The creature bellowed. Its mournful cry, pained and enraged, filled the chamber. Bestial, inhuman, it evoked sympathy – an empathetic connection to its agony and to its anger. Reverberating low tones and high pitches, the noise refused to be contained. Walls of stone and steel echoed its anguish. Beyond those walls, barely audible above the ruckus, another roaring chorus went up and beyond that another. A symphonic cascade sung in beastly tenor filled the dungeon-like labyrinth.

Equipment and apparatus alchemical, both ancient and modern, loomed menacingly. Ominous sounds, imposing smells and intimidating sights roused the senses overwhelming rationality and inspiring fear, discomfort, anxiety. Containment capsules of various size and shape sat squat against the walls surrounding a barred, electrified quarantine cage.

Pacing, tails lashing and jaws gnashing, the creature stalked slow, predatory laps along the perimeter of its domain, its cage. Over four meters long and half as high at the shoulder, plus tails, spines and armored plates, the nightmarish monstrosity could barely be contained in the tight confines. Dark hues and the deepest tones shifted across its form. Viscous liquid pearled along the spiny ridges along shoulder and spine, dripped from razor fangs long and sharp. Eyes odd in number, small and squinting, studied its surroundings from behind bony ridges. On many legs, each brandishing talons menacing and chitinous, it clicked and clacked across the hard, steel floor.

At length it paused, curling its length against the bars, turned its wedge shaped head and fixed a knowing, penetrating stare at the robed figure standing just out of reach.

“Almost,” spoke the figure approvingly. “Almost...”


*


The Crimson Emperor was a gargantuan construct. It stood as a monument to the dark side, an edifice infused with the twisted force energy. Truthfully the galaxy had not seen anything like it in recent years, not since the grand dreams of the Dark Lord Maim – self proclaimed master of the Sith. It was in some ways ironic then that it should become the domain of one Dioan Silk, Sith Lord and one time Sovereign Protector; once pledged to Lord Maim and his Crimson Empire. Still he continued that tradition, upheld in his own way the memory of a bygone era and in many ways the Crimson Emperor was a testament to what had come before.

A prime example of that continuance; the Crimson Brotherhood. These were men, soldiers who had served alongside Lord Silk, who had served under him during numerous campaigns carried out in the name of their empire; men who had once been exiled and imprisoned, who had forged an alliance unbreakable and who had developed their burgeoning force powers under the guidance of Lord Silk. Many had died, had sacrificed their lives in pursuit of a new dream – that of the Palestar Crusade. On Xa Fel they had paid a heavy price, comparatively. Scores had perished, multitudes more lost but the brotherhood, near kin to the Lord Silk, were fewer in number and much harder to replace. The men of the brotherhood were no raw recruits. They could not be replaced.

Following the invasion and subsequent retreat a ceremony had been held, a recognition of their contributions and their losses. It was a singular celebration and was not shared among the other elements of the crusade, instead it was conducted by the priests of the Unspoken and confined to the cavernous halls of the Emperor. Dark priests, Xoverus at their lead, raised a prayer to their god far distant on the frozen world of Fangol and yet omnipresent at all times. Men of the former empire, men who espoused the values of their once leader Maim – their current monarch Silk – observed a lasting silence, clad in full dress regalia. Unlike the varied elements of the crusade, comparable only to the soldiers of Nyx in their adherence to military doctrine, the servants and guardians of the lost Crimson Empire respected and observed their losses, and victories, in droll fashion. The mood of the ship was decidedly morose.

Silk had endured his own trials in the Sith temple and while he had not spoken of his encounter with Lupercus Darksword, the last surviving Dark Lord claiming himself as director of the Siths fate, it was clear to those around him that whatever had transpired lingered in his thoughts. Only the medics, a motley mix of droid and surgeon, knew the physical details of their clash. On pain of death, due pledge of privilege, they were not speaking. He had been some time in recovery even with the aid of the force to mend his wounds. Upon returning from the planets surface, hoards of wounded in tow, Silk had ordered his ship in to retreat. Disappearing swiftly, the command cruiser vanished in to deep space.

Their arrival, days later, at Fangol was met with a feeling of relief, the all consuming presence of the Unspoken washing over the converted masses. There they had remained for over a weeks time effecting repairs and conducting battle triage. A number of days elapsed before the funeral ceremonies and yet another week before Silk had emerged, for more then a few hours at a time, from his focusing chamber. There had been no communication with the crusade proper, whatever link Silk shared with Dacian sufficient to convey an understanding. Well known was the fact that though faith in the Unspoken was widespread among the crusaders in general, Fangol was the domain of the priests and under the direct pervue of the Crimson Emperor. And so, because of this dynamic, Lord Silk and his forces were able to remain removed from the crusade spearhead even as, across the galaxy, the Nyxian and Mandalorian elements were making their push in to the Onyxian occupation zone.


“Lord Silk,” the voice, cold like the planet below, cut through the silence draped across the bridge. “A moment...”

Xoverus, chief priest of the Unspoken, appeared from one of the lifts on the the wings of the bridge. Alone and draped in his typical robes, dark toned fabric not entirely unlike those worn by the Sith, he approached the raised, throne-like dais upon which Silk was perched. Flanking the crimson clad Silk, working at two substations at the foot of the precipice, were two similarly dressed members of the brotherhood each of whom paused in their work to watch the approach of the wretched, yet revered priest.

Eyes diverted, observing some unseen event, Silk made no gesture of recognition as the priest neared, stopping and bowing formally at the foot of the stone worked construct.

“Alone, perhaps.” Xoverus suggested.

Only then did Silk turn his glowering, sightless gaze towards the speaker. For a moment he seemed to contemplate, saying nothing, before nodding subtly. “Give us the bridge.”

Slowly at first, progressing until they were left to themselves, the considerable bridge crew filed in to the lifts and in to the halls adjoining the bridge. Once they were alone, but for a single member of the brotherhood who lingered upon Silks request, the Dark Lord rose from his perch descending the stairs towards Xoverus. His robes swirled as he moved not entirely camouflaging the limp, the stiffness in his legs and the pain that still resonated in his musculature. Upon closer inspection a dark stubble could be seen shading his unshaven features and eyes, previously bright, surrounded by black bags bestowing a sunken, distant aura upon his visage. The lighting was by no means warm, the bridge perpetually gloomy but for the subdued hues disseminating from the various work stations, the pale yellow illuminations which shadowed the gargoyle-like statues which loomed above the same, and the far off radiance spilling down the halls and chambers which abutted the bridge. Uniform throughout the vessel was the Gothic, oppressive aesthetic.

“You would know my intentions,” informed Silk of Xoverus, clearly reading the desires of his high priest. “And so you shall have them – I have no desire to linger here any longer then you though I suspect your reasons differ from my own.”

The two men shared many common interests, many commonalities between them and even a shared history within the crusade but beyond that they were not friends, they did not share their feelings or speak lightly with one another. Xoverus knew enough about Silk and vice versa but while Fangol, home of the Unspoken had been a boon to Silk, a stop over on his path to greatness, it had been prison, home and monastery to the priest for untold years, decades even... or longer and as an agent of the Unspoken, Xoverus represented a pressing desire to spread the faith – something he could not hope to achieve here, only a few hundred thousand kilometers above the planet.

