Air. He needed air. He could not breathe. His lungs would not function. He gasped in the air around him, but it was bad. It was not capable of supplying his body with oxygen. It was tainted. There was something about it…he needed to breathe! He stumbled, tripped, and fell, crashing into the ground. He threw up.

Ossus was dead.

He could feel it in the Force. He could feel it in his bones. It was all around him. It surrounded him. It was inside him. It invaded his body and raped him of any desire and will he had left. It choked him. He could not breathe. The Darkside…no, it was not the Darkside…not this…the Darkside did not have shit on this. This was evil.

And the worst part about it was, Zark had been here. Zark Ekan had been here as Ossus had died. He had seen the Apocalypse. He had watched the heralds descend from the Heavens. He had been a part of the brave, the fools, who had stood in a hopeless attempt to fight off the bringers of the slaughter.

Grand Admiral Thrawn had risen from the ashes of his Empire, and he had come to Ossus. And with him, the Chiss had brought hell.

It had been the first time Zark Ekan had ever truly seen war. He had battled the Sith before, he had faced down the terror of the Darkside inside his own mind. But there was nothing that could truly stand up to the atrocity that was war. The Sith could never hope to achieve a level of evil so great.

Had he not been on the verge of losing consciousness, a victim of mental asphyxiation, the former Jedi might have paused to laugh. The Jedi had, all these years, been fighting the wrong evil. They had fought the Darkside. What was the power of the Darkside next to the power of warfare...the power of mass amounts of sentient beings slaughtering mass amounts of sentient beings? The Jedi had even used war to combat the Darkside.

That was true evil; Zark might have been able to contemplate. One not even recognized as such by the upholders of good.

Sporadic blaster fire brought Zark from his reverie. Or at least, he thought it had. He was just slipping between one hallucination into another. He went backward, back to a time where Ossus was not yet dead, but dying. The desperate urban combat; human and alien against Chiss; flooding back, filling his senses.

Tears streamed freely from him face. Spasms wracked his body, sending him into involuntary shudders and shakes. His teeth began to chatter, his entire body was trembling. He was on his knees now, he hadn’t remembered actually doing it. He was paralyzed, not with fear, but with hysterical sadness.

The evils of war overcame even insanity.

And it came to him.

“This is not it…” he whispered to himself, his voice squeaking, “This cannot be fucking it…”

It was.

The building on the right, he recognized it. How could he not? The building, or buildings, on the left as well, those ever more so. The one on the right was the one that Gash Jiren had assaulted. The blind charge…the dead men. It was a fortified Chiss stronghold. And on the left, the beginnings of the resistance against the Chiss occupation of Orilcia.

The right side building was still collapsed. Zark had seen it happen. Gash had brought it down, putting an end to the last of the Chiss inside it. And Zark had watched as the scared young men under Gash’s and his command had perished one by one under overwhelming firepower.

But Gash Jiren had always come out alive. Throwing himself into outnumbered skirmish after skirmish, he had always come out without more than a few scratches. He had always survived.

And now he was dead.

Another casualty of war.

He could breathe again. As Zark thought about it, he wondered if he had ever really been choking, or if he had imagined the whole thing. A part of him suspected it was both. Reality and imagination had blurred to the point of congruency in Zark’s life, and he was unprepared to count anything out as unreal or a trick of the mind. No…everything was a trick of the mind…

He felt cold. The former Jedi attempted to stand, the bones in his legs felt as if they were frozen. His body shivered uncontrollably, it felt like he was sucking on ice every time he breathed in. He needed to get somewhere warm, somewhere safe, somewhere light. Somewhere light, in more ways than one.

But as hard as he tried, Zark could not find anywhere light. Everything around him was so dark. He couldn’t see, his vision was so choked with shadows. Unsure of what else to do, he plunged on, stumbling blindly through the Darkness. All around him, the Ossan resistance forces struggled valiantly against the invading Chiss for control of Orilcia.

All of that had happened years ago, but then again, Zark had never been one to stay put on the timeline. On he plunged, through the Darkness. Almost immediately, he suspected he was going the wrong way; he was plunging even deeper into the Darkness rather than reaching the Light beyond.

Had he been at all aware of his normal surroundings, and in a non-shattered state of mind, he would have realized almost immediately that he was moving closer and closer to the final resting place of his mentor from the past, or so most of them believed. The casket was empty, the funeral was ceremonial, the gathering symbolic. Zark was oblivious to all of this.

All he was aware of was, somewhere in the distance, a patch of Light; buried, almost hidden completely, in the Darkness; stood. To any who might have been watching, he likely would have looked akin to a blind man without aid, making his way without proper vision. And it was mostly true, for what Zark Ekan saw, no other living man could ever dream of seeing, nor would any other living man want to.

And there came a voice. A voice from the Light.

“I want to thank you for everything you did for me.”

Zark struggled to speak, struggled to respond. He struggled to do anything other than crawl forward. He hit something. It felt like dirt, like the ground below him. A hill, he realized. He was at the slope of a shallow hill. The Light was just beyond it, he reasoned. And again the voice came.

“So? I’m trying to be humble.”

Grasping the dirt of the hill roughly with his hands, he pulled himself more than climbed. His arms and legs responded, barely. He felt weak, and he knew it was the Darkness. It was ever present, always surrounding him. He knew he would be safe, if only he could make it to the Light. The hill was the only thing in his way, it was so close…

For at least ten minutes he climbed. The hill was not large. Had Zark been able to watch himself from a sane point of view, the obstacle would have looked laughable at best, but to Zark Ekan, it was the toughest thing he had ever done. After what seemed like forever, he made it over, and fell down the other side.

He was in the Light.

The aura of peace; of purity; of sanctuary most of all, encased him. The Lightside, or what Zark perceived to be the Lightside, flooded his body and sent tingles all throughout his extremities. He felt as if he was floating, and if he had taken the time to pause and view himself, he would have realized he was. It was the closest he had ever come to pure peace since JED-1.

“Who disturbs this place?” a voice…it was so familiar. It was not the one he had heard as he climbed the hill.

