*



Coruscant Space





What is it that defines the pattern of an infection?

What is it that allows for containment?

And what was it that effected mutation where necessary?


The answer to these questions was one word: environment.



The Reaver "Scourge" as some had begun to call it for the most part remained behind pre-defined boundaries. The fact that no one seemed to know how those definitions came to exist or what the criteria was for these boundaries did not alter the fact that the Reaver Fleets would go only so far and no further.


There was no method of advancement, no manifest destiny that was evident in Reaver encounters. They attacked what they attacked and took what they took.


Losses were irrelevant for, in the end, those brave defenders, attackers and would-be hunters of Reavers ultimately killed themselves.


Throughout the entire Reaver ordeal, the public face, fabrication and collection of all known knowledge of the Reavers were on the effects and not the cause.


No one knew what a 'true' Reaver was except for the infected. These walking corpses of every species infected were the face of this Scourge. Their vessels were the seemingly cobbled parts of existing governments and so Imperial fleets would fight infected Imperial fleets, Coalition would fight infected Coalition, Confederation against infected Confederation, Commonwealth against infected Commonwealth and so forth or a combination of previously stated ships.


Even the most successful fleet used against attacking the Reavers will eventually have its luck run out for no matter how many times you roll the dice, eventually, you will come up with a losing combination.


The question was, how much could you afford to lose?


It was the ultimate war of attrition between the governments and planets of the Corusca galaxy and the Reavers and it was anyone's game as to who would use up their resources first.


On paper, the Coruscans seemed to have the home-court advantage. They held the resources of various planets and the Reavers held no planet. The Coruscans held half the known galaxy while the Reavers seemed to remain behind an invisible border whose lines had yet to be established.


But, in practice, the Reavers were winning. For they fed off of the resources sent against them and used them to replenish their numbers on a constant basis. The Coruscans also were divided among themselves and seemed to spend nearly all their resources in destroying each other as much as the Reavers.


There was also one other ultimate problem, while the Reavers themselves kept with borders and areas only known to them, those fighting infected, in their efforts to flee Reaver space would, invariably, carry the infection with them across the great distances of interstellar travel.


Thus, Reaver Space had multiplied in various locations and while, as yet, not as large or encompassing as those in the Borderlands Area, these locations were virulent.


One such location was Coruscant, compliments of the former Borderland Protectorate fleet and it's flagship, the Administrator.


While too small to detect at the moment, this new infection had already begun to disseminate those holonet frequencies still active in the Core. The Core-infection, however, would soon prove to be different.



*



A lone Quarren traversed the lower-levels, the fires from the impact of the Imperial warship Administrator having burned all night and showed no signs of letting up, especially since there were no emergency response units responding to the devastation.


This was not to say that the the planet was completely empty but those who could not find/buy their passage off-world and those who refused to leave learned to stay off Upperside and remain hidden in the lower-levels and out of sight from the alien conquerors. No one wanted to attract their attention.


Sub-level 5, Vesperian Sector


Pastor Trebi, of Citadel #634 looked over his flock, a motley assortment of scared species, and murmured soothing platitudes. The military might of the Empire had been shattered in an awesome spectacle above their skies but their trials and tribulations would not end there.


Those vids still in operation showed scores of alien craft descending and stranger yet beings walking the wreckage surveying their handiwork.


There was a soft wrapping at their door and when Trebi motioned for it to be opened, he saw their numbers had grown by one. Yet another citizen species in search of sustenance, comfort and....

He frowned as an unbidden thought entered his mind.


Purpose.

The interrogation had been as brutal as Colonel-General Vos had claimed, but the method had been simplistic. Had it been asked, Aeacus might have used some of his own techniques to lessen the time frame. But, that aspect of his services to the Regent were largely unknown, save to a few.


Nonetheless, it was a time for Aeacus to think on his new appointment. According to the Colonel-General, he was now to serve the Empire as a Major of the SS Kommandos, and while such a position was worthy, the guardsman did question 'why'. Granted the guardsmen would be an addition to the Kommandos, but the fact remained they were trained for protection - theirs was a near-impossible responsibility to guard those in command of the New Order, to the best of their abilities.


Would serving in a hit squad of troopers be the best appointment for these men?


Either way, Aeacus would fulfill the duty with the SS Kommandos, if only for the time being. He had heard mention that Park Kraken had come to call himself Emperor of the New Order, which placed him as the foremost individual to be given the protection and security of the guardsmen. But, until such time as Aeacus could actively reach the new Emperor, to begin his next duty, he would work with the Colonel-General.


Vos seemed capable enough.


It wasn't until later that Aeacus found a source for his growing sense of discomfort. A transmission had been sent galaxy-wide, on behalf of the Cree'Ar Artanis Daz’Da’Mar, informing of the intent to start open war against the Force users of the galaxy - Jedi and Sith alike. How that affected those under Aeacus' command remained to be seen, as they were subject to the commands of those they served, but the simple fact they fell into the designated target group meant they would be shown the same hostility as any other capable of using the Force.