“Rest assured,” Silk continued, “we will not remain here long, that is to say; much longer. It is my desire to garrison an outpost here and move on.”

Dissatisified, Xoverus matched the Sith Lord with his own penetrating stare. “The Unspoken will not be delayed or lied to. I know of your,” Xoverus paused searching for the right word, “harvests from the planet and I know of your experiments. What I know the Unspoken also knows.”

Silk nodded appreciatively. For some time he had suspected the church of spying and though expected, the confirmation was reward in itself. “A mere side project, something to distract the mind and pass the time until the time is right. It will also become imperative to replenish our fighting numbers and as you know, I have only extracted creatures, beasts of various sort, from Fangol and not in sufficient number to...”

“The Unspoken is not concerned with the sort or number,” interrupted Xoverus dangerously. “Take all you like, bleed the planet dry if you require. The church has a singular ambition, you make take whatever means to achieve that end so long as you do not compromise our expansion.”

“Good,” Silk smiled a serpentine, slithering sort of smile. Pacing slowly, the brotherhood warrior remaining vigilant, Silk moved behind his priestly counterpart, extending an arm and placing the palm upon the shoulder of Xoverus. It was then that the priest noticed the mechanical nature of the limb. Though his shock was brief, quickly suppressed below controlled facial expression, it was enough. The message was clear; Silk had made sacrifices and would continue until satisfied. “The presence of the Unspoken will be returned to Xa Fel, its word spread. I promise you, like infection, the Sith will accept the church. It is my desire... my fate to return.”

This seemed to pique his interest. Xoverus turned towards Silk, “And what of your master, what of Dacian Palestar?”

Movement like lightning, so swift and powerful, so destructive and beautiful, Silk shot out his arm, his mechanical limb with velocity belaying his injured state and closed his talons around the next of his priest. Eyes dark like coal, darker then the abyss between stars, fixed on the other. In the absence of pupils it was impossible to know where his gaze was fixed but for the boring, not unlike an invisible screw being driven through ones flesh, sensation their focus brought was unmistakable.

“Know this, priest – I have no master. You, priest, have a master and even your master, powerful entity it may be, is not mine! My fate, my destiny is borne of the force, steered by the dark side, and like a juggernaut, immovable beyond its set path.” He released his grip, receded below his robes and softened his impossibly sinister features. “Dacian is busy on his own errand in the force, learning the lessons I learned long ago and his attention is thusly divided. His crusade, his Nyxian fools, his battle-heady Mandalorians, his thoughtless hoards and vapid Void Knights are occupied with the Empire, busy building and planning for their next push.”

“All that you see around you,” gesturing expansively, “is mine to do with as I wish. Your planet below, that is mine. This ship and all it holds, is mine and even your Unspoken... all mine. Everything I have brought together, everything the force has given me, they are but tools, the means by which I shall follow the path charted for me by the dark side of the force. You and yours will do well, I promise you that, so long as you remember that I am aligned with the force at its very core.”

Xoverus recoiled visibly, “Hersey!”

A snarling, hissing noise, sharp and malicious, filled the bridge, echoed down the corridors and slithered down the walls. All around them shapes moved. Long shadows detached themselves from the dark spaces between the gargoyles, from behind the dias, from the corridors and lifts. They swarmed and gathered. Drawing themselves towards Silk they pushed Xoverus back due their sheer numbers and considerable mass.

“A god cannot be a heretic,” spoke Silk with sinister laughter. “And only a god can create life!”

Xoverus departed soon after, returning to the temple aboard the Crimson Emperor to muster his forces. The Unspoken was clearly bothered by this development, but omnipresent and god like though it was, knew that Silk was still serving its ends. Gone, the creatures Silk had summoned also disappeared, slithering back to their alcoves throughout the ship. They would soon become the things of rumor, talked about by the ships crew though only glimpsed in the deepest, darkest parts of the Emperor. So too would the brotherhood redouble their efforts, training up new warriors from the numbers drawn back in to service and breaking the slaves captured and donated by the crusade, turning them to the task of driving the war machine forward. The kilometers long Crimson Emperor, repaired and set for battle, its towering precipices and flying buttresses boasting cannonade and statue menacing and deadly.

Four days later, leaving behind a detachment of Silks forces above and upon the planet, the Crimson Emperor jumped to hyperspace. Leaving the planet Fangol behind, hidden amongst the stars, and carrying with it a more powerful presence then ever before it set off for an unknown destination but one that was clearly directed by the force. The crusade was returning to Xa Fel, and this time it would not be retreating.

The past...


"You are nothing but what you make of yourself."

It was spoken, pronounced. There could be no other truth, such was the conviction in his voice.

Tall, enrobed, the Lord Maim believed every word he uttered was law. This, his enemies and allies realized, was his greatest strength. It made him strong and could be made to make others stronger or weaker. Religious fervour had nothing on him. It was his greatest strength. It was also his greatest weakness. The galaxy he saw was the galaxy he chose to accept. Nothing else filtered through, not even the harsh reality that not everything was as he decreed. When realms outside his manifestation threatened his perceptions he would recede from them and lives would be lost.

"You are fascinated," commanded the Dark Lord. "You want power and I am power. Only through me can you become..."

"Can you become," he continued, "the man you are fated to be."

At his side, kneeling, lurked a figure - masked and draped in crimson. Silent and unmoving he watched unblinking behind his visor-split helm. Dioan Silk, Imperial Sovereign Protector, was the sworn weapon of Maim - his Hand. They had been together, one indentured in the service of the other, since the rise of the Crimson Empire. Silk, once a soldier in of the Galactic Empire, had been drafted in to the ranks of the Imperial Guard faithfully obligated to Emperor Palpatine until his untimely death. Events transpired, contenders rose up to fill the void and try to claim the throne left empty and it was to Maim, the strongest of these, that Silk had sworn fealty. Distinguishing himself above the rest Silk had been promoted to his current rank.

They were together and alone, two figures poised at the bow of a great space faring vessel overlooking a lush, green planet below. A dome of steel and glass sheltered them from the freezing, vacuous assault of space while a thousand million glimmering stars looked down upon them.

"Learn to wield the force as I have instructed you." He spoke to the stars, spoke to the void beyond the dome but Silk listened absorbing every word enraptured. "Command the will of the force, embrace the dark side."

Long and old was the tale of Diete Somir, the man who would take the mantle of Lord Maim in his fall to the dark or, as he would have it, his graduation from the simplistic doctrine of the Jedi. The Sith had been at the crux of many galactic events. He had cast his name in steel, an ever lasting period of the galaxies tumultuous history. Much of what was known, or believed to be fact, was contradictory or manufactured. Only a student of the man himself, like Silk, could even begin to cut through the confusion but the fact was that close though they had become, much of his past eluded him.

"Start at the beginning," Somir was tracing the stars, eyes dancing from one constellation to the next. "Pour a foundation, build a house."

"One can look at the sky and see the stars and think, believe in the infinite but the truth is this," a hand waved at the stars, the dome above them shifting, "infinity cannot be seen, it cannot be beheld. The force is like this, the dark side a door way."