And out of the Darkness that surrounded his protective shell of Light, stepped the most beautiful and enrapturing figure that Zark had ever laid his eyes upon. It was Searthen Jiren, unquestionably Searthen. The Light inside him was literally visible, giving his entire body a glowing appearance. His robes were a shimmering white. Yet despite this majesty, his face remained as Zark had always seen it…sad.

“M…m…master…” he whispered, his mouth actually responding, and sunk to his knees.

“Who…your presence…it is…” Gash’s eyes widened, startled, “No…not Zark? It cannot be…”

“It is, Master Jiren!” Zark squealed, tears streaming down his pale face, “It is your faithful apprentice!”

“You were never my apprentice, Zark,” Gash corrected, the hints of a soft smile spreading at the edges of his mouth, but not quite, “Less experienced, yes. Less jaded, yes. But never subservient.”

“My…my mistake Master Jiren,” Zark whispered, barely audible, “Many apologies.”

“Enough of this, I am curious, a feeling which I have not felt since…” Jiren trailed off, “I had thought myself to be aware of the presence of all my former students, yet somehow you have managed to elude even the most powerful of intelligences…that of the dead. I know you to be the Rogue Jedi Knight Zark Ekan, yet in every other way apart from presence you are nothing like him. The Zark Ekan I knew was never one to bow down to any authority so quickly and without caution, one of the qualities I admired in him…in you. And your appearance…it is mystifying.”

“It is a long story, Master Jiren,” Zark gained some measure of strength in his voice, bolstered by the compliments of the heavenly being.

“I seem to have nothing but time on my hands as of late,” Gash grinned, and yet Zark could tell it was hollow.

Gash Jiren had always been a man of action. He had been the first into every battle during the time Zark had served with him. He had spearheaded the offensive approach to dealing with the Sith. The man had even rebuilt the ruins of the once majestic planet Ossus back into the utopian paradise it had once been. Gash Jiren could have had all of the understanding of the universe, and from the looks of things he did, but he would never be satisfied if he was unable to do the one thing he had done for so much of his life. Act.

“Come, Zark. Tell me of yourself...and how this came to be…”

Zark told him.

He told him of the depression which had resulted from the inability to uncover any sort of information regarding his heritage, even with the resources the Rogue Jedi Order, and Gash Jiren himself, had provided him with all too willingly. He told him of the message he had received from the mystery man, and his following travel to the edges of the known galaxy.

He told him of planet JED-1, and the atrocities Zark had seen…and committed…there. He told him of Roland, the imaginary best friend Zark had never had. He told him of the death of Roland, and the death of Xoverus. He told him of Roland’s replacement, the demonic portion of Zark’s emotions. He told him of his battle with this terrifying foe, and his redemption with the help of Leia Organa Solo.

Zark told Searthen of the resurfacing of Jeremiah Xoverus, of his self-expulsion from the order. He told him of his search for the man he had come to know as the greatest enemy he had ever faced. He told him of the hell Xoverus had turned a once peaceful planet into, of the crusade he had launched against Jeremiah’s forces of the Darkside. He told him of the eventual destruction…and the damnation it had cost Zark. He told him of…Heather…and both of their deaths.

Zark told him of his resurrection at the hands of the Dark Jedi Zarko the Mad, and Silus and his odyssey to track down the man and fix what had been broken. He told him of his possession of Zarko the Mad’s body. He told him of his following travels, describing to him his time spent on each and every planet. He even told Gash of his time aboard the Astral Astoria, and of Taja Loraan. Zark told Gash lastly of his time spent in the Orilcian Mental Institute, and his recent escape.

And when it was all over, he waited. And for a long time, Gash Jiren said nothing.

“You are a haunted man, Zark Ekan,” Gash finally spoke once more, “Almost as haunted as...no, we will not speak of such things. Those are best left for another time. I do not…wait…”

A lightsaber, the most beautiful one Zark had ever seen, ignited in Gash Jiren’s hands. For a moment, confusion spilled over Zark’s face, but when he turned, it all became clear. And once more, he was terrified. For from the shadows, on the opposite side from which Searthen had entered, stepped the demon of Zark’s mind. From the Darkness, Roland came, ignited lightsaber in his hands.

The phantom swung, and Zark braced himself for death once more.

And with a scream of lightsaber on lightsaber, Zark Ekan was spared by the ghost of Searthen Jiren. And they fought.

The two specters fought. Neither of them, Zark’s subconscious knew, were probably real. But that did not matter. Zark’s subconscious was not in control of his mind. And at the moment, Zark believed. He truly believed he was witnessing one of the most important battles of his life, even if any of those attending the funeral who might look over would just see the lone man, sitting at the edge of one small hill.

For what seemed like minutes or hours, Zark could not be sure, the two fought. Neither gave way, neither showed flaw. Jiren’s form was perfect, just as it had always been. But…somehow…Roland possessed the skills to match. They were equal, and neither of them showed any signs of tiring.

“This is not my fight, Zark,” Gash shouted over the crackle of lightsabers, “He is not my demon to vanquish!”

“But…I cannot…” Zark mumbled.

“In all the years I have known you,” Gash yelled, “That is the first time I have ever heard you doubt yourself! You may be in a different body, but you are still Zark Ekan! And if the Zark Ekan I once knew is still in there somewhere…anywhere…you can!”

“But…Master…”

“I am no longer the Master, Zark!” Gash bellowed, “Searthen Jiren is no more! You are the Master now! Take your place!”

Gash backed away from the engagement, and held his lightsaber straight up in front of him, closing his eyes. Roland moved in to strike, his lightsaber raising itself high above his head…and coming down.

It never hit.

The specter of Roland tilted its head down slightly. There, buried to the wrist, was the prosthetic hand that doubled as a lightsaber. The ghostly head tilted back up to look upon its attacker. There it saw, not fear upon his face, nor even anger, but an expression of complete calm. Zark Ekan was one with the lightside.

Pulling the lightsaber from Roland’s stomach, Zark spun around and, in one swift motion, severed the head of the ghost from the rest of its figure…and it was gone. After months of haunting, months of terror, months of sleep wracked by nightmares, it was finally over. Roland was gone, this time Zark hoped for good.