With a twitch of his lip, the aged guardsman stopped the holo, having watched the transmission multiple times since the initial release. The ramifications of such a declaration were bound to be catastrophic. There was no way of telling the public uproar or panic that might start following the transmission. It seemed an obvious ploy, at least to those who could read between the lines, that the Cree'Ar intended to use this event as a means to offload their recent actions onto a new target for public hatred - namely the Force users. By making their conquest a righteous attempt at quelling the real danger to the galaxy, the warring Force users, the Cree'Ar were effectively trying to free themselves of their actions... and how better to take the target off your own back, than by pinning it to another?


Especially a minority that had a reputation for being at constant war, involving innocents in the crossfire, and remaining largely mysterious to the majority?


It was almost perfect.


Aeacus sighed, settling back as he rubbed at his chin. He didn't look forward to the social backlash one bit, but wasn't naive enough to believe it wouldn't be swift and oncoming - sooner rather than later, even.


Things were about to get interesting...

Beep . . . Beep . . . Beep . . . Beep . . .

The sound woke Skygge, piercing through the haze of unconsciousness that she had been drifting through since Capricia. Her eyes still shut, Skygge reflected on what she remembered of those last few minutes . . . hours . . . how long had it lasted? She wasn't sure. It seemed like hours, or even days, between the first stroke of her blade against the Jedi Apprentice, and the explosion that saved her life.

Saved her life.

That phrase carried so much meaning with it. Skygge knew she had been too tired, too weak to defend herself there, at the end. Telarni's death had been the final straw, sapping what was left of her strength entirely, breaking her control of herself, of her surroundings. And without control, Skygge was nothing. She could not have summoned the strength, even through the Force, to raise her saber to block what would have been - what should have been - the blow that ended her life. Yet her hand had moved, the strike had been blocked, in the most spectacular way.

But it had not been her.

Ventress, Skygge thought, almost forlornly. A last good act. A last act of redemption.

The spirit was not there anymore, that spirit that had guided her, threading her way on the knife's edge between darkness and light. It was no longer a unique presence by her side, nearby. The feeling was still there, a vague remnant of what had once been. Skygge smiled. Ventress had achieved what she had for fifty years desired. Peace. Ventress was not dead; she had become one with the Force. In her final act, her soul slaved to her sabers, she had made an act of ultimate sacrifice. That last act of goodness had earned her redemption.

Rest well, Asajj, Skygge thought. Rest well. In your death, I find that there is perhaps still hope for me as well.

Saved her life. An odd phrase.

What life? Skygge thought grimly. She was the leader of most of the remaining Sith. She had power beyond any she ever dreamed she would wield. She had the world at her fingertips. In time, she knew, she could become greater than Lupercus, Vicirus, even Leia and her husband. And yet . . .

And yet she was empty. Power, without truth. Burning anger, but nothing to burn. Consuming hate, with nothing to consume.

What am I?

A valid question. Was she the child from Dathomir, scarred by the great Nightsister Wars? Was she the youngling in Leia's Jedi Academy, learning the first tenants of the use of the Force? Was she Mynenial, the young apprentice to the great Corran Horn? Was she Myra Tyrell, the Jedi Apprentice who abandoned the Order and returned to Dathomir, for reasons that she could now barely remember? Was she the Sith Apprentice on Xa Fel, a Sith with motives as pure as snow and methods as black as night? Or was she Darth Skygge, the Sith Knight who had lost her purpose?

Or was she all of the above?

She had no answer. But she desperately needed one.

Beep . . . Beep . . . Beep . . .

Her eyes snapped open.

Lifting her arm was still tiresome, but it was no longer completely exhausting. Reaching over, she slowly removed the IVs from her arm and the electrodes from her chest and head. Rising slowly, she drew her blanket around her, standing, if somewhat unsteadily. A few moments to catch her balance, and strength began to return to her legs.

One tentative step.

Then another.

Then another.

She made her way the the cockpit and stopped in the doorway, resting against the bulkhead. Elana was there, piloting the shuttle, looking none the worse for wear. At Skygge's approach, the apprentice turned. "Lady Skygge!" she exclaimed. "Shouldn't you be resting?"

Skygge blinked, then blinked again. Slowly, she made her way forward, a few more steps, finally sinking tiredly into the co-pilot's seat. "Yes," she said slowly, forming her tongue around the word as if it was new to her. Her voice came out dry and scratchy, but audible. It grew stronger with each word. "Yes, I will rest. But . . . " she paused, not sure how to continue.

What was it that had woken her? It wasn't really the beeping of the monitors. She closed her eyes, left them closed long enough for Elana to think she had fallen asleep again.

Images of fire.


Temples aflame, banners swept aside.


She was shown a glimpse of the past. Or was it the future?


Strange creatures.


There will be war..


Her eyes snapped open.

"I need to do . . . something . . . first," she managed.

"Lady Skygge?"

"I need a . . . neutral place."

Elana's brow furrowed. "We are less than a day from Katarr, my Lady. You can rest there."

"No!" Skygge's voice strengthened. "No. We cannot go to Katarr. I have had a moment - a moment of clarity. I cannot have it diluted. The pull of the Dark Side is subtle, and more powerful than I could have imagined. I need a place that is clean. Pure, undefiled. Raw Force potential."

Her eyes closed again, and she saw the images once more. Tentatively, she reached out to the Force, and instead of bending it to her will, this time she asked it what it would have her do.