Lessons were not taught, they were lived. The moments between reserved for reflection, for abstract monologue. Maim did not so much instruct as direct. Paths found and followed instilled strength, confidence. Hand holding was for children and even in the darkest forest the student had to learn to walk alone. Education could be a torch to light the way, it could even be a map but it could not do the exploring.

"When you find the way," now he turned and regarded his student with indifference, "contact me then. You will know the time."

Silk bowed, a difficult proposition from his genuflect position. "As you command."


*


Swirling colours, a cascade of blurred points of light that were distant stars, swam around the behemoth shooting through hyperspace. They filled the bridge with an ethereal luminescence and pooled in the fore-decks where the crew and staff congregated in their off hours. Otherwise gloomy only the unearthly illumination that was hyperspace cast the ship in what could be pensively called a positive light.

The Crimson Emperor was a fast ship under full power. It boasted forward velocities in sub-light and hyperspace that rivalled other large warships. In many ways it could be described 'modern' but not all. Still new by the standards of such large constructs the Emperor felt ancient as if possessed by old spirits and home to a culture forgotten by time.

Deep within the bowels of the ship, far below the temple of the Unspoken and hidden in the dungeon complexes Lord Silk resided in his focusing chamber. A towering cavern beset on all sides by stone carved statues, likenesses of great Sith figures passed, the chamber was tall and narrow and sitting at its centre, looked upon by the statues, was Dioan Silk.

Eyes shut, head bowed, he was deep in a meditative trance. Though his body resided here in this very real place moving between the stars at speeds faster then light his mind, his soul, the part of him tied to the force was elsewhere. Throughout the years he had developed a tendency to while away the hours spent speeding through space here, submersed in the soup that was the dark side. His connection to the force, he believed, was strengthened under such circumstances.

Seeking clues to the future, he had been here for hours but only the past revealed itself to him. It had been this way since Xa Fel and it was beginning to frustrate him.

Xa Fel changed something, he realized. The physical changes were evident.

Unconsciously, or semiconscious perhaps, his mechanical hand twitched.

What else was different? He had to know, hence; his return to Xa Fel. The answers had to be there and now it would be for keeps. The crusade, his link to Palestar, represented one path. Through him Silk had discovered his alignment with the force, had divined his need to follow the dark side and that had lead him to the Sith stronghold. It had given him this ship, it had brought him to the Unspoken and rebuilt his army and then... and then...

Always in motion is the future, fluid like water and carving a path through the rock much as a river would, or a glacier slowly grinding down mountains.

He had to find answers.

"It does not compute," stated the droid, typically monotone. "The navigational computer is not working with the ascribed parameters."

The robots counterpart, human for the most part, scratched his head. Unlike the android, polished to a dull shine, the technician, clad in his grease stained and much abused coverall, was not polished. He was however quite dull.

"Huh," he said conclusively. "What's wrong?"

Devoid of emotion and alien to the intricacies of biological expression, the droid none-the-less contrived to appear annoyed. "Logic would dictate that it is, for lack of a more complete response, broken sir."

"Don't that beat all?"

"I do not know," answered the droid. "Does it beat all sir?"

Meanwhile, on the bridge, a crew of technicians, less grease-monkey and more engineer, were grappling with the same problem though from a different approach.

"That should be Xa Fel," said one, his face a mask of confusion and aggravation, with a gesture to the main viewer. "According to these coordinates that is exactly where we are."

"I'm no astrogation expert," put another, younger and sporting the trappings of an officer, "but if memory serves Xa Fel is ostensibly habitable and that planet is clearly the farthest thing from."

Rotating slowly, baked a bright orange glow by the none-too-distant primary, the orb displayed in brilliant depth on the main viewer seemed to stare angrily back at them occasionally belching plumes of smoke in to the atmosphere. It was not Xa Fel.

"Those eruptions must be massive," he added with a grimace.

"If our sensors can be trusted," the elder enlisted man went on. "Those eruptions are in fact volcanoes, mountains the size of the Emperor burping sulphur clouds the size of..."

He looked to his officer and shrugged, "... of something very large?"

"We have a team checking the navi-comp at the source but I don't know what their diagnostics will be able to tell us that we can't see for ourselves." Calling up a summary on his own data pad, he fixed the engineer with a sarcastic smirk, "It's busted."

"Has Lord Silk been informed?"

"No," put the man with the rank. "I am not about to go to him with anything less then the whole story... I mean, you heard the rumours about Vader?"

Elsewhere on the ship, within the warren like catacombs beneath the temple, Xoverus of the Unspoken broke from his prayers. His features, hardly expressive at the best of times, were knotted up and a thin layer of condensation (lacking the ability to perspire) cast a sheen across his forehead. Previously genuflect, he rose so abruptly that his posterior connected with the pew behind him noisily.

"No," he spoke with a deathly countenance. "No!"


Half a million kilometres distant, deep beneath the surface of the burning planet, a consciousness awoke. Malevolent and malicious it turned its eyes towards the sky and the stars invisible through the thick, polluted atmosphere and found the shape of the Crimson Emperor radiating a force signature so potent it drowned out everything around it and drank up what little Light permeated this part of the galaxy.

Dead, unliving, and yet deftly aware of itself, the being that was not represented a direct challenge to the Unspoken and threatened what little loyalty Silk still possessed for it was directly connected to the man, to his past, and now to his future.

Deep within the rock and magma a voice disembodied spoke. It said, "My servant..."

Aboard the Crimson Emperor in meditative trance Lord Silk blinked once, spread his lips to scream and collapsed limply. Unseen and yet felt, a presence fermiliar and not filled his focusing chamber. A glow inhuman surrounded the prone figure radiating outwards.

Paralyzed, pained, immobile, the warlord known as Silk cried tears of joy and of fear. Thinking only two words he lapsed in to a state comatose.

Lord Maim, the words became his world and swallowed him up.



The Past


Hard rain, driving sleet saturates everything, makes movement challenging. It drags him down. Mud slides over stone stumbling footfalls and clings to boots. He struggles against the wet, the all consuming soak.

The pack on his back is heavy. It weighs on him like a planet tugging at his shoulders, his legs and arms, his body whole. Still he trudges on.

His robe is torn; but a tattered thing draped over his chest. Blood swells and streams from numerous lacerations, some jagged as if the result of torturous terrain while others boast clean, deep lines of like inflicted by sword and steel.

He ignores his wounds, ignores the weight, ignores the rain.

Below his feet and all around him is a planet lush and green. The ground is fouled by roots and vines winding between jagged rocks which themselves seem to swim in an ever shifting sea of muck. Even in the weather, truly foul, the cries and calls of various beasts can be heard over the rolling thunder.

His path has been a hard. One laid before him by his lord and master, this is a path he must follow. Failure is not an option. Knowledge is not required. Of the thing on his back he knows nothing and of the planet even less. Its locals, he knows, are harsh. They are tribal and territorial. Though inhuman these tall, dark skinned creatures seem to him as monsters. Their ways are strange and their societies alien but it is not his task to understand them or their ways.

Mountains have passed behind him. He has traversed more geography then he cares to recall and still his journey seems endless. Sleep has abandoned him, hunger becoming his constant companion alongside discomfort and loneliness. Through day and night he travelled without rest drawing instead on the force to sustain him.

Whether due exposure or worse he has begun to hallucinate. In declining health, physical and mental, he forges on. He is young, he is fit, he is trained and yet all his skills, all his ability, all his knowledge is not enough.