He turned, and to his dismay he found that the ghost of Searthen was also gone. Had he been too late? For a brief moment, Zark suspected in terror that he had acted too late to redeem himself, and he would be forever damned. And then he heard it.

“You have done well, Zark,” it was Gash’s voice, and it boomed down at him from the heavens, “I am proud.”

“I could not have done it without you, Mas…Searthen,” Zark smiled, for the first time in years.

“You had always been one to call me Gash,” the voice came once more, “You have changed, Zark, and that nobody can repair, for that is the way of the world. I can only hope that from now on, that change is for the better.”

“What shall I do now?” Zark asked, “Who leads the Order now that you are gone?”

“I am afraid that there is no more Order, Zark,” Gash said, “Yet do not fear, for that will not last forever.”

“What would you ask of me?” Zark asked, “I am yours to command.”

“I never commanded you, Zark,” Gash corrected, “Not in life, and I will not do so, even in death. I am here only to guide you along your own path. So tell me…what is it you want?”

“I would say I want peace,” Zark said after a moment’s contemplation, “Yet how can I find peace in a galaxy filled with war? No…if you can guide me to anything today, Searthen, tell me how best to find a way to bring about peace, so I can have some peace of my own.”

“This will be no easy task,” Gash replied, “There is a chance you will not see it in your lifetime, and will never find peace, but die fighting for it, as I did.”

“It is a risk I am willing to take,” Zark affirmed.

“Very well,” Gash responded, “Yet I shall not deny you fully some measure of peace. No, no use moving about the pieces when the game of chess hasn’t even begun…”

“You speak in riddles, Searthen,” Zark mused.

“And if you were to know the answers to those riddles, you would know a great deal more than any man should,” Gash’s voice boomed down, “It is important that you understand what I say are merely suggestions, and it is not necessarily folly to stray from them.”

“I understand, Searthen,” Zark nodded, though he wasn’t sure at what.

“Go to the planet of Naboo,” Gash finally boomed, “There you will wait for ten years. Relax a little, try to find at least a little peace. You do not have to rejoin the Order if you do not wish to, but when the time comes, it would be best if you were somewhere in the Temple. When he comes…you will know what to do.”

“When who comes? Who am I waiting for? Why?” Zark fired off at least ten questions all at once.

“In time, you will understand,” Gash responded, “My time with you is almost at an end, Zark. It is time to say our goodbyes.”

“Thank you, Searthen,” Zark said, “For everything you’ve done for me, in life and in death.”

“Don’t mention it,” Gash boomed, and Zark imagined he was grinning, “Oh, and Zark?”

“Yes, Searthen?”

“May the Force be with you.”

“You knew him, didn’t you?”

He hadn’t expected the question… although, now that it had been said, he probably should have. Even in a distracted condition, her keen attention to detail and obvious intelligence was bound to see though the mysterious stranger routine. Ahnk wasn’t crying, so either he knew Gash personally, or he had come here specifically for her.

Clever girl…

But beyond admiration, Ahnk felt something else inside of him. A question.

Did he know Gash Jiren? Gash had never told him about his upbringing, his family, his experiences as a Jedi, his plans for the future, the origin of his name… Gash hadn’t really told him much at all. Had Andrew Micheal Rashanagok met Gash Jiren? Yes. Did he know him?

Did anyone?

Finally, he offered only a weak nod.

“Would he have wanted all this?” she asked, unaware that beyond his attempts to be unreadable, the question brought Ahnk to the brink of uncontrollable laughter. The absurdity of the question; would anyone want to sit, dead, in a pine box? While Gash was a pragmatist and always knew the reality of the path he had chosen, Ahnk had few doubts Gash would have rather been in the crowd with some other asshole the one dead and in a box.

Then again, that might not be what she was asking. “Is this the ending he would have chosen?” she continued, and Ahnk had to pause. He looked around… all the sad faces… Leia visibly crying, one of the Azguard (they all looked alike) solemnly holding his head to the ground, even an Imperial agent taking in the procession… and came to a distinct conclusion.

No.

No, this wasn’t what he would have wanted at all.

“Yes,” Ahnk lied, “I think he would have liked this. Gash Jiren was always concerned about making a difference. He dedicated the majority of his life to trying to fight what most considered an unwinable battle. He didn’t do it because he wanted life to be better for himself, but to make the world better for those who would come next… sons… daughters…”

Ahnk slowly shook his head. “Perhaps I give him too much credit as an idealist. I didn’t know Gash as well as many here, and hardly am in a position to speak for him… but from what I knew of Gash, he wouldn’t want people to cry for him. He didn’t live to be an icon, he didn’t try and become a cult figure, he tried to make a better galaxy through action, and I think if he would want anything, he would rather people leave here and try and make a difference then people leave here and accept their defeat.”

Of course, Ahnk was only guessing.

It was during the silent moment of musing his response and the contemplation of the wounds he had briefly glimpsed on the woman’s arms that he first became aware of the woman approaching. There was something familiar about her, though when Ahnk turned his head, he knew he had never met her…

…but… where had he…

…might as well ask.

“Excuse me, I couldn’t help but notice that you seem remarkably… familiar. And yet, I do not believe I have had the pleasure of meeting you before. Would you like to sit down?”

Aboard the Mect'A'Rana'a'terro'a'Nok
5 Standard Days Before the Fall of Gash Jiren

“The elimination of cognitive thought and free will is not a difficult procedure.

Approached pragmatically, it is actually quite simple.

The difficulty in eliminating such undesirable elements of society begins with the time that such a process requires. All too often, a government attempts to force the elimination of free will upon a people within a period of several decades. This is not possible. From a state of tense, uncertain transition to completely docile, imalleable servant caste, a period of psychological conditioning of several centuries is often required.

In this way, all encompassing military control cannot be understated. A stable junta with a power stranglehold on its subjects has far less risk. There will be aversion to the conditioning… but only when considerable power is preexisting does the option exist for silent and subtle elimination. With an uncertain or incomplete grasp of the civilization beneath, acts of aversion could be assimilated amongst like-minded dissidents until possibly widespread societal collapse began. With an unquestionable control on the infrastructure and resources of a people, however, a revolt would be an unthinkable end, and the loss of a few outspoken traitors would be a small price to pay for the continued standard of living to which they had become accustomed.