A single word. One reply.

Dolash.

Her eyes opened, and a smile inched across her face. "M'lady?" asked Elana, still confused.

Skygge turned to face her, certainty growing with each passing moment, even as strength came rushing back into her weary body. She smiled, broader, a true, genuine smile, the first of its kind since Corran Horn had disappeared so many years ago.

"Take me to Ilum."

Colony Death...




The small, civilian transport fled. It fled and fled as fast as it could.

The Reaver pursuers chased. They chased and they chased as fast as they could.

And in the end it would be the end for the transport, for its civilian crew and for those unlucky enough to try and effect their rescue.



They had thought, once, that their end would come at the hands of the Empire and had struggled to protect themselves by petitioning the other galactic powers for membership in their grand organizations. They had tried to play politics and seeing that the Empire had no interest in their small, remote system had stalled. Angling for the best offer, trying to play one side against the other so as to better position themselves they had wasted everyone's time.

And then they had been attacked, not by the Empire but by an alien species they had not even know existed because, due to their own ignorance, they had tried to secure a vast swath of space to which they had no claim. But rather then fight back they attempted diplomacy. For a time it seemed as though they were learning their lesson but, grand time wasters they were, fate would eventually deal them out of the galactic sabaac game.

They had called themselves the People of Gestalt, of the Gestalt Colonies.

In the end, they would not even merit a footnote in the annals of history.



“We're picking up ships,” panicked, called the helmsman of the transport. “They're all over the place!”

“Whose?”

The blue skinned, dome headed being asked and asked again, “What kind?”

“I don't know! Most of them don't match anything on record except these ones here.” He, the helmsman stuck out a green finger at the star map. “These ones are Confederate. The others might be as well, but they don't match. The really big ones... I don't know!”

“Where are the Reavers?” Dome-head asked sharply. “Did we lose them when we jumped?”

“No,” Green-finger groaned. “They dropped out behind us. They're still on us!”

“Can we transmit?” Dome-head was frantic now. “Warn them?!”

“I don't know,” Green-finger worked his stations controls. “I'm picking up numerous Holo-Net transceivers!”

“Where?”

“Everywhere,” cried Green-finger. “Satellites, aboard their ships, on the planet...”

“Oh no...”

Dome-head demanded, “What? What now?”

“We've doomed them all,” Green-finger said losing all hope of salvation in his voice. “We've lead the Reavers right to them. We've doomed them all.”

“May the gods have mercy on our souls...”



The people of the Gestalt Colonies didn't have a chance. The Reaver signal inundated their systems before they even knew what was happening.

It spread like a virus throughout the technologically dependant colonies of Gestalt. They were the grasslands, dry in the summer drought and the Reaver signal was the fire. It burned through the plains leaving nothing but burnt, charred dirt behind.

Some managed to escape, those remote enough or quick enough to be spared the plague, but for the most part the story of the Gestalt Colonies ended as abruptly as it began.

Just like that, just another victim of the Reaver Scourge, the Gestalt Colonies met their doom.

Remorans of the Sovereign





The Remoran culture was not an easy nut to crack even with the hints sprinkled all about our negotiations. It was fortuitous indeed that Colonial negotiators are trained to draw out talks. This strategy is one that ultimately ends in our favor because it grants us time to learn about our respective adversaries.

And that is how we see others, typically. In an adversarial fashion.

This is probably one part isolation, one part good, ol’ fashioned Colonial paranoia.

But learn we did.

You see, the Remoran identity is wrapped in this all encompassing Sovereign and, for the longest time, we largely ignored this dismissing it as religious superstition. The Remoran, we found, however, is an ever literal being. And still, we dismissed them as fanatical, on par with perhaps the Azguard or those sun-baked in the head. A disillusioned person who claims to have seen their god is still a disillusioned person.

Sovereign, unfortunately, is not a god. It never was.

I say ‘unfortunately’ because negotiations would have gone far more easier for us had the Remoran simply been a religious nut-job. We would have run rings around them!

Imagine our dismay when we finally understood the Sovereign to be something tangible. And I do not mean a golden rancor or goat they danced around.

It seems that a very long time ago, these Remorans were attacked in overwhelming force and that so made an impression on their culture that they built a ship. Not just any ship, it seems but the largest warship they could. A ship that served as a home to countless generations of Remorans.

But what happens to any civilization after a time?

They begin to think outside their box. They begin to question what their purpose is. Why they constantly grow up in the belly of warship with no other design but to stand ever vigilant in protection of their people.

And so you have a renaissance.

And they do what any society that exists in a spaceship do.

They build another spaceship.

But this one, this ship is far different than their Sovereign in every sense of the word.

It was a redefining moment for the Remoran and they stood on the precipice of mothballing their Sovereign in favor of a more ‘enlightened’ course.

They named their new ship the Enlightenment.

So you have the old, Remoran of Sovereign, who were being phased out, who were seeing their society on the verge of making them obsolete and you have the Remoran of Enlightenment, the newer generations who questioned everything and were ready to roam unshackled by their past into the freedom of space.

Unfortunately, they had the bad luck to transit into the Colonial/Confederation minefield and in one moment, their best scientists, their best philosophers, artists and free-thinkers were destroyed by undiscriminating mines.

