Act Two:  The Song of War
 
 
“You will never have a greater or lesser dominion than that over yourself...the height of a man's success is gauged by his self-mastery; the depth of his failure by his self-abandonment. ...And this law is the expression of eternal justice. He who cannot establish dominion over himself will have no dominion over others.”
― Leonardo da Vinci
 
 
 
Audentes Fortuna Iuvat

 
 
 
Kashan
 
 
The man looked at his reflection in ultrachrome gauntlet seeing not the aged visage that had weathered the decades but a young man’s face, full of promise, inspiration and hope.  It was strange, as he turned the silver shell around in his hand, how the piece had retained its luster and shine despite seeing scores of fights and being a part of battles and wars.  How many times had this piece and others like it protected him and yet they looked as if he had just returned from purchasing them brand-new.
 
If only people were so fortunate.
 
His reflection came back and the young face still stared back at him even though he knew that a scar marred his cheek and his hair had turned white.
 
The body ages far more quickly than the mind, he thought a bit morosely.   And it was true, even as he struggled to recollect images of his youth, he still felt, inside, young.   He still “felt” as if here were a man of twenty-five….  Thirty..   Certainly not the seventy-three his wife had reminded him he was this morning.
 
The thought of her brought a smile to his lips knowing that she too hated that the youth inside her mind could not transform her body as well by sheer will.   
 
And if anyone could, it would be her!
 
With images of his wife flooding his mind, the reflection in the armored gauntlet blurred.  A lifetime ran though his mind as the bed creaked under his shifting weight.  It was a simple bed, the frame hand-made by their daughter out of wood from the nearby trees that surrounded their tranquil abode.  Their house was rather isolated and the glassy surface of a rather large pond could be seen from their back porch.  Reaching their house was no easy task for ground vehicles but most used flitters nowadays anyway.
 
It was his birthday and he knew the morning and afternoon would bring a variety of family and friends invading his home.   The families of all three of their children would be coming in, grandchildren and even a great-grand child. 
 
Even Micah’s family.
 
 
The man’s thoughts turned to his middle son, dead for nearly fifteen years past and while the pain had dulled it had not vanished.   Knowing that seeing his son’s wife and children would warm him even as it brought the old pain to the fore, he would have to make sure the pain did not make it to his features.  Nothing would hurt his poor daughter-in-law more than knowing her mere presence brought back the stabbing ache of the loss of his son, her husband, and such gatherings were not to be dedicated to memories of pain.
 
“Reliving old glories?” a soft voice intruded and the man turned to see his wife standing in the doorway.  She had recently cut her hair shorter which seemed to sharpen her gaze and he wondered if that was the intent.
 
Then again, it gives her a youthful look too so perhaps that was the intent..
 
“Another year,” he sighed, putting the silver gauntlet back in the storage truck.  Standing up, his back straightening, “and despite everything...despite Micah, I miss it.   Damn me, I miss it!”
 
His wife’s eyes told him that she knew what he was talking about.  They also told him that she sympathized.
 
“I guess I am damned too because I miss it as well,” she declared, almost defiantly.
 
“It’s just..” the man started when their front door slammed violently and irreverently.
 
“Gamma!” cried a young voice and both of their lips grinned ruefully and they both turned to greet the arrival of their eldest son and his family.
 
At the sight of him in the doorway, wearing an off-duty uniform that would cause his mother to fuss over him, the man felt a wash of pride overcome his thoughts.  
 
He looks tired..
 
“She’s a handful,” his son replied to the unspoken observation.  “I thought green ensigns were bad but she puts them all to shame..”
 
“You were no different,” the elder man replied grinning coming forward to give his son and daughter-in-law a hug.  After the embrace, she held out a package to him and the elder looked at both of them in confusion.
 
“What’s this?”
 
His son smiled cryptically, “We found it floating about on a training exercise.”
The elder man opened up the bag and pulled out the object.   “What is this?   It looks like… a … a railgun round?”
 
The cylindrical object tapered to a cracked point.   “I don’t understand..” the old man started when he flipped the tail end of the round up and noted the name on the bottom.
 
 
Syagani
 
 
“Happy birthday, dad.”
 
 
The elder’s voice constricted with the emotion the name called to mind and the scar on his cheek began to itch.
 
“Syagani..” he whispered hoarsely.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
DOMINION
 
 
Krel’Thran’k’adar, Krel to his crèche-group, walked with a slight limp as his mechanical leg clicked across the floor of the warship echoing throughout the empty corridor.   For twenty cycles, the fleet had gathered, its strength coiled as if to strike at a moment’s notice and, for twenty cycles, the order had not been issued.
 
Except the order to remain at the ready.
 
 
The world formerly known as Imperial Center to the denizens of this galaxy had been subdued and the Cree’Ar Declaration had been sent to the four corners of the galaxy. 
 
 
 For years, Cree’Ar spies had infiltrated the galaxy watching and learning and the more they saw, the more they realized that its fate hinged on the activities of those considered to be “Force Users”. 
 
They also learned that not everyone was a force user.
 
Two castes. 
 
Indistinguishable from each other save for an ability that, in and of itself, could not be seen only experienced.  One limited in number but powerful in ability and, the other, numerous yet weak.  It did not seem to matter (except to some ethereal sense of morality) so much about how those with the abilities used their powers for it was always those without the ability who ended up suffering for them.
 
It was as if one caste, over the eons of history, had become resigned to the fact that they were not really masters of their own lives.  At least not when there were force-users about.
 
Of course, this neglected caste would come up with politically correct terms to placate the resentment in their minds over the unfairness of it all by advertising this ruling caste as “force sensitive”.   But there was nothing sensitive at all about their usage of the force for the lower caste either suffered due to force user activities, as in the case of the Sith, or force user inactivity, as in the case of the Jedi.   The only question to those of this lower caste was:  on which side of the spectrum of use they would eventually die?
 
Yet, for all the passage of history and the great galactic conflicts between sects of force users, while those of the ruled class were, more or less, resigned to their fates, their resentment of that fact had hardened deep within their consciousness.
 
And it was this deep reservoir that Artanis, the Cree’Ar Warmaster, recognized knowing the fires of destruction that could be brought forth from this wellspring. 
 
When those without the ability would rise up and bring down those of the ruling caste…
 
…to end the eons-old reign of the Force Users.
 
All that was required for the spark to take flame was to prove to this galaxy that even the most powerful of these force users were nothing when set against the might of the Dominion.
 
 
Imperial Center, the capital of the most powerful organization in this galaxy, had to fall.
 
 
And so it did.
 
 
Now, it was time for that wellspring to bubble forth and catch fire…
 
 
 
 
 
*
 
Krel entered the room completing the circuit and the familiar harmonic began to prevail as he took his place in the Conductor’s position.
 
“Arc,” he called out as a shiny sliver of energy appeared between two towering braces solidifying into a holographic lattice-like frame where the sensor readings would be assigned.
 
The composition of Artanis was proceeding exactly as orchestrated and Krel found that even the enemy would be hard-pressed to follow up with an accompaniment of their own that was anything but (ultimately) cooperative to the convention and structure set forth.
 
Still, accidental notations did occur which could conceivably, if left untended, alter the progression as designed for something more…free-form; chaotic.
 
Such stylized constructs without the structure of overall harmony was irritating to Krel and the very thought of ‘free form’ an anathema for disharmony led to discord.  Or so Krel had been taught.
 
Sometimes “free-form” found expression in ways that staggered the imagination and, invariably,  conflicted with the Dominion.
 
 
 
 
The silvery band before him began to sing.
 
 
Krel frowned in thought as the vibrations slivered up and down his nerve-endings, the fine hairs on his skin feeling as if someone’s lips were blowing across his hair.
 
It was disconcerting and as well it should have been.
 
The people of the target system had taken their “free-form” idea to a level that threatened the symphony of war that the Cree’Ar had enacted.   This brewing situation was not part of the original composition and it required a finesse that only few composers possessed.
 
Fortunately, Krel was one such conductor.
 
The people had attempted to bridge the divide that separated those that could sing the song (the force-users) and those that were tone-deaf (non-force users).  
 
But not everyone who uttered sound could sing and not every song could be a grand composition. 
 
Such was reality.
 
Rather than subject themselves to such realities, however, these people had simply tried to shout louder which only made them more annoying, as if quantity made up for quality.
 
 
It was not ignorance, though. 
 
No, it was defiance.
 
 
…defiance of the great orchestral procession that was the Dominion itself.
 
 
 
“Dissonance,” Krel muttered sadly.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Kashan
 
Far Outer Orbit, Seraph Mk III-class Medium Cruiser, Syagani
 
 
”Captain on the bridge,” chirped the Officer-of-the-Watch as Captain Garrett entered into view.   
 
“Status,” the graying newcomer asked his Exec as the latter discharged his duty station.
 
“We are in an extreme orbit, Captain, moving at 5 MGLT.   All sweeps are clean thought solar cartography is noting some unusual surface storm activity.”
 
“Hmm…” the Captain remarked by way of a response.  “Not unusual for this time of year,” he clarified reading over the ship-wide update.    “Three crewmen down with fever?”
 
The Exec shrugged.  “The doctor prescribed bed rest,” and the Captain grunted. 
 
“The good doctor is getting me back for the drop-ship tests,” he murmured and the Exec grinned in response.
 
“He did not like accompanying the troops to the surface?” he inquired innocently.
 
“Threw up all over the drop shuttle and it was raining at the drop location,” the Captain explained.    The Exec nodded at the explanation and, to an extent, understood the doctor’s discomfort.  However, he also knew why the fleet was enacting random drills of varying activities.
 
The alien attack on Kashan had jarred Command awake into rethinking their defensive posture and response tactics.   Investigation services were still trying to figure out how these aliens were able to land ground soldiers on the surface without their space-approach being detected.
 
With the fleet on alert after the Sojourn decided to take a sojourn from the Confederation itself and the Galactic Coalition making themselves a general nuisance, it was anyone’s guess what would happen next.   And so the fleet was on alert which helped, if not calm things down, put soldiers and citizens at ease.
 
“Sir,” called out the Scanning Officer in a confused voice, “sensors are detecting a rippling effect outside—“ he was interrupted as klaxons automatically started blaring out.
 
“Correction!” the officer shouted over the noise, “Unidentified vessel passing off our port bow!”
 
The Kashan Battle Computer had automatically responded to the sensor readings by putting the Syagani on alert status and the Captain could already see in his mind’s eye the multiple-turreted weaponry turning to track the passing unidentified vessel.   The Battle Computer, however, would not simply automatically fire on an unidentified vessel or even a vessel hailing from a political enemy of the Confederation unless combat had already been initiated.
 
It took the crew, notably the Captain, of the Syagani to initiate such action and, at that moment, Captain Garrett was leaning towards calling the vessel an enemy based on his gut.  He had seen the holo-footage of the creatures that attacked the graduating class on the planet below and their simply “appearing out of thin-air” had the same sudden quality as the intruding vessel’s appearance.
 
As it was, this vessel, roughly twice the size of the Syagani, was merely ignoring their hails but the Captain knew he could not let the intruder closer to Kashan without challenge.   Otherwise, what was the fleet there for?
 
“Helm, swing us about to get in front of them.   Weapons, I want two warning shots fired across their bow.  Comms, continue trying to hail them,” he barked out sensing the tension rising on the bridge.
 
He knew even as the vessel increased speed to its maximum sub-ight capacity and altered their course to intercept, the battle computer would rotate the Syagani’s turrets to ensure maximum tracking.   As their bow swung around, two IX-9 turbolaser batteries opened up, putting a pattern of fire in front of the intruder’s approach vector.
 
“Sir,” if we do not alter our course, their ship is going to ram us..” the Helm Officer reported nervously. 
 
Garrett’s eyes narrowed and he turned to the weapons officers, “Have the Quads target that ship and open fire.”
 
He could not allow the intruder to enter near orbit but he was not about to simply attempt to obliterate the vessel because they could not raise communications.  Ion fire could, conceivably, disable the ship without destroying it allowing for the Syagani to send over a boarding party. 
 