If jeopardy in rebellion is assured, the process becomes infinitesimally less difficult, but one can still make an error if the proper procedure is not followed. The process must be repeated as presented… minor deviations can have unforeseen consequences, so the exact methodology would be the best cased scenario, although there is possibly room for pragmatic adjustments based on the situations in question.

The first step is perhaps the most important. It involves the elimination of a single, prevalent ideal. It is important to pick an idea that is not important… trying to eliminate, say, free speech against your people, would be a dangerous plan of action, as there is more likely to be considerable resistance against an important ideal then there would be against an ideal that many consider inconsequential.

Take, for example, desertion. In a militaristic society some people would rather desert then consent to support a war, or serve in one. Normally, a dispassionate and disloyal individual would not be welcome in an armed force where many exist that have the desire and ability to serve. However, in a prolonged war, it is sometimes necessary to replace a motivated and skilled force with throngs of uninterested bodies. In this scenario, desertion becomes a small problem… still not one with the potential to cripple a society, but one which certainly presents logistic problems that need to be corrected.

There are three ways to combat mass desertions. The first option is to punish those who desert. Suspend their privileges within your domain, or refuse them reentry. The idea is that placing a deterrent against their behavior… in effect, criminalizing it… will serve to dissuade others from the same course of action. The second way is to offer a reward for service… for example, offering to pay for a soldier’s education in exchange for his service, or presenting the travel involved in his service as a way to see the galaxy. The idea with this course is to offer a benefit beyond the service itself… an incentive based deterrent, to draw people in with the promise of compensation if they elect not to desert.

The problem is that neither course of action has even the potential to be successful beyond an extremely limited scale. While criminalizing desertion will make potential deserters consider closely their true desire to leave their country, the majority will elect to live away from their nation of birth rather then serve under its’ increasingly militant government. Rather then end desertion, adding criminal penalties to dodging a publicly unpopular war could actually serve to increase desertion, as many see the punishment of a rationally considered correct choice turned into a crime. In any case, the costs of this action far outweigh any perceived or even imagined benefits. And while offering a reward for service has less downside, it cannot be considered a legitimate or effective option. Incentive based service will last often until the incentive is achieved, thus creating a short-term boost in recruitment, almost immediately offset with any bad news regarding the armed forces in question. After reaching incentives, many officers will desert anyway… and the public feeling behind such a pandering and pathetic outreach will not be in any way shape or form a positive reaction.

What will follow is the correct step to eliminate any problem. In this specific case, the problem is desertion, but it could just as easily be terrorism or theft or murder… the crime against your control is irrelevant. The reaction to it should be the same; in so doing it will remove the concept of trivial grievance. All too often, subjects will grow accustomed to breaking your laws; in so long as they only break the small laws… if law is universal, crime ceases. The key is not to simply enact a punishment so draconian that the people are terrified into submission. While effective in the short term, that option is unsustainable. The elimination of crime, and gradually, the cognitive thinking and free will that gives boon to resistance of your will, takes time, and faith.

A common misconception about faith is that it is interdependent on religion. While religion is an easy way to manage and manipulate faith, it is not the only way. In so observing the rise and fall of civilization I have often noted that it is both the most efficient and common methodology employed in the manipulation of faith, however, it is far from the only method. One does not need to create a god in order to create faith; one can base faith on an object, a principle, a nation, even a single, fragile mortal can be the basis of reverence in awing amounts. But faith is a key tool in the control of a population, as it is in evidence far more effective then bluster, incentive, and even genocide, in creating a docile society compliant with any demand.

Armed with faith, a third option exists in the elimination of desertion and other crimes against your will. One must make an act so abominable, not in punishment rendered or benefits forfeited but in the sheer act of consideration, that a person would shudder at the very mention of the act. This is not an overcomplicated process, but rather a small series of changes in overall attitude and propaganda in order to vilify the act. It begins with the subtle manipulation of faith.

If desertion is becoming a problem, one must turn the faith towards the war. The primary reasons behind desertion are the unpopularity of the war and an open border to a welcoming neighbor. Closing the border would be a premature and counter-productive step. One must never approach a problem as something that which can be solved; one most eliminate the very desire, the very kindling of a formulative anti-agenda thought within the general population. Turning faith towards the war will begin the process by eliminating the desire to desert, and it will do so in three ways.

Turning faith towards the war will cause a massive swell of pro-war support among the faithful. As annotated earlier, faith is not astringent upon religion; and any form of faith can be used to bend a person to a will. The process begins by having a figure with the cult of personality… a charismatic individual worshipped almost as a deity, even if in as benign a position as a senator, or an entertainer… openly support the war. When a charismatic figure with a modicum of power inside the structure of faith supports a cause, the result often spreads amongst the proletariat like a virus; there will be one day of silent conversation and then an uproar of righteous proclamation. Do not fear if the transformation from public displeasure to unconditional support is not instantaneous; the general populace of most societies is often of substandard intelligence, thus ensuring that any revolution of popular thought will take a substantial amount of time to develop. However, it is that same lack of intellect that will ensure that it will eventually happen… the key is the use of faith. Once the faithful become a loud, focused minority, their influence will begin to spread through bluster, intimidation, and a general will of obedience among the easily cowed. Once the general population, both of the faithful and of the non-believers, has been converted to your word, many will find it difficult to oppose the will. Even though you have made no overt threat, many will already be unwilling to test your leniency. This is an important step… however, it will be the next step that will ultimately cause the largest drop off in desertion.