If it weren’t so tragic, it would be funny.

Because, now, you have a collision of two militant groups: The Colonials and the remaining Remoran civilization.

Early projections showed us (with Confederation help), kicking their butts out of the system and that almost tipped our hand. But we learned the true nature of Sovereign and it was enough to make you think: If their fighter craft were almost a hundred to two hundred meters in length, just how big was this Sovereign of theirs?

We do not trust spacers and they do not trust dirtsiders.

An unlikely future any way you spin it but our spinsters are pretty good.

We may yet not blow ourselves to hell and back.

The future may yet be bright…


bright…


bright…


*beep*


right…


right…


>static<


*low battery*



>static<





The datapad feed suddenly stopped, it’s damaged and cracked face indicating a flashing power level indicator before disappearing. The powerless equipment lay ignored as the fires of destruction were reflected off those parts yet unscarred.

They would remain so until their life flickered out and there would be no more talking..

*


Kashan

“I believe that I have talked to several industrial councilmen already here about switching production from military machinery to food-recycling systems…and so essentially, a being’s wastes, along with other chemicals, are turned into edible foods.”

Confederation food. It really is the shit!

-failed marketing strategy

“The beauty of fungi is that they can be grown nearly anywhere with a little work. They need no sunlight or certain temperatures. Cover a warehouse floor with some dirt, sprinkle the spores, and a crop would be ready for harvesting before the week is done. It’s perfect..”

***

The signal was dispersed among the teka’tara and the Nexus withdrew it’s hold causing the invading force on Kashan to break apart and return to the dust from whence they came.

In the following month saw the surface of Kashan changing as the fungi spores spread over the planet in their efforts to increase their food supply. The effort, along with other programs, were largely successful.

[font=verdana]*[/font]






[font=verdana]Seamus Arliss looked out at the panorama representing Muunillist’s skyline and smiled to himself. The tragedy from his daughter’s death had fallen behind him and both Arliss Industries and Arliss Towers were whole again.[/font]

[font=verdana]While the rest of the galaxy burned in hell, the various departments comprising the two halves had worked furiously on reintegration and it was as if a new power core had been installed in a warship giving it new life.[/font]

[font=verdana]He truly had not understood how organized Jenice had been and, as the reintegration neare completion, he found a wealth of options open to him.[/font]

[font=verdana]His eyes scanned the galactic financial sector news and saw that there were a variety of markets in panic over the alien war against the Empire, the upsetting of the balance between the League of Nations and the Empire, the havoc caused by the Reaver threat, conflict within the Onyxian Occupation Zone…. His eyes roved the symbols and numbers finding patterns. It was amazing how life, death, wealth, poverty, rises and falls were told with as few characters as possible. Truly, no one could transmit information as efficiently as the financial market.[/font]

[font=verdana]But there were other tales told.[/font]

[font=verdana]The Outer Rim was solidifying as companies, typically weak in certain markets,were making a comeback. It would bear watching.[/font]

[font=verdana]Vellixum Enterprises seemed to be outpacing it’s projected growth of a few years ago and that meant only one thing: powerful backers.[/font]

[font=verdana]But who?[/font]

[font=verdana]This was a time of war, strife and struggle.[/font]

[font=verdana]And if experience told Seamus Arliss anything, it was that it was times like these that individual stars rose or fell.[/font]

[font=verdana]He grinned.[/font]

[font=verdana]This was a time for him.[/font]

[font=verdana]“Miss Darro, contact Supreme Commander Thorton.”
[/font]

*


Tython



Varro Kai's warships sat over the empty world of Tython as the Priest Lohr looked over reports to be held in judgement. If the great god Borleas' task masters were falling short of their purpose, the Priest-caste would root the lukewarm out and call for a replacement by one more suited to faith.

In the past, it was an excuse to replace members of the Warrior-caste with those favorably thought of by the Priests but the last few centuries had seen the warriors expand the Dominion's holdings to such an extent that the Priests were hard pressed to keep up.

It was significant that Varro Kai was assigned his own Priest but the conflict on the Steps would have put his force out of touch with the Dominion Proper for a number of years.

But this new galaxy was something else. A strange sort of conflict where the inhabitants were not in awe of the Dominion's show of strength. Where this infidel's paradise of a galaxy shrugged off the import of the Dominion's arrival in favor of their own petty, insignificant concerns and conflicts.

He had thought the High Judicator's attack on the galactic capital would have lasting consequences but now, as he walked the ground where the Jedi has come into being, this abandoned world that seemed nothing more than a historical footnote, he truly wondered.

The Jedi were one of the most powerful sects within the galaxy and yet, the homeworld from where they sprang sat unoccupied and forgotten. It was as if the species of this galaxy held no respect for their origins.

They only care about the now!

"The operation on the infidel world of Kashan was terminated," the Priest's voice interrupted.

"The task was completed," Judicator Kai remarked unnecessarily.

"This 'Force'," the Priest Lohr found the basic word distasteful, "is affected by living cells in almost the same manner as our Nexus. They utilize the same basic raw materials..."