With the targeting of the ship, rather than firing warning shots, the battle computer went into combat mode checking system junctions noting that shields were being raised and was the first to realize that all sensor data had stopped.   The lack of data would have thrown off the targeting systems had the intruder initiated some sort of evasive maneuver.  Since the intruder had not, the weapons turrets were in their fixed firing positions.  
 
The immediate problem was the helm for without sensor data, there was no way to maneuver the Syagani in relation to the intruder since the helm could no longer “see” the intruder.    It was not practical or efficient for the helm officers to run to the bridge window to try to eyeball the intruder and then relay new coordinates to those actually helming the ship.   In this, the battle computer too was impractical due to the lack of optical interfaces as well as software flexibility, if such optics were able to view the approaching ship, to classify the object in optic view to relay an appropriate response.  Unfortunately, software and AI could only do so much.
 
Still, the Syagani would have been in much more danger had the intruder tried an evasive maneuver but, since the crew who could ‘see’ the intruder from their prospective windows and see that the intruder had, in fact, remained on its course the Captain could, reasonably, assume the speed had also remained constant.
 
Even in the scant seconds the Captain had come to this conclusion, seeing the intruder through the plexiglass viewports, there was not enough time to react.  The sensor pit, helm crew and every other station that relied on the data provided by sensors and scans that had suddenly gone dark had emitted a cry of surprise and panic.
 
Garrett was opening his mouth to give the firing order when the Syagani shifted violently under his feet throwing him and everyone else who was standing to the floor.  The bridge became a cacophony of sirens, klaxons and screams as their world went dark.
 
 
 
*
 
 
Kashan
 
Inner Orbit, Seraph Mk III-class Medium Cruiser, Nova
 
 
 
 
Captain Nevreau gasped as the Syagani seemed to be knocked aside and away from the intruding vessel.  The intruder itself could no longer be seen as an immediate envelopment, spherical in nature, simply appeared.
 
The Syagani had encountered the edge of the sphere when it simply appeared, the force of that encounter causing the warship to be repelled away with multiple explosions littering its damaged hull.
 
“Was that some sort of shielding the Syagani bounced off of?” Nevreau’s Exec wondered out loud even as emergency actions were being ordered to aid their damaged sister-ship.
 
“Ma’am, you need to see this!” the Sensor Officer replied and both Captain and Exec were soon standing over his shoulder.  On the screen, it seemed all sensor data died (or went dark) at the boundary of the sphere.  As if a solid wall of “something sensors could not penetrate much less read” were moving towards them.  
 
“Blanket sensors are picking up stellar debris in front and behind the sphere but we get nothing but a large empty nothing where the sphere should be reading.”
 
“Have our weapons target the void and open fire,” Nevreau ordered.  “I want everything we’ve got shooting ten seconds ago!”
 
She turned to the Comm Officer, “Contact Kashan and have all forces in this sector recalled.  We may  need help!”
 
The intruder, now much larger since it was presumed that it was encased in the sensor-blackout sphere, was still approaching along the same vector and at the same speed which, according to Nevreau’s internal calculations, would give the Nova time for several firing rounds.    And she wanted everything fired:   Turbolaser batteries, Ion Quads, missiles …even the railguns.
 
“Transmit all firing data to Kashan Command as soon as we receive it,” she ordered the Comms knowing that the more information she was able to get out to the military, the better prepared follow-up responses could be if, for some reason, she happened to fail to stop the intruder.
 
The vibrations were felt all along the hull as multiple turreted weapons ejected their energy payloads at the approaching sphere.
 
Optical visuals were magnified and the sphere appeared on nearby monitors.
 
“Doesn’t look solid but gaseous,” murmured a nearby Lieutenant.
 
The energy based weapons as well as projectile weapons seemed to disappear in the “cloudy” sphere.
 
As the monitor still displayed the spherical blackout approaching their position, the Exec murmured, “Well, that was anticlimactic.”
 
 
“We don’t know if we are doing damage or if our fire is being deflected after it disappears into that cloud!” complained a nearby crewman on a weapons consol.
 
 
 
Far Outer Orbit, Seraph Mk III-class Medium Cruiser, Syagani
 
 
Captain Garrett quickly inspected the wrappings he applied to the injured crewman using the bridge’s portable first-aid kit.  It wasn’t pretty but it got the job done.  He stood to survey the battered bridge noting too few stations were even active when the ship shook again.
 
“Another damned shield generator..” murmured the scanning officer who had been pressed into medical service since his scanning station was also dark.  
 
Garrett was not sure what had happened since the damage to the Syagani was as quick as it was absolute but he knew they were in a bad way if the view out their ports was any indication.   He had seen the moon of Kashan several times noting that the Syagani was in an uncontrolled spin.
 
The hull had been compromised, that much had been certain and devastatingly so for the shield generators built into the hull had been affected as some overloaded blowing the Syagani’s plating to hell and gone.
 
He hoped the damage control crew could stem the tide of cascading failures and prevent further domino effects further damaging the ship, especially if one shield generator blew affecting others down the hull as damaged continued to spread. 
 
But on a Mark III?  
 
The damage control functions had taken a hit in the new “upgrade” as all effort was made to ensure the Seraph’s hull could not be cracked very easily.  And it was true.  Seraph’s were tough nuts to crack but once they were cracked, the vessel’s usefulness was lost.   It was a vessel designed for short bursts…the quick, lightning victory.   In a protracted fight, the ship’s shell would wear and eventually crack.  It was inevitable with every warship but this time?
 
The Syagani hadn’t even started to fight when it was unceremoniously knocked out of the battle to come.  Garrett could only hope that what happened to them was spread to the fleet so precautions could be implemented.
 
The ship shuddered again and the Captain wondered if more shield generators were exploding when a shout announced the arrival of the engineering team he had given authority to conscript any and all crewman to find out the status of his ship and report back.  With internal systems down all over the vessel, they were left with runners.  It was odd that even the portable comm units did not seem to work.
 
He turned his gaze to the rather tall Paladin who had wedged itself into the doorway of the lift to ensure the doors remained open allowing for crew to come and go through the maintenance ladders with the lift itself inoperable.  Command had rescinded its standing order removing all Paladins from the bridges of various vessels due to the Trojan Incident before the year of Cataclysm.   However, the discovery of the Reaver Threat and the Confederation’s subsequent dealings with that threat saw that order turn into more of a suggestion which most Captains, especially those working in and around Reaver Space, ignored.  Garrett was glad that he did as well as the second Paladin’s internal power generator was cannibalized to allow them to manually close the armored plating over the viewports.  The last thing they needed as some exploding shield generator cracking the seals around the plexiglass venting them all into space. 
 
“Report?” Garrett ordered, once the newcomers had caught their breath.   The ladder climb was not an easy one, especially with the spin straining the inertia dampeners.   He was glad the artificial gravity plating still functioned.
 
The Chief sighed, running a hand over his bald head.  “We’ve got decompression issues and now I know why.”
 
The two moved over to the center of the room, the Captain’s command crew moving closer to hear the details.
 
The engineer took out a pad and a hologram of the ship appeared.  “This was us before…and,” he clicked a button and the hologram shifted showing almost a quarter of the front hull missing.  “..this is us after.”
 
Someone gasped and Garrett had trouble not doing the same.  It was worse than he thought.   Than he hoped.
 
“All levels in this section have been exposed to vacuum,” the Chief continued.  “If those blastdoors were unlocked and opened,” he gestured to the plating they had manually activated, “you would have seen the damage.”
 
“Those shudders we have been feeling?” a Comm Specialist asked.
 
“The vacuum was not limited to the missing chunk of ship,” the Chief explained, “that vacuum traveled down corridors throughout the ship before containment protocols could be enacted.   The shock to our automation system was overwhelming. “
 
“What, the AI couldn’t figure out to shut the damned doors?” growled a crewman.
 
“The AI used the vacuum to put out fires that were spreading.  Some shudders were decompression explosions where containment protocols failed but others were the shield generators embedded in our hull.  Rather than the force of the explosion blowing out into space, our damned plating contained it and turned that destruction inward.  It is hell on some levels.  The AI saved the ship and our lives.”
 
“Can the AI get an emergency signal out to the fleet?” the Captain asked.
 
The Chief shook his head, “That’s the other part of story.  I still do not have a full report on the ship’s condition until I hear back from quite few of our people running around.  They have to be careful since comms are down and they do not want to open a door and suddenly find themselves in vacuum compromising the level.  Sensors are down as well..”
 
“So how does the AI know about the fires and vacuum?” asked a crewman in confusion.  The Captain was thinking the same thing.    He wanted to tap into whatever system the AI was using to use that.
 
“The portable thermostats found in every corridor, believe it or not.” The Chief replied.  “The AI is in shock and there is only so much it can do with no sensors, scanners or comms.   However,” and the bridge held its collective breath hoping for some good news, “some of our runners have gone EVA to check our weapon mounts.  Our main concern is secondary munitions detonations.  That would finish us.   But what I was going to say was that our people found this..”
 
The hologram changed to focus on a section of outer hull and Garrett saw a protruding piece of…. Well, he did not know what it was.
 
“What is that?”
 
“Not Confederation standard, I can assure you of that.   Whatever it is, it is attached to the hull and it is emitting a dampening field that is preventing any type of communications, internal and external and is killing our scanners and sensors.”
 
“So, if we can get that off the ship..”
 
The Chief’s lips formed a tired grin, “We may get our eyes and ears back.”
 
 
 
Inner Orbit, Seraph Mk III-class Medium Cruiser, Nova
 
 
Captain Nevreau stared silently as the wave of sensor darkness the sphere represented on their monitors drew closer.   The Nova was still firing even as the ship began to move away to ensure what happened to the Syagani did not happen to her.
 
CCDF had assured her that more ships were enroute and that was welcome news.  The bad news was that there was not very many ships in the Kashan System.   It was a hidden system and so, inevitably, with the creation of the Confederation and the CCDF, most shipping had been diverted to ensure the system’s secrecy remained.    Couple that with the CCDF on alert and stationed at possible Confederation “hotspots” like Genon and Metalorn and other worlds closer to the Coalition.  The CCDF was not sure what the Coalition and, by extension, the Cooperative was doing but the political fallout from every politician’s mutual hardheadedness left enough of a question mark that they were not taking any chances.  
 
“A strange design for a warship,” her Engineer murmured as Nevreau turned her attention back from the monitor to the holographic projection of the alien vessel.   At least the alien vessel as it appeared prior to being enveloped in a sphere of gaseous something or other that seemed to absorb everything, including scans, that was aimed at it.
 
The vessel looked like a tear drop laid on its side with the pointed end facing aft.   From that basic design sprang up all sorts of “spikes” the nature of which remained unknown.  Some spikes were longer than others but they were in no discernable pattern.
 
“Looks almost like one of those fishes that puffs up if a predator tries to eat it,” the Engineer continued.
 
“Captain!  We are detecting another rippling effect similar to what the Syagani—“..
 
“I see it!” barked out Nevreau halting the verbal update in mid-sentence.  Some people spoke paragraphs when a single word would do.
 
“All weapons, track that rippling effect and fire!!”
 
The Captain knew, with the intruder designated as hostile, the battle computer AI was already moving some weapons to track the rippling effect but Nevreau wanted everything aimed at the rift as they were getting nowhere with the sphere.
 
Sure enough, a tear-drop shaped intruder appeared into the hail-fire of the railguns, turbolasers and ion cannons.  The weaponry from the Nova struck the intruder before a shielding sphere could be erected causing damage to the vessel’s superstructure.
 
As the monitors showed the spikes breaking apart against the continuous onslaught, a cheer went up throughout the Nova’s bridge.
 
“So they can be hurt,” the Engineer remarked.
 
Captain Nevreau eyes narrowed at monitor’s optics showing the damage they were inflicting.
 
