, and if not for the Deathgliders which had been flanking her, and were even now circling overhead, she would have pulled up and bolted for the sky, payment or no payment. This doesn’t look good, she thought, frowning at the assemblage, and then at the three who separated themselves and continued toward her ship to greet her. Her hand moved unconsciously to the blaster at her side, its familiar cold metal providing little reassurance.

Wearing what Sam had assumed at first to be masks, the white robed figures seemed somehow wrong; the way they moved was not normal, and the blonde smuggler couldn’t quite get a lock as to why.

An errant breeze blew aside the leading figure’s robe as he spoke, and his vocodered voice, along with the brief glimpse Sam received of the mechanical structure of his body, made everything click into place in her mind. Droids. Sam had essentially been raised by household droids; she knew everything about nearly every model made in the last hundred years. Although these particular designs were unfamiliar to her, she found herself beginning to relax in their presence. But something is still not right...

The leader blinked, slowly, and the blood drained from Sam’s face as she realized what was bothering her. Real eyes...

What. The. Hell?

The smuggler swallowed hard as realization hit her like a ton of fuselage. A cybernetic organism... Such amalgamations were not unknown to her, although they tended to make her distinctly uncomfortable. But what this one really appeared to be, was a droid with alien eyes. Bloodshot eyes, although Sam couldn’t see where a heart would be anywhere in the cyborg’s structure to pump any blood. And somehow that was worse.

She quickly glanced at the other two, who remained silent and unmoving behind the cyborg, and struggled to collect her thoughts. Get it together, Sam; you have bigger problems right now than what classification this being might have in the galactic database.

“Yes, the shipments are completed,” the smuggler finally answered, her voice thankfully stronger than she felt. “Where is Dom’or?” she asked in turn, also skipping any pleasantries. Her hand had never left her holstered blaster, and now she was unconsciously gripping it in preparation for a quick draw, followed by a hasty retreat back into her ship.

The white Death’s Head mask tilted slightly, the yellow, reptilian eyes encased within taking in her defensive stance, and the cyborg blinked slowly again, sending another chill down Sam’s spine. “Caas Dom’or is on his way to Utropollus, with your payment. Why are you here?” he asked, his tone lacking inflection and emotion.

Bantha fodder. Sam was getting the runaround, and she knew it immediately, despite her increasing discomfort. “I am here,” she replied coldly, “as agreed upon with Dom’or, for my payment.”

The cloaked cyborg chuckled mirthlessly then, and Sam decided that if she never met another one of these hybrids again, she would be okay with that.

“I’m afraid you are mistaken, Captain Koortyn. There seems to have been a miscommunication somewhere along the chain. If you will simply return to–”

“No,” Sam interrupted, cutting him off. “I’m not going all the way back to Utropollus because someone here screwed up. You can pay me now, and shoot Dom’or for his incompetence later, for all I care,” she snapped, completely unaware of how close she’d hit the mark.

The cyborg seemed taken aback by her bluntness. Or as much as a near-droid could be, Sam supposed. In any case, it had not been the response he expected; she knew that. He stared at her with his cold, dead eyes for several chilling moments, then gestured to the droid on his right, his clawed metal fingers extending from their concealment under his white cloak. “My datapad,” he said finally.

The droid in turn gestured toward the contingent still in place behind them, and one of the uniformed human guards came running with a well-worn datapad, which he awkwardly handed to the cyborg, who began to tap the display. Within a few moments he had finished his calculations, and now he looked up again at the smuggler.

“I apologize for your inconvenience, Captain Koortyn, and I am willing to pay you this additional amount right now...”

With that the datapad suddenly lifted into the air of its own accord and floated toward Sam, who went from pale to ashen as her blood turned to ice in her veins.

“...along with the full original amount when you get to Utropollus,” the cloaked cyborg finished, nonplussed at her reaction.

Sam peered at the hovering datapad, refusing even to touch it. The Force? How the blazes can he possibly use the Force?! The smuggler hated Force users; or more tellingly, was terrified of them, though she would never admit it publicly. And this was one of the reasons why. She didn’t pretend to know the intricacies of its use, but had always assumed that it required a fair amount of living tissue. Until now. What next? Star Destroyers with the Force?