"The Nexus controls the Teka'tara whereas the force users control the force," the Judicator responded. "That is what makes the peole of Kashan so important. It will answer a great many questions..."

His voice trailed off as the comm alert sounded.


"Here it comes..." Varro Kai observed proudly.


This was truly a great day for the Dominion.


The face of Artanis Daz’Da’Mar appeared.


“For the past century, your galaxy has been at war..."

League of Nations Tirahnn Charter Suspended

Despayre


"Sire, a representative from the Jedi Enclave has arrived."


Emperor Fearsons turned to the new arrival and opened his hands warmly as if to share an intimate embrace with the other.

"Ahh, how fares my friend Zark Ekan?" the leader of the Jutraalian Empire asked, quietly noting the stiffness the representative greeted him with.

Perhaps it was nerves. Fearsons was, after all, a powerful man.

"He tasked me with finding out the answer to a question.." the representative stated flatly.

Annoyed at the lack of manners shown to him, Fearson's smile tightened as he waved an attendant to bring refreshments. If the Enclave lacked for manners, he would teach it some.


The Jutraalian Emperor motioned for the Enclave representative to continue as the attendant returned with drinks.


The visitor ignored the offered cup, stared straight at the Emperor and said, "The Contegorian Confederation is experiencing a famine."


Chaddwick merely sipped his drink and prodded, "And Master Ekan's question is?"


"What do you plan to do about it?"


For the first time, Chaddwick Fearson's eyes went up in surprise. "What do I plan to do about it?" he repeated. "Why nothing, of course. The Contegorians are an industrious people and have accomplished much while I languished in prison. As they had faith in my eventual release, I have faith in their ability to combat this problem."


"It is not like you to misplace your faith, Master Fearsons," the representative responded drawing an angry look from the Jutraalian leader.


"It is also not like me to be talked too in such a manner in my own palace." growled Fearsons.


"And yet necessary," the representative remarked, unaffected by Fearson's anger. The Emperor had to hand it to Zark Ekan. He picked the right people for the jobs he requires. The man before him was about as cold as a tax audit.


"If not for the League of Nations, the Jutraalian Revolution would have died and our citizens executed by the Imperials."


"WITHOUT MY FLEETS!" Fearsons shouted (could he not get through to this man?) "The League of Nations would be nothing!! They would not have the teeth to bare at an Empire ready, willing and able to crush them!"


"Which goes to show, Master Fearsons, that you displayed exceedingly good judgment and wisdom in figuring out that together, we stand. Divided we all will surely fall."


The compliment took the Emperor off guard. So unexpected was it that Fearsons found himself flushing with pride.


"And so, if that wisdom, applied to the Jutraalian and to the League of Nations works so well, why not the Confederation?"


"I am not sure I follow Master Ekan's thinking," Fearson's anger momentarily blunted.


"It is a very basic requirement in warfare. The army that cannot eat, dies. Master Ekan knows this and your vast military fleet, supported by the few planets within the Jutraalian Empire is a testament to your resourcefulness as well as organization skills."


"The League had a hand in helping," Emperor Fearsons stated, feeling magnanimous.


"Yes, the League does share much of the burden in providing for your fleets and, in turn, your fleets are integral to the League of Nation's security."


Emperor Fearsons bowed in acknowledgment.


"And yet, there is an imbalance in the Force that has drawn Master Ekan's attention. He wished to come himself but the Reaver threat is affecting everyone and he felt his ultimate attention should be to that enterprise. So he sent me."


"What imbalance?" Fearsons asked. "It is strange that I have not felt it."


"It may be that you are too close to the situation to be truly objective."


"I do not follow you."


"The imbalance that Master Ekan wished me to investigate is that the Confederation has run out of food. The Jutraalian Empire has had, distributed throughout it's military industrial complex, foodstuffs of Confederation origin."


Chaddwick Fearsons skin went cold. He had made a bargain with the devil to bring about his long-desired rebellion against the hated Empire.


But at what cost?


His mind, at once, starting trying to place where his forces were, scattered throughout the League. If he was going to war, he would need...


"Please, Master Fearsons. Be at peace. Master Ekan did not wish to upset you but to merely point out an imbalance."


"But the Confederation has made considerable strides in combating the famine," the Emperor pointed out.


"But at considerable cost. They are nearly bankrupt and inflation is rising. If they cannot afford the food, of what use is to have storehouses?"


Chaddwick Fearsons pride warred with his guilt as his mind contemplated another session with the League Rotunda.


"Master Ekan wanted me to consult your considerable experience and wisdom in correcting this imbalance," the representative stated and Fearsons' face flushed.


"The League could do it. We haven't gone to war with the Empire yet so we do have stores simply sitting there. It could be donated.."


"Alas, the Confederation has no dealings with the League. No treaties, no agreements. Only with their brothers in the Coalition. So what could the League really do?"


At that, the point of Zark Ekan's representative's presence became apparent. Anger and embarrasment nearly overtook the Jutraalian.


"How would it look..?" Chaddwick started, knowing he sounded petulant.


"How would it look? When a respected member of the League of Nations overturns his own political agenda within the Rotunda in the name of galactic harmony and solidarity?"


"I will look weak!" Fearsons snapped.


"Sire, Master Ekan asked me to kindly remind you that doing the right thing is no weakness."