Once you have turned the faith towards the war, you must accelerate your plans and turn the faith against those who would doubt the war. It is imperative that those in positions of high regard do not openly threaten anyone; do not worry, visceral threats will come. The role of the ruling party is to use the figurehead to spread the word that the faith does not condone or support anti-war activities, and considers them tantamount to anti-way heresy. Once the official position of the faith has been revealed, those with power must reinforce it without blatantly threatening anyone… the best methodology has been proven to be ominous, open-ended non-topical talking points. Examples would include “you are either with us or against us” or “if you change the way you live, the enemy wins”. Non-directional and non-specific canon will be twisted by the faithful into the fear of force that you require. Once the faith has been turned against the war, the faithful will turn against those who do not openly and unconditionally support it. Those who would before publicly support desertion will now have very serious reservations about even considering to condone it privately. Paranoia and fear will rise amongst those who do not openly support your will with every facet of their being. There will be a rebellion against your manipulation of faith, but it will be inconsequential. The faithful will deal with the majority of miscreants, either threatening them into submission, or using more… forceful…. methodology to silence them. Those who do not bend will be left to you.

And it is in the third and final step that any policy is truly eliminated. With faith strongly supporting your war and vilifying those who would opposed it, one must now, silently, bring those who still relent to face penance. Once again, complete military control cannot be overstated. With the ability to make people disappear silently, your government will be able to instill something more powerful then the fear of the faithful; the fear of the unknown. Dictatorships of years past reveled in the ability of a public execution to cow the people and wow the followers of how cold and ultimate justice came from their leadership. They ceased reveling when it became apparent that public displays of their superiority did more to support antagonism then admiration and they were shortly overthrown. The key to a fearful population is to make their ultimate fate not crystal clear, but rather a terrifying enigma of endless possibility. Will they die if they oppose your will? Likely. However, they do not know. Leave the example as no example. A person who opposes you disappears. Executed? Perhaps. No one knows, but for years tales will spread of his final hours spent in agony at the hands of those he dared defy. His ultimate fate is actually irrelevant. The method of execution also irrelevant, should you choose to execute him at all. In the end, his execution is not necessary. In fact, it is often better to rehabilitate him. What matters more then your ability to enforce your will is the illusion of unquestionable scope of evil. The tale of the man who cried ‘nay’ will spread, and in it’s completely fabricated fiction of a gruesome and unspeakable fate will be a warning to all those who would consider echoing his cry. Ultimately that threat will be empty, but it doesn’t need to have any weight to it in order to dissuade. A true government’s power is not in how far it can reach to suit it’s interests but in how far the people believe the government can reach. The fate of the offender… in this case, the deserter… is secondary to the fate of those around him. When the fearful whispers begin the deserter may even be returned. His testimony will not matter. In the commission of political work one will often find that it is exponentially easier to spread fear as opposed to spreading the truth.

It is in the shadows that you will control. The disappearance of one person can be far more powerful then the summary execution of millions. That will be your power. Therein will lie your control. In faith.

It is important at this point to examine the primary archetypes of faith. The first, religion, is likely to be the one most often associated with the word, and is as good a spot as any to begin. It should be clarified what religion is from the very beginning; religion is a methodology of control. It is nothing more and nothing less, while simultaneously encompassing everything and nothing. Religion is creation and destruction. Hate and love. Peace and war. Birth and death. Black and white. Religion is everything that you intend it to be, everything that they will believe it to be. Religion is power and strength; religion is obedience and submission.

Religion exists in two forms; how you make it, and how they will take it. It should be noted that religion cannot be controlled; it will be its’ own entity upon its’ inception, and will be impossible to change at will but by lengthily and subtle manipulation. Religion will be created by those in power and controlled by those without. It will be born of your hand and never again return. Once religion is created, it cannot be destroyed. It can be silenced, but it will never be killed. This is where many governments fall and collapse, in the attempt to be and determine religion. It is impossible. The people will ultimately determine religion. The command line from god will be twisted by five men before it is first relayed in public, and thus that first command is irrelevant if it does not fit the agenda of those who wear the cloth. It is thus important that religion is created to your will rather then to the will of the people… those who follow must follow into oblivion. If they will not, then they will not lead into oblivion. The savior must be cautious and wise that those who bear the mark are not just and beyond reproach, but rather those unjust and easily corruptible. The mouths that speak the word must be made to speak your word. It is only in that that any modicum of control can be procured. Even then, the people below will need to be led into the path… they will not jump. Radical change in philosophy will frighten and confuse them. Any change in the word must then come over time. Through guided gesture will you bend the faith… establishing the mandate to do more will take a degree of trust that only time can create.

Despite the difficulties of creating and maintaining a religion, it remains a powerful tool with which to manipulate the masses. Religion offers the ability to bend the emotion and direction of entire cultures, but also offers a precedent for a more direct and immediate effect. Take the Cree’Ar’s use of the Shadowcaste, for example. The Shadowcaste allows the Cree’Ar to…”

“Allows the Cree’Ar to what?”

Vejuun closed his eyes for a moment, turning slowly in his chair.

“Pause recording.”

His eyes fluttered open and were greeted by the glowing red hue of his life’s primary antagonist.

“Zeratul Daz’Da’Mar. How long have you been standing there?”

Zeratul’s eyes faded into a mist as he drew his eyelids closed, opening again with the familiar angry glow he so often projected upon the scientist below him.

“Armed with faith, a third option exists in the elimination of desertion and other crimes against your will.”

Vejuun took his turn to blink, surprised.

“You’ve been here for a long time, and yet spoke not.”

“I was interested in the subject. What Cree’Ar research project was this recording made for?”

Vejuun allowed Zeratul a flash of his teeth, smiling at him. Zeratul merely cocked his head in slight bemusement and glared his eyes down with mild annoyance.

“I do not intend to manufacture microchips my entire life.”

“You would waste time on a project of personal importance?”

“And what of your quest to kill the force user Ahnk?”

Zeratul found himself blinking in mild surprise.

“Quest?”

”There has been talk…”

“Amongst who?”

“Is that of importance?”

“You will tell me who, Vejuun, or I will allow you to write it out on the floor as you slowly bleed to death.”

“The Judicator Badaar.”

“He is very talkative for such a young officer. What is it exactly that the Judicator claims to know?”

“He mentioned briefly your arrangement with the Dark Priest of Varont.”

“How would… Shran’s network of spies must be truly great to have knowledge of that.”

“So it’s true. You’re…”

“Unlike your essays, my attempts to capture Ahnk are entirely related to the advancement of the Cree’Ar Dominion.”