He is failing.

The last mountain, he recalls, should have been the last. The last valley, he remembers, should have seen him arrive.

High above, watching from his ship through sensor and sensory, his liege is waiting. Even over such vast distances he feels a closeness to his master unlike any he has known before as though the weight on his back were Lord Maim riding on his shoulders as though he, Dioan Silk, were some pack animal.

Why did he not ask? Could such a thing not have been accomplished much easier, delivering this thing, by ship? A courier could have been sent, one on hover-skid, skipping the long trek and riding the sky to whatever destination lay ahead.

No, he reminds himself through the haze of sickness. I was sent, this is my path.

Another day passes in to night his resolve ever faltering. The nights are the worst. There is no relief from the weather. It follows him as do the packs of hunters who pepper him with arrows, throw their spears from cover as it has, as they have, since his arrival. From the forests, in the underbrush and in the trees, even from the sky above, ferocious animals pester him.

The planet seems out to get him and drive him away broken.

Alone in the night his strength fails him. To his knees he falls. Collapsing spent he feels tears running down his face even against the rivers of rain that stream down him from head to toe.

"I can't," he groans his voice hoarse. "I cannot go on..."

In the darkness, clouds so thick overhead they blank the stars and hide the moons above, a figure coalesces from nothingness glowing an ethereal hue. It looms above him, it does not lurk. It mocks him, "You cannot?"

"My lord?" Silk pleads. "Spare me..."

"Only death will spare you," he mocks further. "I will not. Fail me now and even the afterlife will be no escape."

He thinks his lord speaking to him through the force, which indeed he is, but his error lies in thinking the source Lord Maim himself aboard a star ship above the planet. In his weary, haggard state he cannot focus through the fog and cannot feel the heat radiating from his back, through the force.

"You will complete what the task I have set before you. Failure is not an option, not for you. The thing you carry, that which you must deliver, will change forever the planet that has plagued you. Take strength in the knowledge that everything around you, which you have come to hate, will be destroyed for all time with the completion of your mission." The ghostly figure moved closer pressing an intangible hand to the top of his servants bowed head. "Now move."

"Yes," Silk spoke, rising. "As is your bidding, my master."

The spectre loomed, glowing in all its ethereal glory and consumed of ill content, on its face wore a mocking grin of spite. As though the imagined memory of a thing long forgotten its form wavered, glimmering in some unseen, unfelt breeze. This, a manifestation of divinity dismissed, snarling creature of contempt looked down upon the slumped figure before it with a glower of confidence and also confusion.

"Is such a thing possible," it spoke. The voice was not unlike the jagged shores of some towering cliff crumbling in to an angry and uneasy sea. "Are you real, servant? Am I?"

No reply was met for the slave of which it spoke seemed as if dead. Yet, impossibly, its eyes searched desperately the space above it, now occupied by this being. One was Lord Silk, of this certainty prevailed. The other, unsure itself as the first was of it, claimed some part of the now gone and relic like Lord Maim, Diete Somir of the Sith.

"What has changed?" The question posed echoed the reflections of the one now frozen. "You are different, my memory of you old though I know not how. Perhaps... that which has altered you as I recall has done also to me. Your being here affects mine."

Then, almost imperceptible, the being more ghost then substance shifted and its smirk with it. Lower, closer to the face of the other, it moved until, within breathing distance, it saw the thing behind the eyes and in the mind of Silk. It laughed and its laugh filled the chamber.

"What dreams do you see?" With intangible hands the thing that could have been Maim gripped the skull of Silk. "Show me your memories!"


The Past

Silk had found it.

He knew because Maim had guided him here. There could be no other answer, no alternative. The thing before him was his goal, of this he was sure.

Time was not on his side, in his bones he could feel it. The energy that sustained him, his own now long since consumed, that which the Dark Lord had bestowed upon him, was fading and doing so swiftly.

Where bruises had been, now welts rose. Where cuts and gashes had swelled, their bleeding suffused, now torrents of the crimson life fluid ran like rivers. Exhaustion, forestalled by the force and its dark components, threatened again to overwhelm him. All things physical and those metaphysical also neared a head, an end.

The time was neigh.

It was a temple. The architecture left no doubt, but it was one of unfamiliar construction. Carvings, likely gods of some unknown pantheon, and etchings, likewise a language foreign, looked down upon him disapprovingly. Their faces seemed to reflect humanity but only in some vague fashion and while their writings were not unlike those of the Sith, those studied in his training, the differences were clear. He could not reconcile what he was seeing with what he knew to be true of the long lost Sith traditions.

Through the force he could feel it radiating power but like the dusty bottom of a dry river-bed its emanations were subdued. Something, he knew not what, reached out to him begging him to stay, to glean what wisdom he could but something else, something far more powerful and threatening urged him to complete his task. This, he knew, was the touch of his Lord Maim. Others, the unfaithful, he knew would be tempted to disobey but he, a soldier by training, would not countermand the command of his master.

Another mystery; how to gain entry.

No doors, no entrances of any kind were visible to his weary eyes. Built in the style of a pyramid though blocky and overgrown by vines, trees and foliage of various description, he assumed its builders must have intended entry. Working under this assumption he approached, circled the squat structure (no taller then four meters at its precipice) while tugging at the greenery. It was small even by ancient standards reminding him of the imperial out posts scattered around the most empty parts of the galaxy and manned by barely a squad of isolated troops. He scaled it. He dug at the dirt around it. He pressed his palms against the heiroglyphs and searched the face of each eroded visage.

Nothing.

"I will not be denied," he declared. "My lord will not be refused!"

Randomly, without intent or ambition, he extended himself through the force forming claws of energy, the gripping talons of what was dubbed a force grip, and closed himself around one of the stone blocks. His focus, weakened by his condition, strayed. It barely trembled. Bits of dirt and debris tumbled away but for all his want... it was insufficient. Anger rose inside him and fueled his resolve.

Again he tried and was rewarded. Begrudgingly it shifted. In reply a jagged barb, a thing borne of the dark side, stabbed his soul wracking his already tortured body with waves of pain.

He stumbled backwards, the pack on his shoulders falling unceremoniously on the sodded earth.

His anger steeled itself against the intrusion.

What was this thing, this inanimate rock that dared oppose him? The force was his to wield, he was the hand of the greatest, most powerful Sith to have ever lived!

Not to be overcome by such contrivances he once more reached out and when the pain filled his body driving his rage onwards he drew strength from it, resolved himself to be consumed by his passion - the hate that made all students of the dark side powerful.

The rock shifted. It heaved and cracked sending tremors out in to the soil below and a gap opened. Darkness and stagnant air made to waft up and out of the meter wide wound. Victorious, he drew back within himself but the pain did not abate. It was unlike anything he had felt previous, unlike anything described in the aftermath of battle or read in the many tomes of Sith knowledge read.

His battered body and the pain it felt was like nothing, like the prick of a pin compared to that which now assailed him. Death, it was like death - like the boney fingers of that dark and skull faced thing which claimed the souls of the doomed. It was coming for him!

"Quickly," demanded a voice in the back of his mind, yelling to be heard over Silks own shouting, screaming cries. "Inside," it directed his attention towards the pack, "do it now!"