“Another rippling effect!” a Sensor Officer shouted to be heard over the dying cheers.
 
“Target secondary weapons and fire!” the Captain barked out but the Weapons crew looked about in confusion.
 
“The rippling effect is on the far side of the planet, Captain!” the Sensor Officer clarified.  “They are out of range of planetary batteries as well..”
 
Nevreau turned to her Engineer, “It seems they can learn from their mistakes as well.”

Interlude

There is an inherent danger to the Genetic Renovation Program that was unknown to its developers.  It was not really their fault for they were basing the program on a series of educated guesses given the fact that they themselves were not force sensitive.  Both the scientific community and military industrial complex relegated the Force to that of a tool and therefore trained subsequent inductees in a manner as to how to apply that tool.  
 
Our resident Force Sensitive is a natural and has done good work for the CSIS and therefore, the program was to be developed to be able to provide the necessary support this individual would need to create the foundation of the Jensaarai.  On paper, everything made sense and the higher command signed off on the program’s development and implementation.   The idea was that when our founding Jensaarai became proficient enough to use the Force tool at his command, he could help teach others to use this tool as well.
 
Rather than remaining beholding to either the Jedi or the Sith philosophy, Command hoped that their Contegorian oaths and subsequent nationalism would fill whatever gap remained and be the overall guiding force in the use of those tools.
 
And yet, how little we understood the tool.
 
We scoffed at such ideas of darkside and lightside as being a cause unto themselves rather than an effect of an individual’s own personality.  It was felt that the honoring of one’s oath to the Confederation and their answering to their duty would shape such people to display the qualities of the lightside that are so regaled in Jedi poems.
 
How little we understood this tool.
 
In the beginning, there were no clones.  Only those volunteers into the program seeking to benefit the same as one would any other clinical trial.   And that is what these tests were, clinical human trials.  One may shade such trials and tests as abhorrent but the real abhorrence would be to push forward without such trials and without charting the positive and negative side effects the program would bring.
 
But what would be considered a negative side effect?  That even with the program, the subject would find that they still remained insensitive to the force?  With the subject’s overall situation unchanged, would it really be a side effect?  And so the program forged on ahead.
 
Naturally, the promising reports helped expand the program even as government oversight committees began to debate the philosophies and strictures behind the program that would, ultimately, dictate the program’s implementation in a fair and ethical manner.
 
How would we pick and choose who would obtain the power of the gods (if one were to be melodramatic)?   Did we have a right to withhold such abilities based on a person’s race, economic situation, education, politics or religion?  How would these abilities manifest themselves in the everyday people who had no formal military attachments?
 
And just like that, our science was co-opted by our politics.  It was ingenious, really.  How an insidious threat would come to power hidden by muddled politics seemed like a bad holo-drama of how Palpatine came to power in the Old Republic.  But for that to happen in the Confederation of all places?
 
This threat had its root in the House Wars of Kashan.  There were winners and there were losers and the winning side’s ideology prevailed.  History is a funny thing.  It marks large events, tells one of the players and espouses the benefits brought about by the winning side.  But what of those that fall to the wayside of history?   The losers of those grand and glorious conflicts that made us who we are today?  In the case of Kashan, the aftermath of war saw families struggling to deal with their losses and, right or wrong, for the defeated, that struggle was augmented by the fact that those losses were for nothing.  While the winners could go on with the comfort that those who died had died for a belief that was ultimately triumphant, the losers wept bitterly.  For their houses had been broken.  The new, victorious aristocracy would chart the course of Kashan and if we followed the timeline outward, we would come to the Confederation.
 
I do not write this to demonize the winning aristocracy or the Confederation that has grown up out of the ashes of that war.  I write this merely to suggest that while war does bring about changes (sometimes necessary changes), it leaves behind bitterness, resentment and hate.  Of course, sometimes the losers can shrug their shoulders and continue about their business (such as it is) in the new world forged in the aftermath of war but, sometimes, those who believed in their struggle, even though they lost, still keep the fires of their cause burning, yearning for redemption, for vindication if not in their lifetime, in that of their progeny.
 
Hatred nurtured becomes a hatred so natural to the individual that the darkside cannot help but be attracted.  One might find fault in this by saying dark actions not taken does not the darkside make, but what about those dark thoughts that simmer below the surface of action?   In any event, I am not a force user and so I cannot know the real truth of this matter.  Then again, it seems that even force users do not know the truth regarding the nature of the force except what is dreamt of in their individual philosophies.
 
What I do know is that the hatred that assailed the Confederation from within could not have been given form if not for the Galactic Coalition’s benevolence.  
 
More specifically:  Panacea.

I also feel that if you followed the evidence you would be able to uncover this mystery.

 
 
 
 The start of Cataclysm


Pegasus
 
 
“What is that woman doing here?” growled the Pro-Consul, barely containing her fury at having seen her clone upon coming up to the ship.   Admiral Lucerne was busy coordinating the responding units to the enemy attack interrupting the military academy’s graduation ceremony.   The CDF had driven the enemy forces out of the cities and the enemy seemed content enough to stay out there making the CDF’s job quite a bit easier.  
 
The Captain of the Pegasus was remaining on station in case the Admiral desired an orbital strike on enemy positions.  It also put the Pegasus out of danger from the enemy and the best place for the Pro-Consul at the moment and so up she was shipped.   Even battered and dirty, she projected  a dignified bearing that threatened to come apart at seeing her clone give a slight wave behind Jensaarai Jax as soon as she stepped off the transport.
 
“Escort the prisoner to her quarters,” Jax ordered the escorting Shock Troopers and the trio quickly left.
 
“Master Ravenna tasked me with investigating the circumstances surrounding the clones and the incident aboard the Trojan,” Jax began by way of reply when the Pro-Consul waved the explanation away.
 
“You mean when the bitch tried to murder me,” Thorn bit out bitterly.
 
“I believe that she was just as surprised as you were about the Paladin’s attack on the bridge,” Jax retorted against the incredulous look of surprise on the Pro-Consul’s face.
 
“She arrived on the bridge with both of them in tow!” she hissed back as the two walked to her assigned quarters.
 
“And I believe that even though they were flanking her, she did not expect them to attack.  The evidence I have gathered supports the theory that she, in fact, stopped the Paladins and saved yours and the CSIS agent’s life.”
 
“She removed…” Thorn attempted when Jax waved the comment down.
 
“No.  She applied the restraining bolts to the Paladins that stopped them dead.  And she used an incredible amount of force to shatter their ceramic armor.”
 
“Through the Force, you mean?”
 
“Extreme emotion can cause a normal human to sometimes shrug off crippling injuries…”
 
“Adrenaline rush,” murmured Thorn in contemplation.
 
“In panic,” Jax clarified.
 
“Then why did she not say that during the Tribunal and stop incurring our anger?” the Pro-Consul asked exasperatedly.
 
“Because she does not remember what happened.   And that scares her and so she is holding her cards close to her chest until she can figure out what is going on.   Wouldn’t you?”
 
Thorn grunted in response as they both walked into her quarters.  “Is this also a Force thing?  This not remembering?”
 
It was Jax’s turn to frown.  “I don’t know.   It is odd but I also do not sense any deceit from her.”
 
“They can, you know, hide their intents through the force as well, yes?” the Pro-Consul pointed out.
 
“That may be,” Jax conceded, “but the theory of her saving you and the agent is backed up by the physical evidence though we still have not found out why the Paladins attacked…Or how they were reprogrammed to carry out the attack.”
 
“I need to think about this,” Thorn said by way of dismissing the man.   She was aching for a shower.
 
“There is one other thing,”  Jax raised before leaving.  “She stated something that caught me by surprise. Something about the original six clones.”
 
Thorn sighed,  “What about them?”
 
Jax frowned, “Well, she said something like ‘Six clones, six major houses.   Are all six clones members of the six ruling houses of Kashan?”
 
Thorn stopped her trek to the refresher and slowly turned around narrowing her eyes.  “There are only three major houses on Kashan:  Thorn, Lucerne and Tier.   And,” the Pro-Consul raised a finger, “House Tier is not represented in the original six clones.”
 
Now it was Jax’s turn to narrow his eyes, “Are we sure?   A clone does not necessarily have to be a twin…”
 
“House Lucerne was not supposed to be part of the original six..” Thorn pointed out.  “In fact, nothing about the clone addition to the GR program went anything like we were told it would.”
 
“If someone altered the program by including a clone of Corise Lucerne, could they not alter it even more?”  Jax asked.  “Who do the original six clones represent?   In fact, are we sure about the subsequent generations of clones?”
 
“DAMN!” swore the Pro-Consul.   
 
At Jax’s surprised expression she pointed a finger at him, “We have been too busy treating this program as the effect of overzealous scientists.   I was too consumed by the novelty of meeting a ‘sister’ and then too consumed by the betrayal of that sister to really think straight.  Everything about this hints at much larger puzzle being built while we quibble of a piece here and there.   What if… What if she really does not remember what she did, or why she did it or… or…”   Part of Thorn’s voice was both fearful and yet hopeful at the promise of redemption for her sister.
 
“Wait.” Jax put his own hand up.  “Before we get too consumed by speculation, we need to follow the evidence.  She knew enough to tell me that much.”
 
“We need to go back to the beginning…” started Thorn.
 
“We need to find out who the original clones are…” Jax finished.



SCHISMS:  GENESIS
 


“I will not submit to your authority,” Ferro said, an implicit affirmative evident in a voice quivering just above rage. “I will not allow them to use my work to further ends that are the antithesis of everything I believe in!”

“You have to understand that we can't allow you to carry on like this without oversight,” the representative said, the man’s tone implying that he had a solution to that apparent problem.

“Go on,” the man named Ferro prodded.

“I have the authority to induct you, Ferro Valenteau, as a full member of the Program. Having acquired their consent in this matter, I am authorized to inform you that you would be given a proxy vote through an appropriate delegation, to preserve the value of your mind and resources without the political stigma attached to your name all the while accommodating your right to representation and a platform to approach the Confederation’s governing council itself.”

“Surely you don't expect me to believe that our differences could be resolved so easily?” Ferro answered.

“Of course not,” a new, third user intruded.  A female.

The man named Ferro Valenteau stared, open-mouthed at the newcomer.

“I am here to confirm the validity of the offer,” she explained, “and to act as witness, should it be accepted.”

Ferro was too shocked to speak as a grin spread across the representative’s mouth.
 
“Kel..” Ferro started.
 
“Welcome to the Genetic Rennovation Program, Mr. Valenteau.”

Lost Silence


“We are Guardian; surrender or you will be neutralized.”

"Stang!" came a curse from Smalls as his overhead HUD displayed the odds ever increasingly being tilted out of their favor.  

Vallance was too shocked by the announcement to think straight.   Guardian?

The Coalition had played them all for fools!   The bloody machine that wasted so many lives at the Battle of Vahaba, the battle the Cooperative was hailing as a great victory even as they retreated from the area losing thousands upon thousands of men and materials.. all for a machine whose entire strategy had been to to seize control of it's own ships and ram them into the enemy.    But the Coalition had cleared out the machine riff-raff hadn't they?

Dissolved one entire government in favor another.  Rejecting one Prime Minister in favor of another whose administration was based on a lie!

They all blamed Smarts!

No!   They blamed Smarts (or Overseer as he had styled himself) because Overseer blamed himself and fell on his own proverbial sword.  


But it was not Overseer who had massacred his own people.   No, it was Guardian-turned-Avenger.   Overseer was the smoke screen so that Guardian survived and continued in it's position of safety and power within the infrastructure of the Cooperative and the Greater Coalition.  

So, when a rehabilitated Smarts returned to service, what really would have changed?

Overseer Smarts would be back, Guardian would never have left and Avenger would hang in the background as the proverbial Sword of Damocles over everything while the good men and women would still be atoms floating about Vahaba with Reaver wreckage.

"Major?" Metal asked in concern and Vallance was brought back to the present, the hurt to his body from the blaster-fire his armor had taken coming to mind as the adrenaline cooled.