Chaddwick Fearsons' political maneuvering had been too much too soon. And now, it was coming back to bite him. Master Ekan was also tweaking him for throwing a large spotlight on the Enclave. If Fearsons was going to sponser the Enclave's newfound power within the League, he would need to put his money where his mouth was and listen when that very power informed you what was what.


The Emperor's eyes narrowed but he eventually nodded. "Inform Master Ekan that I am grateful for his advice."

League of Nations Tirahnn Charter Suspension Lifted

*


In at the End...



"..but for how long..?"



The whisper unheard by the formerly retired Grand Moff and forcibly retired ex-Regent echoed the silent halls of passages hidden away. Dark corridors, powerless save for a single room, warnings in a gloom that foretold the boasts of the past, lies mostly, would be shattered.


...probably some inferior, alien fucker will see that as something to respond too...


All about the surface of the world, the alien disease wielded it's horrors on the unsuspecting masses until it too lost potency. Even then, life still went on, hidden in fright, too disorganized to gaze at the skies in some sort of common hatred at the cruisers that patrolled overhead.


....what no one ever fucking figured out... is that the state of the Empire is STRONG...


There was no more thought of resistance, only retreat. Into the darkness, the bowels of the deserted planetary-city, the remaining masses scampered as if the memories of the recent past could be erased by a face hidden.

Where were the boasts now?

Where was their arrogant imperatives now?

Even his old words seemed so hollow.



...no matter how much you respond or react...

...only one outcome for us...

..that we will... win!



The further one descended into the eons-ancient city, the more one seemed to be on another world entirely. There were sections so isolated and hidden away, so out of touch that they had no cares other than those within their immediate sector.

The masses even the tax collectors refused to look for.

Those that still thought the fat-Republic senators ran the show.

Those that still thought Palpatine reigned supreme.

Those that were not even aware of an attack that had wrestled Coruscant from the Imperials....

Another world where the cares of the galaxy fell not on a single shoulder.


There was never really a chance that everyone would be able to flee and these were the ones who never made the attempt, let alone cared who really ruled topside.


Hundreds of miles down where even the strongest wormholes refused to appear for those that did would be for decades mired between the weight of tens of hundreds of ruins of Coruscant Ages, each built on top of the bones of the previous.


All these people who really did not give a damn who won. Despite their numbers, there would be no uprising, no galvanizing momentum for their concerns were not those of the billions of citizens living in the present political climate of topside.


No.


There would be no hidden away last-minute, last-ditch, long-lost weapon of antiquity that would suddenly appear ready in hand to wipe away the stench of this new alien occupation.


No.


Those were the dreams of such fools as Kach Thorton and his ilk.


Traitorous bastards who nipped at the heels of their betters like carrion-eaters hoping to clothe themselves in the skin of their enemies' majesty.


And yet, despite the descent into the blissfully ignorant levels there was one room, down a dark corridor that still held a connection to the outside world.


Not to rally soldiers or coordinate a resistance but to simply inform. And as the traveler sidestepped into that darkened hall, he could hear the rasp alien voice....





...

"With my foot I step on the remnants of The New Order.

In ash it loses much of the luster that it displayed in war.

Do not mistake this broadcast as a boast, however.

I take no joy in the lives lost here today. The soldiers of The New Order fought bravely, and are to be commended. They have done their gods worthy and earned their place amongst the honored dead. I salute them, and those who fought with them and survived. They were vigilant opponents.

I take joy in the destruction of the power of the Sith.

The hold of the Sith, and the Jedi, on this galaxy has ended today.

For the first time in centuries, I stand on this world, capital of the galaxy, and I stand not as a Sith, or a Jedi, but as a man.

A great man, perhaps. Only time will tell. But I am only a man. I exert no mystical control over those around, or use subversive hypnosis to bend them to my will.

I am the leader of The Dominion. My name is Artanis Daz’da’mar.

This broadcast is a declaration of war. Not of war between myself and any government, or between my military and theirs. This is a war against those who would cause a continuing, devastating war to continue.

I hereby declare war on Force Users everywhere.

Be they Jedi or Sith. From this day forward, I decree that the difference is negligible as both will be considered enemies of the free people of the galaxy.

The time of the dominance of Force Users over the civilians of the worlds of this galaxy is henceforth declared dead.

We will use all resources of The Dominion, from this galaxy and from others, to pursue, and destroy, the Force Users who continue to rally against the cause of peace and mutual understanding in this galaxy.

From atop the Imperial Palace I extend the following offer to all governments of the free people of the galaxy.

The world of Coruscant will continue to be the hub that you are all used to. Within one week, the infrastructure of this world will be rebuilt and it will be suitable for human population once again. As such, I declare this world to be open to visitation by any and all representatives of the free people of the galaxy.

The only exception is Force Users.

Force Users are welcome on Coruscant as long as their intention is to surrender to The Dominion. If so, we will accept their surrender and will forgo execution.

If a government representative wishes to surrender prisoner Force Users then we will accept that as well. We will also forgo their execution provided they remain peaceful and cooperative.

Any government who wishes to surrender prisoner Force Users shall receive an immediate non-aggression pact from The Writers Of Scripture And Law. This will be a binding agreement that will ensure the continued cooperation between our people and yours.