With his last measure of ability he gripped the pack, noting above the hurt that it felt impossibly heavy, and flung it at the darkness and as it vanished, consumed by the pitch black, so too was he.

Silk collapsed. His last memory; the vicious outrage of the planet itself, the ground shaking more fiercely then any earthquake on record.



"Ah," the ghost of Maim inhaled. "Yes, I remember."

Almost an afterthought, it added, "Of course... you do not."

"You served me, did as I bid of you, and for that service I will reward you with knowledge. I will show you what happened after."


The Past


The planet was tearing itself apart.

It started immediately. Even before the leather bound package had hit the floor of the temple interior the planet cried out. Ripe with life, a green and glorious miracle of creation, the pain it felt was a million billion times more potent then that which had, only moments earlier, ripped through the body of Silk.

Across the continents awoke dormant volcanoes. Mountains reaching to the sky exploded, blew their tops with force beyond that of even the most powerful man-made explosive device. The seas boiled as similar explosions ripped apart the ocean floor.

Life, all across this once lush orb, was snuffed out.

From his position aboard his ship, Lord Maim watched with satisfaction but he did not just watch. There was a magic at work here which tied him inexorably to fate of the planet. His awareness was not simply visual, it was visceral.

Silk, his eager pawn, would never understand what he had unleashed. At least, to the best of Maims intention he would not comprehend.

There, amongst the chaos, his peon lay.

For a moment he considered letting the man die. He had been useful in the past and had done today, here what was commanded of him. A portent of the future no longer.

"Today," Maim spoke. "You have served my will and for that, I will spare you."




"I could have let you die that day," the spectral manifestation recoiled from his stricken subject. "It seems the force was with you then, when I saved you."

"We found you, perhaps seconds from your final demise. You were returned to my ship, you remained in a coma-state for weeks."

"The rest," again it was grinning. "Is history."

With squinting eyes the thing which was Maim, and was not, turned from smirk to scowl. Eyes cold and unfeeling searched. "But you want to know more, you want to know what evil you enacted that day?"

"Very well," it was fading now. "The thing you carried was a piece of me, a part of my being which merged with the planet. What I am now, what you see, you helped create; an ever lasting place where my greatness would be preserved for as long as the stars burn, as long as the universe expands."

"What I am is a memory of the man I was up until that point in what you remember as the past. You have come here somehow though I sought to keep the location of this place from you. The force has brought you here. Why?"

It was almost gone now, but a wisp of luminescence. "You are on a journey, on a path. Whatever has transpired since in what you consider your life has been building to a thing and I can only surmise that you have not yet finished. Like that day when I set you on a course, your fate has guided you still. You will not rest here."

"Rise now, my once faithful student. This is the last and final mercy you will find from me. Continue, let the dark side of the force direct your steps. Never forget to ask yourself; what has changed? When you have that answer..."

Gone, utterly and totally, the chamber was once again empty but for Silk.

He roused, as if from a dream, and rose slowly to his feet. A time passed, not unlike the unreal state which exists between sleep and wakefulness, between dreams and the real world. Towards the future, his feet carrying him with light steps, he moved.

Meanwhile, on the bridge, a miracle of technological brilliance unfolded.

"The situation is resolved," said the steely monotone of the android voice over the internal communication network. "The error has been fixed. Navigational computers are functioning within normal parameters."

With a shrug, he tended to shrug frequently, the engineer looked to his superior with confusion painted across his face. "I don't know. I guess... should we jump to hyperspace?"

It took the officer fractions of a second to decide. "Tell Lord Silk that the navicomputer jumped us to the asshole of nowhere and then fixed itself with no explanation as to why... Or, get back on course and pretend like nothing happened?"

"Plot the course," he snapped. "Get us the hell out of here."



A wise man, a student of the nature of existence, once said that greatness was not earned; it was bestowed by the gods.

He may have been right. All men share lies, they share truth - but only fate draws the two together. A thing can happen, it can make no sense to any involved and it can even leave in its wake more questions then answers but it is the belief that all things will be revealed in the end that drives.

Regardless, Silk was returning to Xa Fel. The path before him was not straight, nor was it narrow. The bends in the road he would walk gladly.

"She swims in the void," an elder, human and female, preached. "She is our guardian and she is our charge. We protect her as she sustains us."

"We do so." A chorus of young voices, all women, chanted.

Their voices echoed in the amphitheatre-like structure. Above them was darkness spared only by the glittering pinpricks of light which were far distant stars. The open maw, this yawning space filled with painted faces was a temple and of that there could be no mistaking for around its perimeter was a stone carved tapestry - one which told the tale of their cause, their people.

These women were a mystery. They were relics of a long forgotten world now split by cruelty of the universe; torn asunder by errant comets themselves spawned of a now dead, now forgotten planet. The star system from which they hailed had been the victim of a collapsing star and an expanding gravity well.

Once there had been men among them, a subordinate class as was typical of such matriarchal societies. Fate had not been kind to these males and in the face of inevitable doom, superstitious as they were, their final undoing had been dealt them in the form of mass sacrifice. The universe tended to disregard these tributes, the galaxy expanding regardless of their mythic beliefs.

Ingenuity prevailed, ignorance constrained.

In a stroke of irony a man, one of their slaves, had devised a plan that would be the preservation of their society... or a piece of it. Generators, powered by massive solar collectors which doubled as solar sails, projected a shield around a chunk of what had once been their planet. It preserved, on this tumbling debris, atmosphere and kept the sucking void of deep space at bay. In this way they were able to survive and grow food and sustain their way of life. Aboard their asteroid, a similar bit of irony given the cause, named for the man who had saved them, the tribe Crow eked out an existence espousing the values of a now near-dead civilisation.




"What is it?"

Lord Silk, upon the throne of command aboard the bridge of a command ship which was also his, studied the slowly tumbling object as it was projected in three dimensions before him. Perhaps 1/1000th scale, the hologram boasted considerable detail leaving no doubt as to the purpose of the gossamer wings on which it rode.

Slowly, as if to convey his consternation at such a pointless query, the Sith tyrant turned his empty stare on the questioner. In turn, lowly and aware fully of his place in the hierarchy of power, the information officer paled.

"It," he said, "is someone's home."

"Is there any indication that they have detected us?" Silk asked of no one in particular.

The Crimson Emperor was far larger then the asteroid, it had an energy signature the size of a small moon. Their reversion from hyperspace would be visible for light years.

"None," met a red-robed figure, speaking before the technician could further insult their lord. He went on. "We are detecting no noteworthy outbound or inbound projections."

"Noteworthy?"

"Yes, my lord. Their sensor bubble, that which we can detect, extends no more then a few hundred thousand kilometers beyond the object. The possibility of visual identification remains, however; at such a distance it seems unlikely at best." The crimson brother, obviously one of Silks elite, remained focused on his instruments tucked in an alcove at the base of one of the statues. "The sails are absorbing considerable solar energies even so far from any star. It is reasonable to assume that their sensors, if they have any beyond what we have documented, would be useless in the face of so much radiation."

At that Silk scratched his chin, thinking. "Have you ever heard of such advanced sail technology?"

The question was redundant but for the sake of those among the crew less educated in the ways of spacial tech, he answered, "Never my lord. Most space-going peoples abandon the pursuit of solar sail advancement with the advent of hyper-space engines or other forms of faster-then-light travel."