Overcome with a sudden feeling of disgust Vallance threw down his weapon.  "We surrender," he stated darkly. 

"Damn your hypocritical dark souls to hell," he hissed as his team followed suite.


And somewhere, in the back of his mind, something clicked into place and he heard a voice as if from a far away memory...


Machines do not negotiate.

Machines are ones and zeroes.

Machines do not surrender.

If you appeal to the living to surrender and they defer to a machine, you are screwed.

Then again, so are they.


Machines do not show mercy.

And so none should be shown to them.



 

Jensaarai Jax Investigations
 
Metalorn Manufacturing
 
 
The room was familiar to Jax as he entered and sure enough, there were the two Paladins that had started everything though, truth be told, he realized that the Trojan affair had been the catalyst to shining a light on something nefarious and sinister going on.  It had been the one singular event that had clued the government, military command and the Jensaarai that something was going on behind the shadows.
 
 
He wondered just how long this …insidious shadow had lurked behind the everyday goings-on in the Confederation.   Since the beginning of the Genetic Renovation Program to be sure but he had the distinct impression that the GR program was not the beginning.  The politicians and military leaders thought so and so had the program shut down but once Jax entertained the possibility that the Program was not the cause but, rather an effect, of whatever was going on, the entire scope of his investigation took on another dimension.
 
 
As far as the higher-ups were concerned, the problem was contained.  But that glossed over certain details.   One, not all the clones from the variety of generations had answered the recall and were missing.   The strange mismanagement of data regarding who the clones were, including the original six, was extremely suspicious and alluded to a large amount of resources already in place to carry out such a complete obscuring of what should have been the most documented part of the Program.  Two, the Trojan Affair had yet to be explained sufficiently.   The “who” was not in question but the “why” and, more importantly, the “how” had yet to be answered.  Three, what exactly had the clones who boarded the Imperial ESD done to ensure the Empire’s withdrawal?  Four, the original six clones claimed responsibility for the Confederation’s withdrawal from the Galactic Coalition.  Were they just taking advantage of the circumstances or were they really telling the truth and, if so, to what end?  
 
 
As the Jensaarai contemplated these questions he felt a tug as if an invisible hand were gently pulling him along a certain thought pathway though the destination still remained hazy.   He had seen the subtle shift in Jensaarai methods and thinking over the past couple of years.   Where once he had been yearning, searching for meaning and purpose as a new force sensitive, now experience had tempered his innocent mental meanderings. 
 
 
He remembered his talks with Jensaarai Portland, his poor friend, regarding the nature of the Jensaarai and their place within the Confederation.   As force-users, were they the final arbiters of what was right and wrong?   Not if the Force was simply a tool to be used.  Not if the manifestations of the Force were merely the deep-seated, unconscious desires of the user for then the right and wrong of a situation, as dictated by that force-user, would merely be the public display of one’s own conscience.
 
 
But what if the Force was something more than merely a tool of energy to be used?   What if the tugging he felt was not that energy reflecting to his own conscience but rather,  reacting to his conscience.   Perhaps the force-users own personal disposition was the start of whether one invited the darkside or lightside into their hearts?
 
 
What if the Force was something external and was trying to tell him something?  Trying to reveal a truth that remained hidden?
 
 
He knew quite a few Jensaarai who believed this way which ended up having the effect that they treated the force with more respect than that of a mere tool.    He thought back to the clones who were locked up wondering if their own thoughts reflected the antithesis of this in that …in that they were merely deceiving themselves if they thought they could control the force as one would an instrument.  
 
 
Was it self-deception or something more…sinister?
 
 
“Jax,  I appreciate you coming,” Technician Seart acknowledged drawing Jax’s attention away from his own introspection.  The Jensaarai looked at the two Paladins and grunted.
 
 
“You haven’t incinerated these things yet?” he pointed to them.   He could see that the armor had mostly been stripped revealing multitudes of wiring and circuitry.
 
 
“I haven’t figured out how they went crazy,” the Tech responded seriously and Jax had to appreciate the man’s tenacity.  The Trojan Affair had been nearly a year and a half ago.
 
 
“Are you telling me you found out?” Jax suddenly asked interested.
 
 
The Tech smiled and shook his head dashing the Jensaarai’s hopes.   “Not quite.  But I think I just uncovered a new area of investigation.  An area that we had not known of before.”
 
 
“What is it?”
 
 
“An anomaly I found in the skeletal construction and circuitry of the droids.”
 
 
Jax’s curiosity suddenly lit up again.   “What?”
 
 
“Ultrachrome,” the man stated triumphantly.
 
 
The Jensaarai frowned.  “I hate to break it to you but finding ultrachrome on these droids is not uncommon.  They are armored with it.”
 
 
The Tech grinned which was a good sign.  “I agree.  Paladins are armored with ultrachrome.  But,” he held up a hand, “ultrachrome is not a part of their fabrication and construction of the droid proper.  Using ultrachrome for the Paladins is expensive already and there are new droids coming out that do not have it.  However, because it is expensive, it is tightly controlled.   To simply use it in general construction is unheard of.  The cost per unit would be greatly increased.”
 
 
“But… just how much extra ultrachrome are we talking about?”
 
 
“The quantity itself is not significant.  Remember, this is a dense material and to manufacture, shape and mold it requires significant machinery in both processing and handling as well as installation.   Remember, when we redesign a fighter or a droid, we also have to redesign the lathes, the molds and tooling to handle those individual pieces used to incorporate the redesign.   The new piece does not shape itself.   We have to account for the necessary infrastructure involved to carry out what we want.   One cannot just throw a nugget of ultrachome into the metal-works and expect a droid frame to emerge without incident.  Ultrachrome is its own industry.  To liquefy it would require temperatures that would weaken inferior metals and vice-versa.  If not properly blended, the ultrachrome patch in the metal-works would not seal and weaken the entire construct.  Do you understand what I am saying?”
 
 
“You are saying that there should not be ultrachrome readings in the framework of these droids and its presence sets these droids apart from nominal Paladins.”
 
 
The Tech gave a sigh of relief.  “Exactly.  But what is scary is that this is not an accident.  The structure of these Paladins is solid.  It had to be to pass quality control testing and military testing prior to receiving it and assigning it to a starship.  Someone wanted these Paladins made this way.   And given that this is the first evidence I have found that distinguishes these Paladins from others, I am of the impression that this difference is also why they went crazy and shot up the bridge of the Trojan.”
 
 
“How?”
 
 
The Tech sighed again.  “Damned if I know but now that I know where to look, I hope I can figure it out.   I tell you, I was damned ready to give up.”
 
Jax looked at the tech in admiration.  “How did you find the anomalies in the first place?”
 
 
“I went over the damned things with a micrometer.”
 
 
No wonder it took months.
 
 
Still, the revelation gave Jax pause.   He would have to go back over the records of when these droids were constructed and when they were placed into service.  But if his hunch was correct, it may have been prior to the GR Program’s inclusion of clones which would give credence to the horrifying thought that this shadow had resources in place prior to the Program’s implementation.
 
 
What are we dealing with here?
 
 
As he walked up to the droids, each lying on a table on either side of him, he felt an almost uncontrollable urge to touch one.
 
 
His hand moved over and grabbed the exposed central spine of one of the machines when a small light came on and the machine sat up, gears whirling and buzzing in response.   Jax gave a yelp in surprise at the sudden life that entered the machine and was knocked down as the droid’s shoulder struck him accidentally.   The opposite arm however was already moving as tracer rounds started firing at nearby equipment.
 
 
It all happened so fast that even as the Tech was shouting in panic trying to duck under cover, the Paladin, having only fired about five tracer rounds, stopped as the activity it had suddenly displayed vanished, the small light going dark.
 
 
“What the hell was that?!” shouted Seart as he went over to help Jax up.   The emergency alarms were blaring but Jax seemed not to hear for the massive pounding in his head drowned everything out.
 
 
“There is still power in them?” the Jensaarai asked in anger which dissipated as he saw the look of confusion on the tech’s face.
 
 
“I.. I removed all the power cells …”
 
 
“Maybe that was the function of these ultrachrome parts?” Jax suggested still trying to catch his breath but the tech frowned.  
 
 
“There were no power readings.  At least nothing that I could detect.” The tech was really worried as the facility’s security personnel entered the room, blasters at the ready.
 
 
After a lengthy talk with security, the alert was downgraded but several guards remained as a precaution.
 
 
“May I see one of these ultrachrome pieces,” Jax asked.   He wondered what seeing one would do as he was not a technician or specialist but he still wanted to see the culprit that almost succeeded in putting tracer rounds into him.  They were not exactly railgun rounds but they would still pierce flesh igniting it as it penetrated.
 
 
Seart went to a monitor that had not been blown out by the upheaval and switched it on.  It took him a few moments to go through the files until he found the correct resolution and put it up on the display. 
 
 
Jax was expecting something visible.  Not something that required a microscope to view.  How could something so small do so much?
 
“Watch as I increase magnification,” Seart said and toggled a few buttons and the view changed.
 
 
The silvery piece was no longer a microscopic piece of a greater whole but had expanded to the entire screen and, at that magnification, Jax saw a mark that stirred something from memory.
 
 
“I’ve seen that marking before,” he whispered struggling to remember.
 
 
Then it came to him. 
 
 
Portland!

Revanche-class Star Defender Revanche, Deep Space

Admiral Lucerne stared at the report in his hand, a swirl of emotions surging through his rather stoic exterior.    The Nova had been destroyed over Kashan.  The Syagani had been knocked out of the fight and Kashan stood relatively defenseless against three enemy ships taking mid-orbit positions along the planet’s meridian.    Their position was just outside the defense range of their most powerful planetary defense weapons.
 
Why the enemy had halted their advance was unknown but the longer they held off from attacking the planet, the closer reinforcements got.   Most of the active Contegorian Fleet element had shored up positions closer to the Galactic Coalition as well as Reaver borders.   It was a strategy designed to shuffle materials to conflict areas should they arise.
 
While both the political and military element of the Contegorian Confederation really did not think their relations with the Coalition would actually descend into war, the fact that the escaped clones were out and being hidden within the Coalition put a twist into what little of this GR Program drama they knew about.   He had seen Adrian’s report regarding one of his Jensaarai’s investigations and despite the clone’s actions during the year of Cataclysm, the sentiment was that the clones were not the cause but an effect of something nebulous with deep financial resources.   He wondered if that nebulous architect could be the Coalition?
 
The thought was odd since, for the life of him, he could not figure out what they would have to gain.  Then again, perhaps it was not the Coalition but a faction within the Coalition pulling the strings.   Already, the relationship between both governments had soured and he knew he was not the only one in the Confederation to wonder just what would trigger another Avenger-like attack?   What would the moniker of this protocol?   Retribution? 
 
It was the machines of the Cooperative that were the wild card and if their actions of late were any indication, if their machines were able and willing to sacrifice the lives of their own for whatever reason, how much less of a value would they put on the lives of Confederation personnel?
 
It was that uncertainty that crippled their fleet’s activity and put Kashan at risk.   The CDF Command had contemplated activating the reserve but that would be a last resort because Lucerne and every other person of Command knew if the enemy could destroy Seraphs, they would slice the reserve fleet to ribbons.   The New Oceanus defense fleet was the closest fleet available and would strike the enemy within the hour.  Even though New Oceanus’ reinforcements were traveling in-system, they still had to navigate around the bodies (natural and man-made) that littered the system.   A direct shot would take them through the nebula but even crossing the nebula required slowing down to sublights before trying to recalculate another micro-jump.  
 
If the Coalition did not blink soon, more ships would be pulled from their border… depending on how the Oceanus reinforcements fared.  
 
According to the Nova’s last transmission, a third enemy ship had appeared and was moving perpendicular to the other two ships along the merdian making the total enemy compliment up to three ships surrounding Kashan.  The Nova had also started to investigate the wreckage from one of the intruders they were able to destroy before their sensor dampening fields were raised.   It was quick thinking and a victory for the Nova but it ended up being a victory that cost their lives.  As it was, whatever they discovered from the wreckage of the enemy went to their graves.
 