“I am curious as to how…”

Zeratul had heard enough. Effortlessly, he closed the space between them with three angry footfalls, raising back a fist and sending it to the jaw of the scientist with a backhanded swing. Vejuun went flying, spittle flying from his mouth as he was knocked over a desk, instantly turning and taking two rough shoves of his body away from the towering Skey’g’aar.

“You do not have the…”

“HOW DARE YOU QUESTION ME. DO YOU NOT KNOW WHO I AM?”

“You have no right…”

In an instant, Zeratul was atop him. His large foot was dug into the scientists leg, talonned toes digging roughly into his flesh as he heard the slow, agonizing scrape of the warrior’s boneblade extending from his arm. He raised it, eyes beating down upon the scientist with a fury and a hatred he had never seen.

“I am Zeratul, Skey’g’aar of the family Daz’Da’Mar, and you will give me the respect I deserve.”

Vejuun knew with one look into his eyes that Zeratul would kill him.

And with predictable cowardice, he raised his hands in apologetic submission. “I was wrong to question you. Please, do not be angry.”

Zeratul removed his foot from the scientist’s leg, stepping back. With a sigh, he popped his shoulder and began to slide the boneblade back into his arm. Vejuun stood, shaking his neck to make sure it was not broken. It was not, and so he considered what he should say. Uncertain as to how upset the Skey’g’aar was at present, he simply said nothing.

“You should know, scientist, that I find you increasingly annoying. I know that Kal Shora delights in frustrating me, and that my service with and around you is no accident. I will honestly state now, for the future reference, that if you ever speak out of turn that they will never find enough of your body to conduct a proper burial.”

Vejuun said nothing. He was afraid to even look at the Skey’g’aar.

“Do you understand?” Zeratul asked, and when Vejuun turned much of the fire had burned out of his eyes. He regarded him simply with a cold stare, and a relaxed but unapologetic gaze.

“I… apologize… I will not…”

“Forget this incident ever happened,” Zeratul offered as a command. Vejuun gave him a brisk nod. “You find me fascinating. And I am not able to discern why. I admit this curiosity is what has kept me from killing you thus far. I am waiting for you to reveal why it is that I am such an intriguing person to a person such as yourself.”

Vejuun wasn’t sure how to answer to that. “I am a scientist, I find all things to be intriguing and treat them all with a curious eye.”

“A lie,” Zeratul stated, knowing Vejuun was trying to talk his way out of an honest answer. “You do not regard Kal Shora with the same eye.”

Because I actually regard Kal Shora as more then just a footsoldier, was Vejuun’s instinctive reaction. He wanted to keep his head, however. “Your ability with the Cor'ai'var is something that I find to be fascinating.”

Zeratul closed the distance between the two, his eyes close enough to burn the scientist, who involuntarily winced. “You are trying to deceive me. What is it that which you would keep secret from me?”

Vejuun offered a meek smile. “We… all have secrets, Zeratul Daz’Da’Mar.”

Zeratul snorted, but pulled his face away. “Perhaps we do. Perhaps… we do…”

Vejuun took a few steps backwards, taking a seat at his desk. “What was the purpose of your visit, Zeratul?”

Zeratul closed his eyes and gave what could be roughly equated to a frustrated sigh. “I was to extend the invitation to join Kal Shora’s party aboard the Artanis. For the service of Hexrya.”

Vejuun considered. “How do they intend to hold a service? I was of the impression that his body was on a ship that exploded. Was it recovered?”

“The service would be to honor the memory of his centuries of service, as opposed to lay his body to rest. There is honor in how he died.”

“I thought…”

“Consider your words, scientist,” Zeratul warned Vejuun sternly. “Xylon Hexrya was a highly dedicated member of the Cree’Ar Dominion, and I considered him my personal friend. If you feel the comments you have may be… misconstrued… as negative towards his memories, you would be well advised to say nothing.”

Vejuun bit his tongue. Zeratul stood, waiting. “Do you intend to join the High Judicator?”

“You may tell Kal Shora that I would be honored to accept his invitation,” Vejuun started, adding “if he would allow for my current assignment a short delay.”

Zeratul snorted in disgust. “I will tell the High Elder to expect you. You will finish your assignment before he arrives.”

Vejuun thought better then to protest. “Of course. I will finish as soon as I can.”

Zeratul turned and walked silently to the door. Vejuun hunched over his desk, looking at the nanorobot before him when he heard Zeratul turn.

“Oh, Vejuun…”

Vejuun turned, slowly. “Yes, Zeratul?”

“The Shadowcaste allows the Cree’Ar to silently and efficiently kill those who would stand in their way and make their control more difficult.”

Vejuun got the message. He nodded silently to the Skey’g’aar. “Until tommorow.”

Zeratul returned the nod, and left the room.

Vejuun promised then to kill him when the war was over.

Vance looked out of the canopy of his personal craft, gaze wandering over the slowly rotating globe that was Corellia. This was the Sith's home planet, a world where he had gained the first lessons that had led him to the destiny he currently walked; it had been where it had all began, and it would ultimately decide where it all ended...

Activating the communications system, Vance started a frequency coded, scrambled secure transmission, the intended recipient waiting on the planet below. “This is Vance Jas, reply,” The Sith Master said simply, before he sat back in his pilots’ chair, waiting patiently. He did not know how long it would be before a reply was sent, but Vance knew that Lupercus would not keep him waiting long.



The communicator speaker was filled with a burst of static, before a crisp message was given. <<“You have permission to land, follow these coordinates,”>>

Vance sat forward, his eyes opening as he looked down to the navi-computer. As had been stated, a series of coordinates were waiting on the flexi-glass screen. Deactivating the communicator, Vance powered up the ships systems and began flying along the designated course.

Within moments the Sith brought the Sith Infiltrator to touch landing pad. He had remained in cloak, Vance deciding that remaining unseen would be for the best, considering the potentially touchy situation; it wasn’t so much that Vance feared Lupercus’ anger or attempts at berating him, but rather he did not wish to expose himself just yet.

After all, if Vance was found out now, his whole mission would be in vain.