On his neck and along his arms Silks hair was standing on end.

"They know we are here."

Curious, but not so much that they dared ask, the bridge crew wondered how he knew.

As if to answer their unspoken quandary he said simply, "The force is strong with them."



The Past

In their caves deep below the mountains of Yinchorr the men of the crimson brotherhood, exiles all, knelt in silent meditation. Arranged in a circle with the Sovereign Protector at the centre they prostrated themselves with eyes closed genuflect before the awe inspiring power that was the force.

Though their eyes were closed they saw far beyond the sight of any mortal man.

"Do you feel them?"

There was no reply, at least none spoken, but Silk knew they felt it. Distant, somewhere on the edge of the system, was life. It was small by planetary standards but with their shared focus it glowed light a satellite moving across the sky across a backdrop of stationary suns and galaxies.

"A cruiser, perhaps. A destroyer even."

His own eyes open, looking round the circle of faces - his brothers in blood and arms - Silk was satisfied to see them nod as one.

"The force tells you; they are not friends."

Again, a unanimous nodding of heads.

"Who are they?"

Here logic played part. Yinchorr was on the fringe of Imperial space well within the patrol zone of the New Order. It would have been easy to assume that this was a vessel of the Empire but Silk could not have them defaulting to logic. This was a lesson in manipulating the force called Far-seeing. Not to be confused with a similar discipline, one used to glimpse the future, it was a tool employed by Sith and Jedi alike to detect friend and enemies alike over vast distances. Without their collective focus it would have been impossible for any among them, Silk included, to see so far but acting as one they became as a network of sensor arrays increasing their potential vastly.

This joining made them stronger then their individual parts. Battle melds were not that different from this practice though this discipline lent itself more to wizardry then to combat. In their isolation Silk had practised this with his brothers time and again, to the point that it became second nature. Often his men shared their thoughts without verbalisation, they were able to communicate with one another without relying on the meager forms of communication on which the non-adept relied.

As one they spoke, "Sons of Emperor Hyfe, sons of the Empire."

The answer came by way of the dark side and it pleased Silk to know this. It also pleased him to know that though the illusion of salvation was carried with this arrival none among his brothers were fool enough to dwell upon it. They were men of the Crimson Empire, men who had sworn fealty to the Dark Lord Maim and men whose loyalty to such a faction was deemed traitorous to the New Order. Bastards, the crew of that ship would call them. And then, insults exchanged, they would attack. Or, more likely, they would just attack - raze the planet from orbit and call it a day.

"Your skills are impressive, your judgement more so." He moved now, around the circle at a slow pace. "Every day I am glad to call you my brothers, every day I am pleased to know that you stand with me and behind me."

"One day we will be freed, our exile will come to an end. That day is not today and your strength, every one of you, gives me resolve and gives me patience."

"This lesson is at an end."

Silently, their minds working through what they had learned, the men of the Crimson Brotherhood filed out of the caves off to their various chores and obligations leaving Silk alone in the rock walled chamber with only the stalactites and stalagmites for company.

Their strength bolstered his own. As they learned and grew stronger so too did he, exponentially so. The force was with him. One day, he knew, his power would be such that he no longer relied on theirs while knowing also that they would rely upon him forever.



"Queen!"

Alarmed, a young woman cried out for her matriarch. She was still a child but one of considerable knowledge. Her post was the small, ill equipped room that served as the womens sensor and observation centre. She alone manned, or womanned as the case was, the antiquated computers which ran the sensor grid.

At the moment however she was not at her post. Instead she was running, sprinting through the corridors of their lair towards the queens chambers, her robes trailing behind in a flurry. On arrival, quite to her surprise, the queen was already awaiting her appearance.

"Hush girl," the old crone commanded gently. "Collect yourself. Now tell me your news."

After a moments respite, she did. "A ship... the sensor network has detected a small vessel closing on us."

"I know child," offered the elder in a soothing yet firm voice. "You have done well."

On the her face the younger woman wore a mask of confusion. "But... how? How did you know Mother Crow?"

Instantly the look of kindness faded from the old woman's wrinkled and aged features to be replaced by one of harshness, of obvious anger. In that moment her hand flew, drawing back and striking out. With nails like talons her calcified claws drew a trio of red streaks on the others cheek.

"It is the Way! You are just too weak to feel it!"

"Yes mother," whimpered the injured teen. "I am sorry..."

"Quit being sorry, child. Do as I command! Open the shield and allow the craft entry. Summon the sisters to the landing chamber. When you have done as I demand you will retire to your room, you will punish yourself until the Way shows you how to overcome the pain. Now go!"

Watching as the cowed young girl retreated the crone grinned toothlessly. "We will welcome Him for if we do not those who come behind him will be our end."




Silk, descending the ramp of his shuttle, gazed around the stone and steel cavern that served as a sort of berthing bay. A thousand or more faces studied him with impunity. Nothing in the force had prepared him for the way they looked at him, as though he were a petulant nothing. Even before his feet had touched the ground a dawning realization had formed.

Women, old and young, they glared at him. They wore painted faces, not like the make-up of the females with which he had been acquainted in his soldiering days but like the tribal peoples he had encountered on what he was now calling Maims World, and they saw him as a cat might a mouse.

Days of schooling returned to him, days of studying the various force traditions known throughout the galaxy and written of in various texts. He remembered like a flash all his reading and in particular a band of female warriors, witches from a planet called Dathomir and found himself wondering if he the force had brought him here, to this lost enclave of witches with a purpose.

"A man," one pointed out. She was old, much older then the rest, and she wore a robe of black feathers with a similar headdress. Though surprise was obvious in her declaration something told Silk she was faking which amused him some. "You are among the Crow!"

Her bravado was obvious to him. He surmised it was an act, not for his sake but for the others. Though the force was present, almost tangible, she radiated the strongest presence. This, he guessed, was their leader.

For the moment he would chose to play along.

"I am Silk, that is my name if you would hear it. I am a traveller of the stars. By chance I found your... home. I mean you no harm, I mean you no foul." At least part of it was a lie. "May I know your name?"

"I am Mother Crow, that is my name and you will hear it."

Silk barely suppressed a smirk.

"The Way has brought you to us. There is nothing else. I will speak to you, in private."

With that the old woman turned and departed in quick fashion leaving Silk to be surrounded by what he assumed were soldiers, or some equivalent of an honour guard. They were dressed as the Mother Crow had been though less opulent and they carried spears, primitive but effective. Then, with pointing gestures, they indicated him to follow.



After a perfunctory march through the halls of the asteroid, which was not unlike a warren or nest (fitting he thought, given the name of the tribe) and allowed him an opportunity to get the lay of the place Silk found himself in the amphitheatre in which, though he had no way of knowing, the sisterhood had lifted up their prayers to the Way only hours earlier.

The crone was waiting for him. Alone.

"Who are you, really?" She demanded though less threatening then she had been previously. "Why are you here?"

Her mood, he noted, had changed appreciably. She attempted to appear brave but visibly and through the force he could feel her fear. Easily in to her eighties, while she had seemed vibrant in the landing bay, her age showed more clearly now. Posture bent, weight resting on a dark and gnarled cane, she glared at him suspiciously.