And to make matters worse, there was the terrorist attacks taking place on Genon with no one claiming responsibility.   At least, they had to be terrorist attacks since that was the effect they were generating.  He clenched a fist behind his back as he paced the bridge of his own warship.   He was worried about Christina Thorn.  Even as he distanced himself emotionally from the woman, he could not ignore the fact that he did, in fact, care for her.   That clone business unsettled the Admiral more than he would have liked to admit.  It was a truth that he tried not to admit even to himself and so he took comfort in the familiarity of military protocols and duty.  He knew it made him seem more aloof and isolated at times which was not an uncommon nor undesirable thing in a commanding Admiral.  It did, however, play havoc with more interpersonal relationships and, as a result, his with Christine had suffered.   Her political experience and duties took her into the realms of gray areas, working amid the passions of other politicians as well as navigating the fickle-prone sensibilities of the masses.   He was more black and white and handled issues that came at him one at a time and with a decisiveness that ensured when he moved on, that problem would not be coming back to haunt him.   Rarely was such the case with politicians.
 
He thought back to the Vahaba Incident that the Coalition played over and over as a testament to the clone “heroes” who had managed to survive despite the Coalition’s best efforts to end them.   Not that many did survive but what astonished the Admiral more was the fact that the civilian news was not screaming over the airways for the head of the droid that threw away so many of their soldier’s lives.  If it had been the Empire who acted in such a manner, the Coalition would probably have issued mass public press releases on the horrors of that action.  Corise knew that if he had acted the same with Contegorian personnel and assets, he would have been drummed out of the military and probably arrested on the spot.   Even his advice to Christine on the disposition of the clones would probably have not gone over well with the Confederation citizens even though it would have solved the issue and they would have avoided the disaster during the Cataclsym.  Christine knew the pulse of the people and knew at the time what they would and what they wouldn’t stand for and military personnel hauling off and shooting such  a dangerous enemy would probably have been one act too far for them.   Even in a society as militarized as theirs that prided itself on the discipline of its soldiers, they need to know they are following the orders of people who genuinely cared for their welfare as people and not as abstract numbers. 
 
He looked at his chronometer. 
 
“Fifteen minutes until the reinforcements arrive at Kashan.  Hang on, father,” he whispered.

Flash Forward
 

SCHISM’S END

 

 
Azguardia Prime
 
 
Former Prime Minister Regrad held a claw in front of his eyes to hold back the sun as a squadron of enemy fighters streaked overhead, the wind whipping through their wings creating a wailing sound in their wake.   After them were several Coalition fighters firing constantly, locked in their own dance of death as if unaware, merely a few meters above their location, hundreds of thousands of flashes and explosions littered the sky.    
 
The Cree’Ar had come and the Azguard Home Fleet was giving as good as they were getting which meant brave men and women and otherwise gentlebeings were being snuffed out of the grand journey called life in the span it took his lungs to exhale and breath in the dust and smoke of plasma fires raging all around.
 
The war had finally come to the Azguard and now, were they finally reaping what they had sown?    A lifetime of fighting tyranny abroad, of leading fleets into another’s holdings, of invading sovereign nations all in the name of freedom.
 
And now, that tyranny had followed him home.
 
A mighty war fleet had entered their system destroying everything in their path and Regrad knew there would be no parlay.   No friendly game of one-upmanship as governments moved and counter-moved.   No grudging respect for one’s own foe.   No, not with this enemy.
 
 This enemy had declared war on the Force itself and they had come to eradicate the Azguard from the face of the galaxy.
 
The mighty and seemingly unstoppable Cree’Ar war machine that had defeated the Empire at center of their own government, Imperial Center, had turned their sights to the Azguard with the advent of their Declaration.   And Regrad’s people had wasted no time in fortifying their system for the eventual onslaught that was to come but even now as the great Cree’Ar battleships hurled their  mighty plasma weapons to his beloved world scorching provinces, towns and cities, the Azguard people shouted back their own defiance as the great cannons of their planetary defense network fired back destroying those same battleships even as others took their place.
 
There would be no retreat for the Azguard and, despite the extinction level event befalling their planet, Regrad’s heart swelled with pride as his people responded with a defiance of the unconquered.
 
So far…
 
 
Mighty wormholes had opened their dark portals on the surface releasing scores of the client race soldiers of the Dominion giving the conflict a two-front dimension and it seemed like the fight would be decided when one side finally ran out of soldiers or material to plug the deep gouges of hurt being hurled at each other.
 
 
So much hate and fire and blood…
 
 
..this is what war was.
 
 
“Minister!   The Revanche has cleared Sector Nine!”  a Comm officer shouted above the weapons fire flashing overhead, a building exploding nearby.
 
 
It was a strange circumstance that surrounded this entire event.    If Regrad had not been removed from power by Quell, his notorious Minister of Ethics, he would not be here now.   At the very location the enemy would strike.  An enemy of even the Force itself.
 
 
And what of the presence of the mighty Confederation?   
 
 
Hurt and bleeding and still under attack by yet another client race of the Dominion, would they still be here giving aid at the expense of their own lives if not for will of the Force?
 
 
“For my ally is the Force, and a powerful ally it is…” Jedi Dolash had whispered as he took a squad of soldiers to a nearby city to plug a series of wormholes from overrunning it.
 
 
Is that what was happening here?
 
 
A fight between the Force and those who seek to dim it’s light in this galaxy?  A conflict that will determine how the next few millennia of recorded history will play out?   Will the iron foot of the Dominion hold sway wiping even the memory of the force away forever?
 
 
Was Azguard Prime that battleground?
 
 
The enemy had mustered their strength with machine-like efficiency and had set upon them in such a logical progression that it seemed the Cree’Ar masters of this Dominion would look upon even victory with clinical detachment.
 
 
Emotionless… as lives were snuffed out by the hundreds in a minute on both sides.
 
 
Only the end was important and the Dominion would have the end it desired no matter how many corpses it had to crawl over to achieve it.  As if individual lives were unimportant.
 
 
The antithesis of everything the Force and the Jedi and every right-thinking person stood for.
 
 
They were NOT numbers.
 
 
They were individuals and, here, at this spot, these individuals chose to fight.   It did not matter that the Dominion had yet to face a defeat by the people of this galaxy.   It did not matter that planetary system after system had fallen prey to the shadow of fear these invaders cast.
 
 
 
 
 
Azguard Prime
 
Undisclosed Location
 
 
“Who would you pray too, my good Confederation Admiral?” came a taunting voice from the dark.   
 
A bruised and battered Admiral Corise Lucerne scanned the scene before him taking comfort that Pro-Consul Thorn, while bleeding and hurt, was still alive.   Beside her, her clone knelt and was attending to a wound on the Pro-Consul’s back.   The shock of seeing two Thorns seemed not to affect him anymore as his mind readily adjusted to the fact that Christine did have a twin sister and it was a clone.
 
While the Admiral himself was shackled, he was more surprised to find himself flanked by a squad of Confederation Shock Troopers whose weapons were trained on him.
 
 
“I had wondered if you would come,” the voice continued.  “I truly did wonder as you are hard to read.   Would you turn your mighty fleet against the attackers ravishing your home on Kashan?   Or would you rush to the aid of a government your own people once rejected?   Would you ignore the insults to Contegorian honor this besieged government hurled at it over and over again?  How you abused us clones and how you mistreated us so… tsk…tsk.”
 
 
The voice was that of a man’s but one that Corise could not recognize.   “Who are you?”
 
 
“So what was it?  What was it that caused you to hurl your mighty flagship of the Confederation to the defense of a Coalition of misguided fools?  Was it the imminent harm that is to befall a certain Pro-Consul?”  the voice laughed, ignoring the question.    “Your own House?  Your father… being battered and crushed by the alien onslaught on Kashan..  tsk…tsk.   Such sacrifice!”

 
“Why here?”  The Admiral gasped out as he felt an invisible hand closing over his throat.  “Have you given your soul over to the Cree’Ar?”
 
 
The voice laughed again.  “No, I do not give a damn about the Cree’Ar.  However, I also do not give a damn for these miserable Azguards.  They act like the Force came down from heaven and gave them a mandate to right all the wrongs of the galaxy!   They can all go to hell for all I care.”
 
 
“Then why are we here?   Why not on Genon.. or..”
 
 
“Because,” the voice stated harshly, “one does not shit where one eats.   And I will consume your precious Confederation.”
 
 
“Why?” a weak Pro-Consul Thorn asked.
 
 
“Because the galaxy is a cruel place, Pro-Consul.” The voice barked back.  “I have noticed in your recent trips to spread the gospel of the Confederation to far-away lands, that you have stopped referring to yourselves and “Lord this” and “Lord that”.  That you stopped publicly proclaiming the ridiculousness of your so-called Aristocracy.  Tell me, Pro-Consul, what makes you an aristocrat?   Money?  Royal blood?   What makes your blood more royal than say, mine?   Etiquette?   Tell me?   What makes you better than me?”
 
 
“Perhaps the fact that I do not beat my enemies to pulp when I don’t like them,” the Pro-Consul responded sarcastically.
 
 
“Cute,” the voice responded.  “No, you merely impose economic warfare on them if they do not accept your vision of the galaxy and accept your aristocratic place in it.   I know that you so-called aristocrats know your claim is false for why would you not proclaim it proudly and publicly?   Does it sound too much like the Emperor of the Empire?   Because I know for a fact that you still, in the privacy of your own homes and in the solitude of your own thoughts, you still consider yourselves aristocrats.   High society and the social betters of those you consider your inferiors.”
 
 
“Did we hurt you in another life?  Who are you?” the Pro-Consul snapped as she flinched when a bandage was applied to her shoulder.
 
 
“Your families fled one world and made yourselves kings of another.   Being rich and powerful on your original world, people naturally accepted your leadership positions on the new world.   Equality for the masses is all well and good but only if you retain your wealthy, royal position above all that, no?”
 
 
“Just shoot us and get this over with,” muttered the Admiral.  
 
 
“Shoot you?  I don’t want to shoot you.  At least, not yet.   We are here because I drew you here.  But you are not the goal!  No, we are waiting for someone else to arrive in system.  Someone with a massive fleet at their backs.”
 
 
“What makes you think they will show?”
 
 
The voice laughed again.  “The same way I knew what they would do with the clones.   The same way I knew of the existence of the Avenger Protocols.  The same way I knew how they would respond to that attack on their impregnable world.  Such a world of wonder!   If there is one thing I know, it is machines!   Believe me, they will come.  They will come to save the day and everyone will be giddy at the prospect of the security reinforcements brings and the enemy, these Cree'Ar, like machines, will simply evaluate and adjust their strategy but everyone will be here!”
 
 
“What do you mean ‘everyone’?” the clone of the Pro-Consul asked, looking up.
 
 
“Four, my dear, you and I are the last of the Origin Six.   Do you remember back to the meetings where we identified the power bases of the Galactic Coalition?  The Azguards, the Commonwealth, the Confederation and the Cooperative.   The rise of the Commonwealth eclipsed the power of the Azguards and kept them relatively contained.  Their destruction at the hands of the Empire helped us to sever Confederation and Coalition ties and gave rise to the Cooperative.  A wholly predictable and controllable faction!    Cooperative, Azguard, Confederation and the might of the Cree’Ar battlefleet.  HERE!”
 
 
“When the last player arrives, sudden destruction is going to befall everyone.   With the Cooperative smashed, the Azguard wiped away, the Cree’Ar warfleet crippled and the Contegorian leadership decimated, I will step in as the voice of sanity in an insane galaxy.”
 
 
The clone of Christine Thorn lowered her head contemplating the pieces falling into place.   
 
 
“And people will follow you because…?”
 

“I am the poor, abused clone from the Confederation who was saved by the great Smarts who will remain Cooperative’s minds as a happy memory…” the voice snickered as the Pro-Consul rolled her eyes at the answer.
 