Standing, Vance powered down the ship systems, placing the craft on passive mode. Pulling his cloak around his shoulders, the Sith Master walked to the rear of the ship, pushing the ramp way button. As the seal broke, a feeling of nostalgia flooded over the Sith Master, matching that of the humid air. For a moment Vance allowed himself a thought of his past, before he cleared his mind and walked down the decking to the platform.

Coming to a stop, Vance waited once more. The ramp to his ship retracted, leaving the Sith Master standing seemingly alone on the landing floor; for the Infiltrator had reverted to cloak mode, following the activation of passive systems, and for all intents and purposes, there was simply a lone figure surrounded by empty deck.

“Wecome, Vance,” Came a voice from beside the Sith Master.

“Lupercus,” Vance replied in turn, nodding his head as he faced the approaching figure.

“What do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Lupercus continued, standing broad as he looked down at the other Sith Master. “I hope you have something important for me, for I don’t willingly accept such secreted guests unless I have to.”

Vance smiled, motioning back the way Lupercus had come. “Let us walk, and then I will explain everything,” He said, as the two moved as one, heading back toward the door that led into the Protectorate’s building. “For I have come to offer a solution to quite a problem, a conflict of interest I suppose you could say...”

He couldn't help but feel a slight tinge of sadness when he looked at that empty casket. But above that, there was regret.

Regret that it had to end like this. There was a part of him that wondered how it had felt in Gash's dying moments. Silus had come close to dying so many times... but he was here now, and Gash wasn't. The knowledge that you were mere moments from becoming a memory must have been a terrifying thought.

Yet, when he thought of the man Gash was, maybe it was possible that in the end, in those last few seconds of his life, Jiren wasn't terrified at all.

It was something Silus could only hope for.

There was a sharp sting of pain in Silus's side from the blaster wound, bringing the man's mind back from his absent wonderings.

J'Nei...

Even when he knew the real identity of his supposed friend, there was still a feeling of loss surrounding that name. There would be, probably until the end of Silus's life.

Revenge was a double-edged knife.

End of his life... that was going to be soon, if he didn't treat the wound. There was only so much the Force could do.

Besides, being covered in blood wasn't exactly conspicuous.

Silus paid his respects, said good-bye.

So ends the tale of Searthen Jiren.




"You're a bad man, Silus," he told himself. His own shuttle lacked any supplies, so he was forced to break into a ship that had what he needed. It was harder than he imagined, but Silus still had a few tricks.

So it was that Silus was standing naked in someone else's ship, using their refresher and stealing medical supplies to treat a wound that could be healed easier - and better - by the nearest hospital.

"I'm a stubborn idiot," he mumbled.

"Identify."

Oh, frak.

"Uhm.... I'm sorry, I guess I just have the wrong Sihoyguwa. I'm sorry if I've done anything...."

Oh, frak, Silus thought again. That voice was oddly familiar.

''Sihoyguwa''? Who the frell names their ships Sihoyguwa?

Certainly no-one Silus wanted to catch him. But he doubted this ship belonged to the voice's owner...

"I will repeat. Identify yourself."

... but whoever he was, he was in trouble.

"Identify yourself before security protocols go into effect."

"Uhm... erm... Ir-Ir-Irtar Mal'Gr-Gr-Gro."

Ir-Ir-Irtar? Who comes up with these names?

Wait...

Irtar... Irtar Mal'Gro. Oh, sith-spit! An apprentice!

Silus rushed into the cockpit, searching quickly for a button, switch, panel, anything that would save the unlucky apprentice from being blasted.

But, there was no need.

"Scan complete. No recorded incidents. Member of the Jedi Order."

"IT WAS THAT EASY?" This time, Irtar's voice didn't come over the comm. Silus let out a long sigh. At least the fool apprentice managed to get inside the ship without getting himself killed.

"I said Identify yourself. It's not my fault you didn't."

Cheeky computer...

Silus left the cockpit quietly. Perhaps if he moved fast enough, he could avoid...

"Uh..."

... too late.

"Hello, Irtar." Silus said.

"M-mast-"

"Ah," Silus interupted and raised a finger.

"Sorry. Silus. What are you doing... why are you naked?"

Silus shrugged. "Easier for getting at the wound."

"Wound...?"

"Needed medicine."

"You... needed medicine. So you broke into a ship, took off your clothes... because you were wounded."

"Pretty much," Silus said. He shrugged again and returned to his earlier activities of treating the wound.

"Why, exactly, are you here Irtar?"

"The funeral of Gash Ji-"

"No! Not here, here. On this ship."

"Someone told me to meet him here," Irtar replied weakly. Silus nodded.

"Ooh, mystery," Silus said. They lapsed back into silence while Silus finished dressing the blaster wound.

"I expect I best hurry and leave, before he gets here." He glanced at his robes, laying thrown unceremoniously to the ground. His bloody, torn robes. He immediately began rummaging about the ship. "You wouldn't know if this stranger of yours has any clothes stored away on this ship?"

"No, I don't," Irtar replied, confused at Silus's strange behaviour.

"Aha!" Silus said after some digging.

"You're different, Irtar." Silus said while he hastily dressed himself.

"What do you mean?"

"Anger, loss, more than most on this planet. I sense it about you. Your aura or some silly thing like that. Lost someone?"

"Yes," Irtar replied.

Silus nodded. "These are black days for us all. I expect you'll learn to deal with it."

The young apprentice stared at Silus incredulously. "That's it?"

"Yes," Silus said. "Did you expect more? Irtar, if I knew the answers I would be a far better man then I am now. You'll deal with it, Irtar. You're a Jedi, or something close to one. Eventually, you have to stop being the apprentice and actually learn something. It's a hard life for the Jedi.

"You cared about this person, yes?"

Irtar nodded.

"I expect you want revenge?"

Silus noticed a slight hesitation before Irtar responded. "Yes. Yes I do."

Silus sighed. "Then I wish you luck."

He clipped his lightsaber to his freshly stolen belt and turned to leave, but Irtar's hand stopped him.

"Master Silus... you can't leave, not when you've stol-"

"You're certain of this, then?" Silus interupted. "Revenge is a horrible road to go down. And when you reach the end, you can't turn back."

"What do you know of it?" Irtar responded angrily. Silus turned to face the apprentice. Anger was coming from the boy in waves.