"I am Lord Silk," he declared with emphasis on his title. "I am a master of the Sith way, instrument of the Force, and I am here because it has brought me to this place."

"What you call the Way is a misguided interpretation of what I know as the Force. Through it I can see that you and your sisterhood are implements of the dark side. And I am going to take your strongest and your best, I am going to take them from you and break them of their mistaken tradition. You and your women will become my subjects."

Now the outrage she wore on her face, contorting the painted lines and stripes in to a mask of horror, was real.

"How dare you! I should kill you!"

"You could try," Silk responded evenly. With a gesture, with a raised palm, he lifted the old woman in to the air closing his fingers as he would around her windpipe. "You would fail."

Her eyes bugged. If not for her own adeptness, given her age, she would have died outright.

"But I want you alive. Alive you will make the transition much easier. You may think you have a choice. You do not. Soon my men will come aboard your puny little rock, they will study and copy your sail technology which, I will admit, is quite advanced. For this they will need to work alongside your brightest and I do not need you witches making my people feel inferior because, let me assure you, they are not." Here, pausing for a moment, he lowered her to the floor and released his grasp. "But it will not be all bad. Through me your women will gain access to men, to procreation. Through me I can grant you considerable power... far beyond what this Way has allowed you."

She wheezed.

"What was that? I could not understand you."

Again, she wheezed adding a nod this time.

"I would like to study your Way, perhaps even preserve elements of your Crow way of life. I am on a path to greatness beyond the power I now wield. Your people will join me on that path."

He turned his back on her, moving towards the exit. "I will allow you some time, not much, to make your people aware of what is going to happen. I suggest you do not try to cross me - my vessel could destroy your home in a fraction of a second, turn it in to so much slag... but it won't. If you dare even dream of betraying my command there will be no quick death for you, or for your women. I will burn your souls slowly and one at a time."

"I will return," he said simply.

He left. None blocked his path, none tried to stop him - perhaps the sight of a lone male, walking alone out of the presence of Mother Crow was enough to keep them at bay.



Seven standard days later, the Crimson Emperor hanging ominously above the asteroid, Silk was making preparations for departure.

There had been some problems at first but nothing a few executions and displays of force had not been able to deal with. The Crone, he had dubbed it her new title, was actually very cooperative. In her he had sensed an all consuming desire for power, to prolong her dwindling life, and he had fed it. Some of the others, particularly those who had in the past tried to challenge her authority, were less inclined to do as they were told. Their skinned hides, pinned to the walls of what was to become their new home aboard the Emperor, served as a constant reminder.

His own crew had expressed concerns. The brotherhood ensured that everyone toed the line and the lurking presence of his new pets, skulking throughout the ship, kept the rest in check.

Now, roaming the halls in their warrior garb, packs of converted witches intermingled with converts of the Unspoken beginning to turn inexorably to the faith for answers. Lessons had begun post-haste as well. Designed to correct their thinking in regards to the Way, the Force and the Dark Side, their effects were already being seen.

Silk had decided to leave the asteroid intact, garrisoning a small number of his own troops with an equally small number of witches, priests of the Unspoken and a handful of his own pets. Mobile, after a fashion, and large enough to serve as a fall back point, the Crone had convinced him of its worth... only after his men had done detailed examinations of the solar sail technology that powered the rock. He had even gone so far as to leave behind supplies sufficient to arm and defend it.

All in all he was pleased with the outcome.

It was clear to Lord Silk that the Force had brought him here and no simple happenstance.

As the Crimson Emperor once again made the jump to light speed he found himself wondering what lay ahead of him and though his course was set, Xa Fel the destination, he half expected to find another fork in the road, another bend in the path.

Only the force could tell.

He lay there, in an expanding pool of his own blood, dying.

Death was never glorious despite the warrior mentality which claimed otherwise. This death was particularly inglorious.

Robbed and murdered - what a way to go.

With a groan he passed, his death rattle a barely audible exhalation.

His last breath...



Twenty-four hours earlier

When is it enough? When does it all become too much?

For the Sith the answer is never. For the Sith 'too much' was never enough.

Lord Silk understood this. It was something that, in his early training, he had struggled with. To him it seemed easier, less complicated, to remain a minimalist and keep only that which sustained him. A small measure of cash, a trusty weapon and perhaps a loyal starship - these were the bare necessities for him. A man in his position needed little seeking to covet less.

But that all changed. He was not sure when, exactly. Believing instead that it had been a slow change he chose to accept that as he grew in strength and in wisdom his comprehension of what it was to be Sith also expanded. His meager lifestyle, one which allowed him to serve Maim without greed or lust for things beyond his requirements, had been sufficient once but it was not suitable for his desires - to rule, one needed objects and subjects to rule over. Long ago he had learned to rule himself. Now he sought dominion over others.

Prior to the Crusade attack on Xa Fel he had resisted it. Even then however the changes had been evident. First, simple enough for one aged as he was and for one learned as he had become, he had coveted a pupil. The teacher/student dynamic would enable him to pass on his knowledge and one day, facing death, rest assured knowing that a part of him would live on. That sharing had further changed him. His desires too, changed. The next evolution, the one he could chart, had come with the Crimson Emperor being bestowed upon him. Between the two notable checkpoints in his personal history there had been other minor adaptations but less noteworthy, far less so. It had come well in to the development of the Palestar Crusade, a faction contrived around him and not of his conceiving. But that small reward, akin to a gift for faithful service given by his once master Maim, had done something. Seeing the Crusade as something he had helped create but something not his own, seeing the Crimson Emperor as a payment for service, spite grew in his belly. He was the master now, he was the one who held power... and yet...

And then there was Xa Fel.

Home world of the Sith Order, strongest of the Sith factions presently within the galaxy, he had carried out an attack on their planet not because he willed it but because he had been directed to do so. The rock in his gut, the burgeoning seed of resentment, hardened. Sacrifices had been made but he cared only for those which affected him - the loss of his elite brethren, the loss of his arm. And what had it gained him?

Nothing.

The course on which he was set, an eminent return to Xa Fel, had been directing him and the force directing it. Furthermore, every stage of the journey had further equipped him with the tools he would need to carve out an Empire of his own and its culmination would be taking possession of Xa Fel for himself.

Was his destiny still tied to the Crusade, to Dacian? He did not know. He did not care.

Like all Sith all he wanted was everything.

He was however beginning to wonder if ever he would arrive at Xa Fel. The dark side of the force was testing him, it had to be.

Meditation had become his only past time between stops and he spent hours on end sequestered in his focusing chamber dwelling on the nature of the force. He perceived it as a tempest at times, like a river at others. Always moving though its direction at times chaotic, he had the sense that he was riding a tide beyond his control and this gave him pause. For all his efforts to break away, to become a man of his own, would there always be a master? Maim, Dacian, the Force...

A subtle chime drew his attention away. Deep thoughts could wait.

"What is it?"

"Lord," came a tinny voice, almost mechanical. "We have detected an object on long range scanners. It appears to be a ship."

Rising from a seated position he donned his robe moving towards the lone piece of technology that occupied his chamber. He keyed the computer terminal to life.

"Show me," ordered Silk.