This offer extends to The New Order as well; this attack upon your capital world was necessary to demonstrate the capability of our Dominion. Beyond that, and the Force Users within your hierarchy, we have no conflict with your Empire.

We are receptive to negotiations that will facilitate the repopulation of Coruscant under The New Order. Those talks may begin when you so desire.

I look forward to the coming peace between the governments of this galaxy.

But that will not happen if they continue to follow the whims and wills of the Jedi and the Sith. So I say this now, to all Force Users, and to all governments who would shelter them; in choosing to resist the movement of peace, you propagate hatred, violence, and war. In so choosing you make yourself an enemy of not just The Dominion, but the free people of this galaxy and beyond. Your war is over. You have lost. If you surrender, and negotiate peace, then there is a place for you within the society that will evolve.

If you do not, you will be executed.

I take no joy in murder. I do what must be done.

I will not hesitate in this mission. I will complete the task that Borleas Quayver has given me.

I will see peace in this galaxy.

And so will you all.

For millennia The Dominion has opposed the will of tyrants. We defeated the Yuuzhan Vong. So shall we defeat the Jedi and the Sith.

I call on citizens everywhere to assist us in marching towards peace.

Entaro,

Artanis Daz’Da’Mar.”






"They still playing that bullshit?" the traveler asked as he entered the room, exhausted. It had been an exceptionally difficult journey.


There was a soft laughter emanating from a bio-bed situated in a corner, health monitors making their usual beeps. The person laying in the bed was missing an arm as well as a leg but that did nothing to dampen the bitter laughter that left his mouth.


"They make the same claims as you once did, Azrael. They burned entire worlds all in the name of peace."


Azrael snorted at the comment spending the next thirty minutes in the refresher. A shower, a piss and some clean clothes later he almost felt human.


Almost.


So he went over to a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of rot-gut. He grabbed out two glasses, walked over to the bed, pulled up a chair and sat down.


"Drink with me, Werner, my old friend."


"I should spit this drink in your face..." the other snapped.


The old man in the chair smiled. "Why don't you?"


"It be a waste. Besides, it's been a decade since I've had a drink!"


The former Regent nodded and poured the two glasses. Motioning to the only active news monitor, he asked out of curiosity, "Anything resembling truth come out of that?"


"Sure, when INS went down, several transmissions shot out over the waves claiming this or that. Apparently, Mon Mothma has been in hiding somewhere in Anxlet Sector biding her time. Leia Organa Solo is teaching at a hidden Jedi Temple on Level 45, Sub-section 624. Simon Kaine is dead in Verassille Sector."


Zell snorted before taking a drink and refilling his glass.


"Why did INS project the dampening field blocking all these crackpots? Surely, their lies are no worse than INS's own?"


The former Regent chuckled dryly to himself. "Ahh, Werner. If you only knew the bullshit causes that these yahoos cling too. Someone's whacked claim is another's cause.

Take the bullshit from this fucking Artanis. Apparently, the Jedi/Sith conflict was bothering these fucking aliens living in another fucking galaxy. Now that makes these fuckers pretty damned sensitive don't it?

Apparently when a Jedi shits on a flower here, a Dominion baby dies elsewhere."


"He is different, Zell."


"Of course, he's fucking different! He's a fucking alien from another fucking galaxy!"


"He is not a Sith nor a Jedi."


"Yes, yes, he holds no mystical hold over people. Guess the fuck what? When you have a fucking huge ass alien armada, what the fuck do you need with mystical powers? Give me a fucking break! If anyone believes this fucking alien, they deserve to be enslaved!"



"Is that what you think? That these people will be enslaved?"


"Of course. I suspect that this Will of fucking Borleas will demand nothing less!"


The cripple was silent for a moment, savoring the harsh taste of the drink. After that moment, he sighed, "Then what are you doing here?"


It was Zell's turn to turn a silent gaze at this room that had been the home to his former friend for years. He worked hard to ensure his friend lived in his bed, connected to the monitors that shat out the accomplishments of Zell's Empire every minute of every hour. He wanted the life of his friend's belief crushed and beaten to a bloody pulp. Erased until, at the end of days when Zell would prove the victor.


Survival of the Strongest!


The basis for everything he ever had argued with his friend about and here he was. The vanquished foe of an implacable enemy every bit as destructive and brutal as his own Empire.


"Are you here to assure me that somewhere, somehow, the Empire will win?"


It was a piercing question for within the old man a despondent feeling welled up nearly overwhelming his iron will.


"The Empire..." the former Regent let slip derisively. "What Empire? Do you refer to the rabble that fucked up everything for their own glory?"


"Isn't that what Hyfe, you and others have done? Wrapping yourself in your own glory?"


"We pitted ourselves against the enemies of the Empire and as we rose, so too did the Empire. This..." the former Regent gestured towards nothing, "..this is something different. A perversion of that which made us great.

A corruption within the bloody system that has left us divided and weak! Do you know that these fuckers blamed me for all this shit that went on?! ME?!

It was their dereliction of duty but it was my name they blame. Fucking pussies!"


"To the victor go the spoils," Werner waxed philosophically as Zell poured him another glass.