“Not good enough?   I agree.   I will also have an extremely large fleet at my back.  Courtesy of that stupid Imperial warlord, Bhindi Drayson.    The real reason my Paladins shot up the bridge of the Trojan so long ago.  To effect the recall of my Origin Six so that we could be on hand to deal with the arrival of the Empire.   Not only deal with them but take something from the clutches of Bhindi Drayson!   It allowed me to also insert my people onto her vessel and they spread out to key areas …” the voice chuckled.
 
“Just like I was able to place people into the Coalition using the Vahaba Affair and Three," he winked at the clone of Christina Thorn ignoring her looks of loathing.  "Where your clone died, my good Admiral.”  The chuckle turned into a laugh.   “But they died heroes of the Cooperative and the Coalition!”
 
 
“Do you know why?" the voice teased.


"Because machines make such poor heroes.”

Jensaarai Jax Investigations
 
Almas – Converted Jedi Temple
 
 
“Jax!” greeted an exuberant voice behind a Jensaarai moving purposefully through a hall.   The Jedi Temple’s design was deceiving and was much larger inside that it looked outside.   As such, the shout of the Jensaarai’s name echoed down the hall causing several people to stop.
 
A grin tugged Jax’s lips as he also turned seeing his rotund friend catch up to him with all the energy an ion spring.  
 
“Portland!  Just the man I was hoping to find!” he started, slapping the other on his shoulder.
 
“What you go there?” Portland pointed a finger at the case in Jax’s other hand.
 
“Something I hope you can help me with..”
 
“mmm.. sounds intriguing.  Let’s go to my classroom.”
 
Jax had not spent a lot of time at the Temple building that had served as the Confederation’s dumping ground of everything “Force-related” until the Jensaarai came into existence but he had heard that the Jensaarai were slowly transforming it for their use.  Portland’s class was one such example.
 
A Jensaarai Academy of sorts was starting to come into existence even as the Confederation remained silent regarding their organization and its connection to certain government agencies to the public at large.  The higher-ups still were not sure what to make of their own efforts of creating and supporting a force-sensitive organization and how to incorporate it into their ever evolving society.
 
“What do you teach?” Jax asked as they walked into Portland’s classroom.  He looked around interested and saw a variety of holos of items he could not quite place.
 
“Xeno-archeology as it relates to Force Sensitives,” his stout friend replied with a grin watching Jax mull over how he would respond to that.
 
He could not fake it.  “What’s that?”
 
“Force Sensitivity has been around for many an eon, even before the first Jedi.  So I investigate standard archeology sites of ancient societies trying to determine how force-sensitives fit into it.”
 
“If they did,” murmured Jax and Portland nodded.
 
“That is true.  Not every ancient civilization recognized force sensitives and some primitive civilizations even considered them cursed or witches.”
 
“And those that did recognize them?” Jax asked interested.
 
 “They have been everything from the proverbial whipping boy to worshipped gods and everything in between.  One thing is certain, however.” Portland stated seriously.   “For good or ill, a civilization is affected in whatever capacity the force-sensitives are relegated to under it.”
 
“So, there is somewhat of applicable lesson to be learned in the Confederation, eh?”
 
Portland shrugged, “The more information we have, the better we will be.”
 
“Which brings me, my friend, to this.”  Jax opened his case and pulled out a holorecorder, placing it on Portland’s desk.  He activated it and instantly, the magnified image that had been displayed at the Metalorn Manufacturing Facility appeared.
 
“I was wondering if you had ever seen something like this…”
 
Jensaarai Portland stared at the image rubbing his chin with a thumb and finger.
 
“Is it a language?” Jax asked curious.
 
Portland frowned, “Where did you get this?”
 
“Believe it or not, this image was taken from a Paladin’s internal structure.”
 
Portland’s frown deepened.  “A Paladin?  As in Confederation military droid Paladin?”
 
Jax nodded, “The very same.”
 
“That’s impossible!”
 
Jax’s eyes widened at the certainty in his friend’s voice.  “I can assure you that I was there when the holo was taken.”
 
As Portland stared at the image, Jax began to sense a growing uneasiness in his friend.  “Was…was there anything different about these droids?” Portland asked, hesitantly.  The return of his friend’s typical nervousness nature gave Jax an indicator of just how upset Portland was.
 
“They shot up the bridge of a Confederation warship…”
 
“The Trojan Affair!” Portland snapped his fingers.
 
Jax nodded.  “I have been investigating the incident for quite a while trying to follow what leads I can to their conclusion.”
 
“So this was just recently found?”  Portland asked for confirmation.
 
“I came from Metalorn directly,” Jax answered and his friend thought for a moment.  Jax could sense he was calming down slowly.
 
“Can I trouble you to contact someone on Metalorn to recheck to see if this image is still there?”
 
“What?  Of course the image is still there!  I took the holo myself,” Jax started when Portland raised his hand.
 
“Please, my friend.  Humor me.”
 
“Jax grumbled slightly in confusion but put through a call to Metalorn Manufacturing and relayed Portland’s request to the Technician. 
 
“You want me to what?” the Tech asked and Jax had to wonder if the tech was questioning Jax’s sanity.
 
“Humor me,” Jax replied and he almost smiled at the grumbling on the other end of the line.
 
Portland’s face was unreadable as the noises of the tech working the machinery periodically came over on the comm.   “Stinkin Sithspit!” the tech cursed.
 
“What is going on?” Jax asked worried.
 
“That is what I would like to know.  The bloody thing is not there!  The image.  It’s gone!”
 
“What!?  The ultrachrome piece is missing?”
 
“No, no.  That is still there.  The image we took the holo of that was on the piece is no longer there!  What is going on, sir!”
 
“I’ll call you back!” Jax replied in a hurry and disconnected the line before the tech could respond.
 
“Talk to me Portland.  You know something!”  it was not a question so much as a demand for answers.
 
“I had a feeling but could not really be sure until your tech verified this.”  His voice was calm but Jax felt the rush of nervousness and fear starting to build in the man.  “Jax, we are in serious trouble?”
 
“We?  You and me?”
 
“You, me, the Jensaarai, the Confederation.. hell, the galaxy!”
 
“Portland!” Jax hissed exasperatedly.
 
“No.  Not here,” Portland stated firmly and started to leave the classroom knowing Jax would follow him.
 
“Not in this classroom?” Jax asked confused.
 
“Not in this temple!” Portland retorted back.
 
“Umm… ok,” was all Jax could think of as he pushed his frustrated thoughts aside to follow his portly friend.
 




Cooperative Facility
 
 
His name was Sopek. 
 
He was not an Alpha, a Beta or even a Gamma. 
 
If his facial features could convey expressiveness, there would be amusement at the thought regarding the off-shoots of the great and glorious Smarts, may his processor function for all time!  Biologics tended to classify the existence of these off-shoots as “children” of the great machine.  But they were also pieces of the whole parsing the BASIC language that biologics spoke to suit their needs or, rather, his needs.
 
The classification as offspring of Smarts (may his processor never get wet!) ensured the biologics avoided such questions like:  Were they parts of the whole or were they wholly unique units in their own right?
 
Beta had been accepted as something unique and therefore an entity in its own right as opposed to the sapient known as Smarts (may his processor never freeze!).  However, it was a sleight of hand that was, if intended by Smarts (may his processor never power a sexbot!), very masterful.  If not, it was truly fortuitous and Sopek did not believe in fortuitous events of a random nature.
 
That was something biological lifeforms excelled at.  This personification of the abstract was truly their talent and one that an artificial, logical mind could not fathom.  At least until Smarts (may his processor never overheat!) began to exhibit similar thought patterns.
 
The Minister of Ethics had a word for it.
 
Bullshit.
 
Sopek had catalogued the reference and while Quell’s definition of it as such was not the universally recognized rendering of the word, he still found the association quite apt.
 
Perhaps that is why he was so good at his job.  He had a habit of seeking out such evidence of bullshit and proceeded to tear it to ribbons winning both acclaim and increased monetary resources.  It was like being caught in a logic loop of cause and effect powered by the bullshit of others.
 
What was he?
 
He was Coalition democracy’s greatest weapon.
 
He was a lawyer.
 
He was particularly pleased with the thought of a logic loop powered by bullshit.  Such activity was truly “green” and eco-friendly.  He logged the thought for later reflection.
 
Lawyers were good for the environment!  Naturally, a biologic would find a joke in there somewhere. 
 
The Coalition media had been making hash of Confederation reputations even as representatives of their respective governments tried to iron-out a situation growing steadily out of hand at an almost predictable rate.
 
He had petitioned and gained access to evaluate and interview these clones for himself with the intent of representing any that required it.  There was one fact that seemed to elude the media (which probably because it was not very sensational) that had gotten Sopek access and that was the fact that the clone of Corise Lucerne had requested asylum.
 
Asylum.
 
Such a wonderfully functional word.
 
A word that unlocked doors.
 
It had certainly unlocked the Vahaba Asteriod mining complex, Smarts (may his processor never go obsolete!) and his fleet’s air-locked doors and the Coalition media’s hearts.
 
Truly, an effective word if there ever was one.
 
And so he found himself interviewing one such clone at this secret facility of the Cooperative.  As it turned out, these media darlings of the Coalition and the bane around the Confederation’s neck made about as much sense as breeding a mynock with a nerf.  The answers given to Sopek’s questions were contradictory and confusing at times causing the droid lawyer to task some processing power to investigate whether or not these clones were regarded as retarded…
 
XX**Political Correction Oversight Protocol Initiated**XX
 
..investigate whether or not these clones were regarded as morons.
 
XX** Political Correction Protocol Review Pending**XX
 
XX** Political Correction Protocol Review Approved with attached appendix**XX
 
 
Bullshit.  That is what the socially unpleasant Quell would say.
 
That is what this exercise was starting to feel like and he wondered if the various biologics who cared for and observed these clones felt the same sense of futility as they went about their duty. 
 
“Look that this!” exclaimed one doctor as they were looking at the results of a clone they had to tie down.  For some reason the clone had smeared his feces all over the place, or was that just a rumor?
 
Sopek never entered the containment area (they were not cells!) to evaluate the odor in the room so he had no first hand data on the subject.
 
Still, as an observer in the adjacent room, he was curious as to what the excitable doctor had found and wondered if it would, perhaps, justify his exaggerated salary requirements.
 
Sometimes Smarts’ (may his processor never be smeared with feces!) reasoning was unfathomable as to why so-and-so might be assigned a duty in a top-secret-hush-hush facility.  Perhaps no longer as his receptors focused on the data screen before …
 
 
The explosion coming from the containment room blew open the doors hurling one in the direction of Sopek.   For once, he was grateful for his small frame as he was able to adjust his vector and speed of progression into the nook where seated humans put their feet when they worked on computer terminals.  The door smashed into the terminal but was blocked by the rather solid input board that projected from the terminal.   The doctor and others were killed instantly.
 
As fire containment systems kicked in, several security personnel also entered and Sopek’s receptor picked up part of a conversation.
 
There were attackers?
 
He shook his head and heard a rattling sound.  
 
There were attackers!
 
He nodded.  That seemed the appropriate response to the overheard input.
 
Why would they want these moro…. 
 
His derogatory query was halted as he took in his surroundings.
 
Why would they not want morons who inexplicably self-destructed?
 
 
He queried his memory backup recalling the late-doctor’s find and while he could not interpret most of the information, he could understand one word.
 
A word that indicated something that should not be where it was found.   Tiny, almost microscopic slivers found in the brain of the clone.
 
That find in itself was extraordinary but what happened next was supremely so.  That the slivers, unnoticed by the doctor because we had turned to whomever he was talking too, had moved just before the explosion.
 
Almost as if those slivers somehow caused the explosion!
 
 
Guardian was already clamping down on the systems. 
 