Through the haze of hyper-space and across a gulf light years wide the ship appeared as a dot, an unresolved shape. A smattering of data was also present. It detailed the ship as sizable, which was unusual. Very few vessels travelled this far out along the rim and those that did tended to be small, scouting ships or two-bit traders looking to make a deal with the colonies. This ship was too large to be either and its bulky shape, twined with a powerful sub-light signature, spoke to some other purpose.

"Alter our course to intercept at sub-light," Silk flicked the computer off. "Stand by battle stations. Alert me when we are close."



Twelve hours later

"They detected us thirty minutes ago," informed the bridge executive officer. "They raised shields and powered up their sub-light drives. We did not detect any attempt to jump to hyper space, but raised the interdiction field just to be sure. I think their FTL is down."

Silk nodded, perching himself in his command seat. "That seems logical. Any attempts at communication?"

"None," the officer called up a 3D image of the ship which, at this proximity, was extremely detailed. "I guess they figured our intentions hostile... I mean, I would."

At that Silk smirked, "That would also seem logical."

It was hard to mistake a ship the size of the Emperor as anything but hostile, never mind her hide bristling with battle blisters and dark edifices. Add to that a slow lurk at sub-light speeds and a lack of communication on their part and it would be easy to understand their trepidation.

"What have we got on them?"

Closer now, even with their shields up, the Emperor would have acquired detailed information.

"It's a bulk carrier," said the officer. "An older model, Imperial design but the transponders are not broadcasting any known Imperial codes. My guess is that it is a merchant ship, likely a private operator."

"And their holds?"

The officer did not immediately respond. "They are heavily shielded. Whatever they are carrying, they do not want anyone peeking."

"Good, that makes it worth looking. Wouldn't you agree?"

He did not wait for a reply, "Open a channel. See if they are in a talking mood."



Two hours later

"I have to admit," the trandoshan merchant was saying, "when we first detected you I thought we were in real trouble. I never would have guessed at a business opportunity."

"Hmm," Silk laughed. "Imagine that."

He went on. "We were curious as well. There are not many ships out this far, let alone a cargo hauler of your size. Fortuitous for both of us then, I think. Here, we need supplies and you need to get your hyper-drive on line."

Silk and the trandoshan, side by side ahead of a cadre of trandoshan guards were walking the narrow access way that connected the shuttle-bay of the cargo hauler to its main holding containers. The former had elected to leave his own forces behind. It had taken much of his concentration to convince the trandoshan merchant that he was harmless and fortunately the weak minded captain was easily influenced. Many of his crew were not. Silk could feal their uneasiness permeate the ship. He hoped to conduct their business before that uneasiness became something else, something worse.

"When we first detected your ship we were sure it was a warship! Imagine..."

"Yes," agreed Silk. "Imagine. But no, we are refugees fleeing the annexation of the Onyxian Commonwealth."

The lie was enough to placate the captain further. It was information he could sell later, if things went sour or even if their deal went through without a hitch as the Empire would gladly pay for tips leading to the capture of prisoners of war.

"A bad situation for you then, your worlds taken. It is good for you and your people that you were able to find a ship to carry you away," the trandoshan was letting his glee show. "Too bad your star charts are not so good and that you did not bring more food, more medicines. Too bad also my hyper-drive went off. But what is bad for both can be good for both also. Yes?"

"Yes, indeed." Silk had tried to extend his force aura in an attempt to get a feel for what the merchant was hauling but it escaped him. "We are in need of food, as you say. Also medical supplies. But more, we need equipment to maintain our ship and charts to find safe harbour. In exchange we can offer you monies and we can get your drive back up and running."

"Well then," the trandoshan slapped his palm against a door switch, revealing the contents of one of his holds. "Let's do business."



Four hours later

Back on board the Crimson Emperor, Silk was going over plans with his troops.

"Once the first party is aboard it will be your task to secure the bridge," he was addressing a cadre of convert soldiers. Their commanders, elite brothers of the crimson cloth, would oversee their actions. "You will make sure their weapons are offline and shields are down. Once you have accomplished your mission you will begin landing the second and third squadrons."

"It will be their duty to clear the ship of any remaining crew members."

"Once the vessel is secure the non-combat personnel will move in. They will make a complete inventory of their supplies and ready what we want for transport."

"Everything complete, first squad will plant charges in the ships reactor core and program a complete collapse of the cargo haulers systems."

"Are we clear?"

"Yes sir," was the shouted confirmation of over a hundred trained soldiers.



Five hours later

Lord Silk had not anticipated such a bounty.

Truly the force was rewarding his reverence. His ship, his faith, his creatures, his sisterhood... just a few in a larger number of gifts bestowed by the force, through the force and of the dark side. And now, this...

Much of what they had claimed, Silk overseeing the receipt in one of the Emperors massive cargo bays, was mundane but essential. Food stuffs, medical supplies and star charts were among them but by no means the most spectacular.

The reason for the trandoshan merchants caution, the reason behind his shielding certain cargo areas was evident.

In crates, row upon row, that lined fully one quarter of the immense hold were droids. But these were not just any droids, not by any means. These were antiques, relics of a bygone era, but none-the-less exquisite. Labelled "IG-100" Silk knew what these crates contained, not because he had them pried open, but because he had once been a student of history.

And it was not out of some misplaced love for history that he found their possession fulfilling. It was because in their arrival he saw the dawning of new chapter, not unlike the manifestation of his pets. For aeons the Sith had employed mechanical constructs to do their bidding, to carry terror across the stars. Now he too would be able to join them in the annals of history, a history of his own.

Already he was imagining what he could do, what modifications he could make to these machines with modern technology. During the Clone Wars they had been feared by clone and Jedi alike as they became the personal body guards of General Grievous. To the best of his knowledge however the General had never commissioned their construction in such numbers. Perhaps he had stumbled on to a long forgotten secret or perhaps they were reproductions. Either way, they were his to do with as he wished now and do such, he would.

Skids of weapons had also been found among their cargo. From personal combat rifles to large scale artillery, they had been hauling enough contraband to carry out their own private war and that, Silk guessed, was probably their intention. The merchant and his crew were trandoshans, a brutal species by nature, and likely gun runners looking to offload their entire cargo to one or both sides of some border conflict on the outer rim.

Their find, this most recent discovery, would be the last they would need to not only take Xa Fel but hold it and make it their own. Then, let the Empire try to come and take it back, let the Empire try and fail in the face of a power more pure and active then even Regent Hyfe possessed.

He could not but hardly wait.



Zero hour

"You scum!"

The trandoshan merchant, tied and bound, spat. His captors, a group of Crow witches, laughed at this.

"Everything you had, old man, you were destined to bring to us. Thank the force that you were able to serve such a grand and noble purpose in life." The eldest of their bunch loomed over the prostrate lizard-man. "Because now, you die."

With that and a lunging motion of her spear, the woman pierced the creature through its chest and, laughing, left him to his fate tied to the captains chair on the bridge of his own ship.

The merchant had only time to curse their skins and watch their shuttle moving away from his ship on the viewer before he felt the cold touch of death on his shoulder. His life's blood was spilling out across the deck.

With a groan he passed, his death rattle a barely audible exhalation.

His last breath spent only moments before the first in a series of explosions began to tear his ship apart he discovered, in that winking moment between life and death, that the captain really does go down with his ship.