"I am too old for this shit, Werner. I retired but still kept myself in the halls of Imperial power. I ..," he took a gulp, "I just couldn't stay away. It's hypnotic. It grabs you and refuses to yield."


"The fame?"


"The power, Werner. The power! I could fuck anyone I wanted, I could have my heart's desire, take anything because I had earned it! I earned it!"


"Of course, now you probably wish you had retired to a small backwater planetary community," his old friend remarked dryly causing Zell to involuntarily bark out a sad laugh.


"Fuck me. I am going to miss it," Zell whispered.


"What is this? No rally cries? No beating of the drums and remarshalling of strength? Where is the motivation of your evolutionary imperative?"


Zell smirked. "You know it's all bullshit, right? Nothing matters so much as what a person can do and what a person cannot do."


"If it was bullshit," growled Werner, "then why keep me here inundated with all your INS lies?" The crippled man flailed about in fit of anxiety.


"Because, my old friend, you are my friend. And I am a fucking softy when it comes to you."


"There are clinical names for what you've got!" snapped Werner causing Zell to laugh out loud once more.


"You keep me tied up here for years telling me my own philosophical outlook on life was bullshit by feeding me your own brand of bullshit! Why? Because you loved me as a brother? A cripple in a bed in some fucking dark corner of Coruscant! Alone and isolated save for when you deigned to visit me to verbally berate me!!" The rage and tears burst forth from Zell's former friend with an intensity that impressed old Zell.


"Love?" he quietly replied. "What the fuck does love have to do with anything?"


The old man stood up and leaned over the bed. "People are either fucking idiots or fucking assholes. The idiots are the ones that piss themselves with love, democracy and the freedom to pick flowers. The assholes are the ones who use those idiots to do what they want!

Of what use was the fucking Jedi love of democracy?

Of what use is the love of the masses when they swear loyalty to every fucking asshole that comes to power?

Of what use is a fucking Sith's love of their dark arts when they are forever spinning in their graves and failing at just about every endeavor. And never fucking figuring out the punchline that is their fucking life!

Of what use was my love of the Empire when it's own officers conspired to betray their betters?

Of what use was my loving you as a brother when you stood against me in the end?

Of what the fuck use is love?"


Zell's eyes blazed, "I fucking hated you for your betrayal of our friendship. As I fucking hate these fucking aliens and their fear! As I fucking hate these fucking traitors to the Empire and their fear!"


Werner stared up at Zell and bared his teeth as he sneered, "Then do something about it!"


The former Regent's hands balled into a fist and he serious contemplated busting up the face of the cripple just for the hell of it. Werner saw it in the old man's eyes and he grinned as if to push Zell into that swell of uncontrollable rage.


Zell's breathing slowed and his hand eventually stopped shaking. "I always called you a fucking idiot, Werner. But I was wrong," he started softly. "You're a fucking asshole."


"You fought me but it was not out of fear. Not like these traitors, scared and yet envious of the power I wielded. Not like these fucking aliens who fear force-users from a galaxy away.

I've been in the presence of Jedi and Sith! In the same fucking galaxy and I fucking do not fear them!

You, Werner, I respect. Even that fucking asshole Regrad. He fought us tooth and nail and it was not out of fear. His eyes may be a fucking lizard's eye but there was no fear in them."


"So, what are you going to do, Zell?" Werner asked, calming down.


"What am I going to do? I am going to retire to that far off planetary community and let the galaxy burn itself to cinders. I cannot enter Kraken's nest of vipers and expect those who swear loyalty to me to have the backbone to actually honor it! I cannot defeat this alien armada by myself.


So... fuck it!

I will let these idiots work out their own fucking plots until some asshole stands up and kicks them all in the balls!"


"You're running away?"


"I am fucking tired. From the fucking Republic to this new fucking thing that Thorton and his cronies call an Empire, I am done!"


He stood up and went over to a command console. He gazed about the room one final time before entering a code into the machine.


"What is that?" Werner's voice intruded from behind.


"Apocalypse Protocol," Zell murmured completing his typing.


"I.. I don't understand," Werner replied.


Zell turned towards his bedridden friend. "Werner, this was always going to end one of two ways. One, you die before me knowing that everything you believed in was as much bullshit as that which beat you. Two, that you die knowing that at least you lived long enough to see past my own bullshit and take with you the knowledge that even though your beliefs are bullshit, maybe not as much as my own."


"Either way, I die," Werner regarded the statement with a hint of promise.


Zell straightened and gave his bedridden friend a salute. "Well played and executed, my old friend."


"Thanks for the drink," Werner replied putting much more meaning into those few words.


Zell nodded somberly and walked towards the exit. His head turned slightly back, "And Werner, if those fucking religious zealouts turn out to be right and there is some fucking afterlife, be sure to be an asshole there too."


Werner, too tired to laugh simply grinned, "Anything else?"


"Now that you mention it, if you see Borleas fucking Quayver, kick his ass for me."


And with that, Azrael Zell, former Retired Grand Moff, former Regent of The New Order and the Galactic Empire left.


The explosion that vaporized the room and everything in it did not register on any sensor.


The old man of the Empire disappeared from galactic history...




..but for how long..?