Any old emergency and the Guardian program seemed to think it was its god-given duty to seize control of any system it deemed necessary in response to said emergency.  Guardian had a narrow set of parameters and, as a civilian AI lawyer, Sopek feared that connecting to any input would overwrite his own protective (and expensive) firewalls.   Military grade equipment had a habit of simply smashing through stuff within collective cyberspace.
 
And so he quickly moved to locate a suitably ranked officer to relay his information.
 
To think!  Ultrachrome was inside their brains!
 
Smarts, may his processor never create another Guardian upon pain of getting the shit beat out of it, needed to know!

Coalition - Post Government Change

“You come to gloat?” teased the Azguard as he walked along the promenade towards his shuttle.
 
“Dammit, Regrad!” growled the Minister of Ethics as he walked up to the former Prime Minister.  “You know me better than that!”
 
The large Azguard hissed a laugh and put an arm around the grumpy human.  “But you feel guilty about laying me low..”
 
“It’s your own fault for fighting the damned Reavers rather than governing,” Quell shot back without much conviction.
 
“And yet, I could not simply sit by and ‘govern’ while my people suffered against this threat,” Regrad answered in a rather good-natured way.
 
“You are taking this rather well,” Quell observed with a narrowed eye.
 
“Of course!  A great weight has been lifted from my shoulders!  With my duty as Prime Minister removed, all I have left is the duty of a Coalition citizen and Azguard patriot.”
 
“You expect an attack?”
 
“I do not think the Cree’Ar do things without purpose.  Letting the galaxy know the location of the Azguard homeworlds does not bode well for us I think.”
 
“Then it is a good thing I threw you out of office..” murmured Quell.
 
“Do not give yourself too much credit, my friend,” Regrad remarked, stopping to stare at the various people moving about the starport each to their own purposes.  He turned to face his old friend, “This change has been long coming.  We have long since passed that time that all governments experience.”
 
“What time?” Quell asked suspiciously.
 
“The age of active dynamic leadership has passed.  The seat-of-our-pants control was necessary when we were facing certain destruction at every turn by our enemies.  However, enough time has passed that our rule of law has been allowed to set and is permanently cemented in our society.  Now, we old-timers merely get in the way of law.”
 
“What are you saying?”
 
“It is time for the bureaucracy to take over and be guided by our law.  No more warrior leaders but peacekeepers, lawyers, teachers and professors.”
 
Quell let out a groan.  “Oh, fuck me!”
 
Regrad opened his mouth in laughter.   “Don’t be so dramatic.  It was bound to happen.  It was why the issue with Smarts, the Cooperative and this Vahaba Affair could not be adequately handled using the old methods.   A warrior’s response would have had disastrous effects on the Coalition perhaps plunging us into our own civil war.”
 
“So, what?  You think the bureaucrats are going to solve the problem with Smarts and his Cooperative?” Quell shot back sarcastically.  “The damned idiots are Cooperative alright!  They are cooperating by helping themselves to whatever the fuck they want!  Rather than initiating oversight over their damned black projects and their AI capable of controlling at a moment’s notice starships and, by extension, the lives of those aboard them, all the while, mind you, circumventing the command structure of the ship, what do they do?  They give the damned AI a vote in Cooperative politics.  And not even one of those open, transparent and public voting options but hidden, proxy votes."  The man made the word "proxy" sound like one stepped in excrement.  "It’s all back-political bantha-fodder but I will dig the little shits out from under their rock!”
 
“Maybe not,” admonished Regrad as he noted his assistants loading his belongings onto the waiting shuttle.
 
“What do you mean?” his companion asked darkly.
 
“Well, a new Prime Minister means new Cabinet Ministers as well and so someone else may be appointed as a Minister of Ethics.”
 
“Fuck me..” whispered Quell in wonder.
 
“You may just as well have,” Regrad agreed and the Minister of Ethics barked out a laugh. 
 
“They can have the bloody job if they want it.  We do the best we can and say ‘fuck you’ to the complainers!  But seriously, I do feel some guilt over your demise.”
 
The former Primer Minister waved a clawed hand away, “Think nothing of it, Viryn.  I expected nothing less than your best.   You kept me honest which is why I appointed you in the first place.”
 
“So…what?  You like getting thrown out on your ass?”
 
“Let’s just say I expected something like this to happen eventually.  I could not be Prime Minister forever.  If the bureaucratic rule of law is going to take effect, better my replacement comes at the behest of the law and let that serve as an example to all the Prime Ministers that would come after me.”
 
Quell turned a silent gaze toward his reptilian friend in contemplation. 
 
Seeing that the loading of the shuttle was completed he turned and hugged his Minister.
 
“Until we meet again, Viryn Quell.  May the Force be with you.”
 
“Yeah..yeah… mud in your eye, too..” grumbled the human .  
 
He stayed to watch the shuttle lift up and depart and as it disappeared from view, he whispered, “Force go with you too, my friend.”

Cooperative High-security Detainment Facility, South-Eastern Archipelago, Varn


Councilor Tik limped down the corridor, his battered body bathed in the harsh tones of emergency lighting, a repair droid trailing him and screaming its protestations. The Kashan troopers had gotten several shots off before the threat posed by the Guardian droids had forced their surrender, and one of the servos of his left leg had sustained damage as a result.


“Report,” he ordered to the squad of flesh-and-blood troopers set up at a T-junction, his vocoder popping noticeably. The force of the blow to that Shock Trooper's helmet must have shaken loose more than a photoreceptor.


“Guardsman Vang is going to be fine,” an unexpected voice responded. Tik turned his head, finding the Cooperative Army captain had been in the blind spot of his failed eye. “The medics say we can save the prisoner's arm, but our droids got a couple of hits in before they surrendered; there could be substantial nerve damage.”


“Captain -” Tik glanced at the man's uniform, reading his name “- Klar, I need a status update on the facility.” He swatted away a Remobot that was trying to inspect the rather noticeable dent in his forehead. “My remote access to its Guardian was blocked when operational command transferred to the Planetary Defense Force.”


The captain checked his datapad, scanning through the available information for what he thought the Councilor might want to know. “All exits have been sealed. Combat engineers are restoring power to blackout zones, and Guardian scout droids have been deployed to all areas suffering from internal sensor failures. Of the facility's twenty-seven detainees, we have strong evidence from fragmentary sensor data at the moment of incursion that at least seven died in the initial blasts. We have confirmed sightings of six survivors -”


“Captain,”Tik cut him off. “Just give me the numbers.”


“Five confirmed dead, nine believed dead, three subdued and in custody, three mobile and hostile, six unaccounted for.”


“That's only twenty-six, Captain. Captain?”


Captain Klar gulped visibly, shrinking away from the droid shell's lazy-eyed stare. “The last one wants to speak with you, Sir.”


The councilor started visibly, a humanoid reaction that his droid/shell interface had long ago internalized as a reflexive response. “Me, personally?”


“Yes, sir,” Klar said, but dared not venture more than a glance back at the injured Cooperative Councilor. “By name and title.”


“We have him in custody?”


“Well that's the thing,” Klar ventured hesitantly. “We can't arrest him; he hasn't done anything wrong.”


Tik tilted his head, his damaged photoreceptor not quite moving in sync.


“He's still in his room, sitting on his bed. Hasn't moved from the spot since this whole thing started.” Klar was pointing down the hallway with his thumb, toward a section of the facility still operating on normal power.


“Show me.” Tik set off down the corridor, once again half-dragging his damaged leg with him.


The room looked to be a rather ordinary single-occupant hospital room, its door open and its observation window caked with dust on the outside, no doubt residue from the nearest explosion. What was not at all ordinary, however, was the pair of guards flanking that open door: IG-100 MagnaGuards marked in the scheme of Guardian battle droids. Nearing the door, he caught sight of more MagnaGuards inside the room, standing at attention along the back wall. Moving into the room there were more, lining the walls on either side of him. Over a dozen in all, they filled most of the empty space and shattered the illusion of an idyllic hospital room.


And there, in the far corner, sitting on the edge of his bed straight and proper, hands folded in his lap, was the reason for all of this. Cole Basra, the only surviving member of the Estralla crew who wasn't either confirmed hostile or unaccounted for. These guards were as much to ensure he remained safe as to ensure that the Cooperative remained safe from him.


Battered from battle and entombed for the time being within a compromised Cooperative military installation, Tik's tolerance for pretense had long ago expired. “What do you want?”


Cole Basra stirred visibly, taking in the room and his guards for a moment, his attention lingering on the dust darkening his window before turning and settling on Tik. “There is a plan, dear Councilor, and your Coalition is as expendable to it as I am.”









Coalition Embassy House, Brandenburg, Genon


This place was no longer safe for an official representative of the Cooperative.


Assistants were busily wiping datacards and incinerating the remains, Cooperative military security manning the borders of the embassy grounds to report on any suspicious activity nearby. The Confederation's military posturing had been cause for great concern, certainly, but Grace Nova had just been notified through secure channels that Confederation troops had attacked a Cooperative military facility on Varn.


Ambassador Grace Nova had failed in her duties. The Confederation was publicly posturing for further armed conflict, and faith in the Confederation's intentions to resolve this peacefully was evaporating before her eyes. Whether rightly so or not, the Confederates were likely to view the Cooperative's public display of force at Varn as a sign that it intended to meet their threat of war in kind.


Why couldn't they have just trusted us! The Cooperative had given them a clear path to resolving this dispute peacefully. But the Confederation's insistence on secrecy and stubborn independence had made that impossible. They would never trust the Cooperative enough to let them know the true circumstances surrounding these mysterious clones and their alleged crimes.


Grace should have known that from the beginning, she now realized. The Confederation hadn't broken free of the Coalition because of some petty political slight. Their ideologies were simply too dissimilar. The Coalition was built on compromise, and the Confederation . . . well it was built on getting what it wanted, and the consequences be damned.


Her comm beeped and Grace tapped her earpiece, glad to be distracted from her unpleasant musings. “Ambassador Nova, go ahead.”


“Kashan is under attack.”


She recognized the voice, a mid-level liaison who spent most of his time in Atlas Hall. He should have been recalled by now. “Are you certain?” she asked, the implications of his comment more than she could properly process.


“Things started getting pretty hectic around here about an hour ago. Its taken me this long just to get that out of them. I'm not sure what's going on, exactly, but they don't seem too keen on sharing with me.”


Grace paused for a moment, considering what to do. “Do you have a description of the attackers?”


“No, ma'am.”


There was something in his tone that told Grace he was thinking exactly what she was. “Did you get the recall order?”


“Yes, ma'am, but I knew what was going on here was big . . . I thought it best to stay until I had something to report.”


Grace squeezed her eyes shut, not sure what to do. “It was the right call, but I need you back on the embassy grounds now. Immediately, do you understand?”


“Yes, ma'am.”


She closed the comm line and her gaze fell to the floor, where she stared at the lines between tiles for a long moment as her inner demons and angels warred with one another. If the warships at Kashan belonged to the Cooperative, then it was all over. All hope was lost. A retaliatory strike this fast would mean that the Cooperative already had a secret staging area inside of Confederate space, which would mean that the Cooperative had long compromised the security of the Confederation's early warning system. It would mean that the Cooperative had been waiting for the excuse to strike at the hidden heart of the Confederation.


It would mean that all-out war had already begun. Was that possible? Could it have really come to that?


At the end of the day, it all came down to one question: what did she believe about the Cooperative to which she had sworn herself? No sooner than the question was asked did she know what she had to do.


Tapping a button on the comm suite built into her desk, Ambassador Grace Nova addressed the occupants of the Cooperative Embassy on Genon. “This is your ambassador; I need your attention for a moment, please.


“Only minutes ago, I issued the order to evacuate this diplomatic mission with all haste and according to well-defined protocols long established and well-rehearsed. I did this in response to news of an ongoing Confederation attack against a Cooperative military installation on Varn, news given to me by members of the highest level of Cooperative governance, the Combined Council. I was ordered to destroy all Cooperative databases on-site and evacuate this facility.


“I am speaking to you now to inform you that I will be defying that order.