At this point, the smuggler didn’t care what the display said, or what the amount might be, or why the cyborg couldn’t simply deposit the entire amount directly into her specified account as she’d negotiated with Dom’or in the beginning. Samantha Koortyn cared only about getting off this planet, then wiping its coordinates from her navcomputer, and she had already taken a step back up the loading ramp of her ship before she finally remembered to respond.

“Fine. I’ll transmit my account information now,” Sam acceded, continuing backwards up the ramp. “I will expect that total in my account within the hour.”

Neither the cyborg, nor his guards, nor the assemblage on landing platform 432 seemed interested in pursuing her, but the smuggler knew that she would not feel completely safe until she was out of the system and entering hyperspace. When I get to Utropollus, I will kill that bastard Dom’or myself, Sam thought bitterly as she punched in the codes to transmit her account information to the cyborg’s datapad. And then I’m going to get out of this business.

For this day, Sam had decided she’d truly seen it all. And she didn’t like it, not one bit.

Regrad was pleased, to say the least, that this meeting was coming to pass. He had heard little of Simon, and what he had heard he had good reason to doubt, but that little which was sifted from the lies showed an interesting character, to say the least. He was one of the Empire's more moderate faces, in the sense that he wasn't a murderous sith or conquest-mad warlord, and these are the sort of men you want to support, especially when they can extinguish you in a nod.

He was arriving by shuttle, bringing with him only four guards, two pilots and a small droid to carry chips of information he might need. As he sat patinetly in the back seat, the massive shape of the Victory hoved into view. Regrad took the oppourtunity to bitterly remind himself that he had once been commanding a half dozen ships of far greater size then that, although five were now owned by the Empire. The Imperial fleet was so massive, it could quite possibly defeat the combined forces of all other nations. With so many weapons and armies, they must be suffering some serious unity issues. He didn't dwell on it though, as they approached the hangar.

In silence, they landed and disembarked. An uncomfortable-looking officer nodded, and guestured for them to follow. They did so, and soon Regrad found himself entering the meeting room to meet Simon Kaine. He gave a short bow, and squeezed into a seat on the other end of the table.

"Hello Kaine, it's an honour to at last meet you."

Simon watched the High Lord Regrad enter the room and studied the alien as he found his seat opposite the Grand Marshall.

The Coalition Lord was, if nothing, direct, "Hello Kaine, it's an honour to at last meet you." It was a personality trait Kaine found refreshing as he nodded to the contingent that brought the alien into his sanctum.

"The officers will bring refreshments shortly.." he commented as the other's left and inclined his head in a gesture of respect as he too gave a greeting, "The honor is mine, High Lord. I appreciate you taking the time out of your busy schedule to meet with me."

He watched his counterpart digest his words as he continued, "I have heard a report indicating that your race has been, over the past few decades, watching the galaxy at large, specifically the civil war within the Empire. I begin to think to myself that if, perhaps, you have been watching that long, perhaps you also watched the Empire when it was a Republic.

I have been thinking hard about the Empire, it's aims, and it's abilty to maintain order throughout the galaxy. And if I," he gestured to Regrad, "if you, if anyone were to contemplate this, a great part of the equation would be the force users."

So," he started as he spun the metal symbol of the Jedi, "what I would like to know is: what is your people's opinion of force users?"

Regrad raised an interested eyebrow. "Force users? Well, they appear to me to be a great source of power, but an unreliable one. Those who follow the lighter side of the force are usually disciplined enough to be an asset to any government willing to keep order. A better peace-keeper you would be hard-pressed to find, the light side seems to encourage harmony, justice, and equality.

"But they also suffer from these same rules. During the galactic civil war, when the Republic became the Empire, it appears the Jedi were almost stamped out because of their obsession with fighting evil, even when it would be hopeless and accomplish nothing. Also, Jedi today seem far too complacent, and their organizations too weakened to influence galactic affaris. They would be hard-pressed to alter the affairs of a single planet, and thus have become neglidgible.