"Irtar..."

"What right do you think you have to treat me like this?!"

"Irtar," Silus tried again.

"You don't understand how it feels! To love someone and watch them murdered right in front of you! How dare yo-"

Silus's fist connected with Irtar's jaw, knocking the apprentice to the hard durasteel.

"Killing Dehoir won't bring your mother back, Irtar. And it won't make you feel any better about her loss."

"How did you-"

"I have my ways," Silus grimaced. "Revenge won't bring you justice, it won't bring you relief. It will only bring remorse, regret and - above all - pain. Believe me, I know. More than anything, I know that. So you'd better be prepared to accept all that before you make so hasty decision."

Silus took Irtar's hand and pulled the man to his feet. "Come. We'll both meet this mysterious man of yours."

"Master Silus?" Irtar began.

"Yes?"

"How were you... wounded, exactly?"

Silus shrugged. "Long story. A story I don't feel like telling. You'll understand one day, I'm afraid."

They turned to the hatchway, awaiting the mysterious 'helper' who Irtar had met at the funeral. Silus wondered idly how they had ended here, of all places.

"We could have made good Jedi," Irtar said grimly. Silus could only nod.

“Excuse me, I couldn’t help but notice that you seem remarkably… familiar. And yet, I do not believe I have had the pleasure of meeting you before. Would you like to sit down?”


Natalya smiled , and extended her hand in greeting...

...well he's polite....


(Vinda remained silent)


She introduced herself "Natalya..."

" actually, I recognised you too.." She started mysteriously and Ahnk's face seemed puzzled...

"you were at my father's funeral...on Bonadan" She continued, and her eyes caught the glimpse of recognition in his as the penny dropped...

She took a seat beside him.

"and now you're at another..." She said pointedly, as she glanced over to the girl already seated next to him...

There was something strange about the girl, something Natalya could not place, she seemed...detached...

Realising her own curiousity might have been a little tactless, Natalya followed up quickly...

"I'm sorry , I've interrupted you both..." She offered sincerely, and rose to leave...

“Caution must be taken into account here…” Recon said under his breath as Vance had left the council chambers. As the council door’s closed the old man began to rise from his seat, passing around the room and gazing into the abyss of Xa Fel.


“A sense a great amount of distrust beginning to grow between those two, and yet an elusive presence of betrayal is also growing… the old Lupercus will be no match for the young Vance Jas…”


Placing his hand’s behind his back; he watched as the staff of the landing platform began to load cargo into a ship… Vance Jas.


“Good that these rumor’s are floating around the order… only to aid in this disturbance. Lupercus Darksword, dead? Some in these walls would consider him a hero of the sith… or a tyrant. The walls of this order has quickly taken shape since the creation of this Council. Unfortunately, each member of this council seems to have some ‘hidden’ agenda. Though, that remains to be seen…” Thought the Sith Master.


“Since the numbers have grown in this order it is hard to see where the Apprentice’s and Knights loyalty lay… certainly not in this council of three men. It could be said that they all are loyal to one, definitely not Lupercus, his absence has wounded his legend if not completely destroyed it…”


Vance’s ship could be seen leaving the Temple, on its way to Lupercus…


“who knows… maybe Vance can pull this off without the use of force…”


The Sith Master returned to his council seat as a holo-screen lowered onto the front of the council table. The man who appeared in the screen was a worker of the Records section…


“My Lord, the records and files you requested are ready” said the young man.


“Very good… Bring them to the council chambers….” replied Recon.


“As you wish, My Lord.” said the man as the holo-screen faded into pitch black…

It was a familiar, almost trite, story. That of a man striving beyond his means, overcoming adversity and in the process winning the support of hundreds. It was these people who had made a martyr out of Gash Jiren, who had erected the statue of him. It was all well-meaning, of course, but the girl supposed that there would have been more fitting ways of honoring his memory. The ideal outcome would be epiphanies for all, with each person present experiencing some personal revelation that drove them to do good, and do it sincerely, not just as a brief token gesture.

More and more she was becoming prone to wandering thought. The Tutor would have scolded her for allowing herself to vanish into her own mind. Starting a little, as if his invisible hand had struck her, her focus shifted quickly onto the new arrival. Another unfamiliar face and she was looking right at Vega. She looked to the man sat beside her. There was some history between the pair, evidently. A familiarity and ease in her posture confirmed as much.

"I'm sorry , I've interrupted you both..."

“There was very little to interrupt. Just small talk.”

She smiled, though only slightly. She felt awkward and out of place, and wondered again if it had been right to come here. Who was she to make demands of Jedi? There was no reason they should teach her. For all they knew, she had stolen that lightsaber from one of their own. The truth was not far from it – though the Jedi it had been taken from was long-since dead. Just carrying the blade caused sparks of guilt to flare in her mind.

“I should be going anyway,” she lied, somewhat flustered and frustrated.

With this said she moved to stand and walk away.

Varro Kai's thoughts warred with his faith in the Dominion Way and the revelation the crystal had imparted.

"Pal’a’la fo’w’a’sha" he muttered.

This galaxy was a paradise ripe for conquest, the fruit of the gods themselves and yet...


..yet there were those creatures who could tamper with the threads of destiny whose focal point was the crystal. Such beings were destroyed long ago in their own galaxy.

Varro never thought, never dared think of these creatures still in existence. It went contrary to the Faith.


He had wondered why the Dominion had not simply marshalled their forces and crushed the inhabitants of this galaxy in one by one. Even with their limited assets, they surely had enough of a foothold to begin assimiliating and expanding.

The existence of these 'force users', A’lora dir’a’tad’or’ii (Enemies/Traitors of the Faith) as they were called in the Dominion tongue, changed Varro's outlook.

If the unseen Thread that guided all Cree 'Ar actions could be manipulated by these creatures, it put Dominion Orthodoxy in jeopardy as well as the Cree 'Ar cause.


And these creatures were everywhere!!


He walked onto the command section of the small craft that transported him to the Communion Chamber eager to get back to his fleet... eager to do his part in carrying out the Great Plan.


"Tend," he muttered and the underlings scurried to carry out his order.