"Now, the Dark side of the force is much more terrible. I'll leave aside my personal dislike for evil, and those who wield it" Regrad gave a meaningful glance to Simon, he had seen recordings of who had borded those ships at Corellia "and focus on its' strength. They are a lot stronger, and their organizations are doing somewhat better then the Jedi. They have skills, and they have created partnerships to use these skills effectivly.

"But their one weakness is that when it comes to disciplin they are usually the opposite of the Jedi. Their heiarchy is one of the strongest ruling and the weakest being cast aside. This does not promote a peaceful or even orderly government, and it inevitably launches them against bigger targets. If they thought for a second they could gain power, they would. It is their nature.

"So simply put, the Jedi are excellent at keeping order and peace, but have become useless in these times. The Sith are still useful as weapons of war but are otherwise dangerous and unpredictable to anyone affiliated to them, and many who are not.

"My people have similar feelings, but they being more optimistic then I, still hope the Jedi can be reinvigorated. We have one of our top students attending their temple now. However, all he has proven is that the Jedi really are stagnating in the most stubborn of ways."

Kaine smiled at Regrad's honest reply. "During the Galactic Civil war," sitting back in his chair, "the Empire's only force users were killed and the Rebels seemed to hold the only force users.

A great power to be sure but one that generates a certain amount of fear no matter if you call yourself good or evil or whatever. People fear what they cannot understand. They fear when others can do things that they cannot. A Jedi can levitate a paper to him without stirring. A normal, such as myself, would have to walk over and pick it up."

A soldier entered with refreshments and Kaine motioned that the High Lord be served first. "I am not sure what Azguardians like to eat but I must boast that our galley is excellent. If you would be so kind as to inform the crewman what you would like.."

And when Regrad had, he continued, "In order to survive it's own rebellion, the Empire needed to have force users of their own. When an enemy is slashing at you with a steel blade, your bronze blade is quite ineffective. You will grab steel where you can find it simply to survive.

While I do not hold to the notions of good and evil, you are correct about somethings. The Jedi were disciplined whereas the Sith are not. They are dangerous in ways that few truly understand."

He eyed the Azguard.

"I have been working on something that would bring discipline back to the Sith. Imperial discipline but discipline nonetheless. The old Jedi charter is gone. They are no longer the keepers of peace and justice. The moment the Grand Army of the Republic came into being, their purpose began to die.

For them to be effective again in any government, that government must get rid of their armies, their warships.... and allow the Jedi to serve in their stead. And I assure you, Lord Regrad, no one will let go of their armies.

Not in this galaxy. So where does that leave the Jedi? I believe that the Jedi Order on Naboo is dissolving. I believe they have ossified to a point that they will never recover. Their hearts (you might say) are in the right place but their beliefs, their actions leave something lacking. Their Order was weak long before the rise of Palpatine. He saw this and so created the Army.

But, tell me, High Lord, what if... What if a Jedi Order were to exist within the Empire?"

Regrad seemed give this some thought. After a few moments, he spoke "I would have to say that that could be a good thing, or a bad thing, depending on how it was done. The Sith are a weapon of war, no doubt about that, but the Jedi serve a purpose beyon replacing armies. If you tried to recreate the Jedi for war like the Sith, it would probably fail. If you tried to make a Jedi order such as the one on Naboo in the Empire, that too would probably fail, because of idealogical differences between the Empire and traditional Jedis."

He paused again, thinking about what to say next, then proceeded "You'd have to alter the Jedi means while keeping the ends the same, is my guess. Their goals seem to be peace, freedom, justice, wisdom, and so forth, which is all fine and good, but you'd have to change the ways in which they obtain these goals. Make an order dedicated to law as much as it was dedicated to freedom and I can see such an order surviving in the Empire."

Regrad seemed satisfied with his answer. "But tell me" he said, as he shifted in his seat "Why would the Empire want Jedi? I've always had the impression you're the most ordered society in the galaxy. And you've already got the Sith for warfare to complement your fleet. What do the tennents of the Jedi have that could interest you?"