“The limits of the Combined Council's authority are clear, and it is simply the case that they cannot close a Cooperative embassy by unilateral action. You will continue to scrub all sensitive data from our database, and I am issuing a mandatory evacuation of all nonessential personnel, but this embassy will remain open. I am an ambassador of the Galactic Cooperative of Free States, a representative of its people, and I will not abandon my charge to them for fear of the unknown.


“I am asking the senior staff to remain with me and ensure this mission continues to perform its essential duties, but I will not compel any nonmilitary personnel to remain against their will.


“I do not know what the future holds. I cannot say for certain that our remaining here will do more good than harm. But as a servant of the Cooperative, as a voice of its people, and as an advocate of peace and understanding, I will not allow myself to be silence so long as there is any path unexplored that might yet lead away from war and aggression.


“Choose quickly. Those of you who do not stay will depart within the hour.”









Andasala, Cor'ric Sector
Barren Uplands


Ink didn't like this. Something was . . . off.


Andasala was an outlaw mining world, run by criminal enterprise and far enough away from the galactic powers to keep from drawing attention from outsiders. Its major cities were the natural habitat of his quarry, this new kind of Force-hunting slaver/mercenary/bounty hunter brought about by the Dominion's Declaration. They could have landed at any starport and faded right into the everyday flow of riffraff.


So why had they touched down out here, a thousand kilometers from even the smallest mining outpost? They didn't seem the sort to set up and maintain their own base of operations, though the rolling hills of the region could serve as adequate cover if properly exploited. The stealthy, low approach Ink's ship had taken was testament enough of that.


But the sense of dread building in his chest warned that all was not as it seemed. He wasn't sure if it was the Force warning him of some crucial mistake or simply his own intimate familiarity with botched missions coming back to haunt him; but he was sure he didn't like it.


“We pushed our luck too far,” Ink said, disengaging the built-in macrobinoculars and turning to his second in command. Stretched out prone on the crest of a low hill with the higher range behind them concealing their profile in the dark, the two had elected to scout the landing site themselves, leaving the rest of the strike team in the shadows of the nearby hills.


“That ship of theirs is already past capacity,” the woman at his side said, more thinking out loud than offering information. “I doubt they're waiting for another pickup, unless . . . you think they're part of a larger organization? As in, a much larger organization?”


What had started out as a simple mission to rescue a family of suspected force-adepts had turned into a two week long stalking expedition, following this ship from pickup to pickup as it met with one set of contacts after another and filled its holds with captured force sensitives. They already had just over two dozen victims locked up in their ship's hold, meaning any transfer to happen here would likely be from this ship to another, larger vessel.


“If that's the case, we're about to be dangerously outnumbered.”


“We should have hit them in orbit,” she said grimly. “Taken our chances with casualties in a boarding operation.”


It had been her plan when they first arrived in-system. In retrospect, it had probably been the best one available. “No time for regret now,” he said, signaling for her to crawl back down the far side of the hill with him. “Emily, get to your squad and -” Ink's order trailed off as the target ship's repulsors roared back to life and it lifted off from the ground, pivoting in place before taking off to the south-west. He edged back up to the crest of the hill and looked down to see some three dozen figures and a couple of skiffs in the clearing, hidden until recently on the far side of the mercenary ship. “Oh no.”


“What is it?” Emily asked, looking back and forth from Ink to the distant figures. “Now's our chance; we can hit them before anyone else arrives!”


Ink just pointed to the north-east, where another ship was just distinguishable over the dark horizon. But it wasn't as simple as that. He understood now.


“It's the Dominion,” he said, hopeless.


She shook her head in disbelief. “No, they wouldn't come out here. And certainly not in a bulk freighter,” she added as the vessel drew close enough for her to make out some rough details. “We have to move now!” she urged.


“We can't. We've got rules of engagement to follow. No direct confrontation with Dominion forces. Those are our orders, Captain.” She didn't like when he called her by her rank, and he knew it, but it was important to drive the point home now more than ever. They were soldiers, not vigilantes. “We missed our chance. We messed up; I messed up.”


“No, no,” she shook her head, returning her attention to the landing zone as the ship touched down. “It doesn't make any sense.”


“It makes perfect sense,” Ink said, reactivating his binoculars. “This is exactly how two parties who distrust one another behave when they can't secure a safe, third-party location. And no Cree'Ar is going to go walking safely into a cantina on any free planet in the galaxy, so the 'safe third-party location' is a no-go with their kind.”


The vessel touched down and a pair of humans scampered out almost immediately, each one carrying what looked like some kind of portable sensor device. The mercenaries moved back as they approached, both giving them access to the captives and giving Ink his first clear look at them.


The prisoners were lined up in three rows, hands shackled in front of themselves and the shackles bound with cordage to the prisoners on either side. The cords were bound to poles driven into the ground, ensuring no more than a few centimeters of free movement for each of the captives.


“Look, I told you! It's just another prisoner exchange. If we move now, if we call in -”


“Wait,” Ink ordered, holding up a hand to silence her. “Watch.”


Emily reluctantly returned to scouting the situation. One of the newly arrived humans was speaking with a pair of the mercenaries, apparently finished with whatever scans he was doing.


“The Dominion has taken control of the Corellia System. Corellian bulk freighter, humans with sensor gear; this could still very easily be a Dominion operation. And that ship could be packed full of any number of creatures we aren't allowed to engage. So we wait.”


One of the mercenaries was pointing emotively at the freighter, apparently dissatisfied with something. His counterpart pointed at the mercenary skiffs and pressed a block of what must have been currency into the other man's hands as another group of people filed out of the freighter. One of them was a Selonian, a couple of others were Drall.


“Sithspit!” Emily cursed, fuming.


“We should withdraw before they notice us,” Ink said, not at all pleased with the situation.


The mercenaries were moving toward their skiffs, either satisfied with the exchange or unwilling to risk a confrontation. The two humans returned to their scans of the captives.


“It's not right,” Ink said, trying his pathetic best to console the former member of the Jedi Corps. “But it's orders.”


The flash of red caught both of their attention, drawing their gazes immediately back to the open field. One of the captives had collapsed in place, hands still bound to the cord tying them all together, the weight of the body pulling on the captives to either side.


The sensor operator finished the scan of the next captive in line, gave a thumbs up, moved on to the next. The other operator finished his scan of another captive on a different row and gave a thumbs down, signaling one of his companions to loose a blaster bolt and kill that captive as well.


Ink and Emily could just make out the panicked screams through their noise-amplifying headgear.


Emily reached for the saber clipped to her waist and Ink closed his hand over hers, stopping her cold. She stared daggers at him and he met her scorn for only the briefest fraction of a second before releasing his grip and turning his attention back to the slaughter underway.


“Damn it all!” He thumped the side of his helmet, activating his commlink and breaking comm silence. “Go! Go! Go!” Ink activated the thruster/repulsor suite of his armor and rocketed forward, grabbing Emily's shoulder as he did so to give her a firm pull, strong enough to signal clearly that she was to follow, but not so strong that he dragged her off of the hilltop after him.


“My squad!” she shouted as she boosted after him.


The gatling fire of a heavy repeating blaster opened up from a nearby hilltop, raking across the face of the enemy ship, forcing it to engage its shields and blocking off reinforcements from within.


“No time!” Ink shouted back, already closing to near effective combat range.


Sniper fire flashed from hilltops opposite the gatling position, picking off startled hostiles as Ink brought up his carbine and drew on the Force to enhance his senses and sharpen his aim. Emily ignited her saber and started swatting at incoming fire.


“Secure the captives!” Ink shouted unnecessarily over the pew pew of his blaster, pointing to Emily's squad who was coming in at full speed from her right, hugging the ground and holding their fire for the time being.


“Got it,” she answered, breaking away from him and heading for the space between her people and the Force-sensitives, leaving Ink alone for the couple of seconds it took for his squad to catch up with him.


His suit took a couple of hits but he just kept firing, well aware that the doubtlessly Cree'Ar bulk freighter had slid on its repulsors to present its starboard side to the oncoming heavy blaster fire, freeing it to disgorge reinforcements from port bays. “Cut around and hold them at their doors!” Ink ordered, miming the action with one hand as he continued to fire at the few remaining enemies on the ground.


He let his people deal with the ship, moving in that direction but keeping his focus squarely on the people who could still do harm to their real objective, the defenseless Force-sensitives still in shackles.


It was only when Emily started wading through them, cutting their bindings and freeing them from their posts, that Ink felt confident enough to turn his attention to his squad at the ship. And he didn't like what he saw.


Somehow, impossibly, a lone Cree'Ar was standing near the ship, now all but surrounded by Ink's squad. The freighter's pitiful armament was firing at Ink's men, for the most part easily dodged by their repulsor-augmented movement. The weak, civilian-grade weapons weren't even strong enough to penetrate the next-gen power armor's shielding, meaning the rare shot that did land had little effect.


The Cree'Ar raised some sort of blaster to fend off the closing commandos, and the nearest of them – Rhet – whirled his saber in a quick motion, slicing the lower half of the creature's arm clean off.


“No!” Ink shouted, reaching out with the Force to tug at the young, hotheaded Iridonian and grab his attention. Ink had misjudged the situation, but now this idiot child was going to ruin the whole mission.


A pair of hulking monstrosities, almost eight meters tall, debarked from the freighter, one wielding a giant club and another holding a blaster fit for tank-busting.


“Leave it,” Ink ordered, signaling his squad to retreat by hand but speaking directly to Rhet.


Rhet obliged immediately, his repulsors kicking on and removing him from danger, though he made a point of spinning around and offering the maimed alien an obscene hand gesture, the meaning of which might very well be lost on the all-too-alien alien.


“Suppressing fire!” Ink barked into his comm. “Suppressing fire only!”


Their “transport”, the Gozanti Cruiser Hammer Time, had just arrived, and it opened fire with its quad laser cannon batteries as it swooped in low, opening its cargo bay doors. Emily led the freed captives in first, her squad following just behind and taking up positions right inside the bay. The quad laser cannons churned up the ground around the Cree'Ar and what Ink now realized were its gigantic bodyguards, buying him and his squad the time that they needed to make it safely inside with no more harm done.


The moment the last of the team was inside, Hammer Time pulled up and away, heading for open space, its heavy armor easily absorbing the weak fire from the Corellian freighter until its shields could reengage. The Cree'Ar, it appeared, had been relying heavily on disguise for protection here, a tactic that would have worked quite well if not for their business associates' overwhelming ineptitude.


“Where in the Nine Corellian Hells did that kriffing Cree'Ar bastard come from!” Ink shouted furiously, not even making it out of sight of the rescued victims before losing it.


“Stepped out of the ship just before you gave the order, Sir,” one of the snipers answered.


“What?” Ink asked, incredulous.


“Oh yeah,” the other added. “When Tank opened up with that cannon of his, whatever dumbshit they had at the controls powered up the shields in half a heartbeat and shut the poor jackass outside on his own! What, you didn't plan that? 'Cause that would'a been a great plan.”


“And you!” Ink railed, turning on Rhet, who had already removed his helmet and was grinning broadly and uncontrollably.


“That's enough, Colonel!” Emily barked.


“I'm not done yet!”


“You're done here!” She insisted. “We've got wounded to tend to, and civilians to look after, so shut this down or take it somewhere else.” She let her voice soften a little and moved over to him so not quite so many people could hear. “You made the right call today. However all of this turns out, remember that.”


Ink was barring his teeth inside his helmet, still wanting more than anything to pounce on that child-warrior of an Iridonian and put him back in his place. But there was work to be done.


“Clear out, all of you. Make sure we make it out of the system in one piece and with no tails. Captain, see to our destination.


“And Captain,” he added, causing her to stop just as she was starting to leave. “You did good today.”


“Thank you, Sir.” He could hear her smiling under her helmet.


As his team filed out, leaving Ink alone with the rescued Force-adepts and the Ithorian healer who had become the ship's medic, he turned to address the frightened and shell-shocked survivors. “I can't tell you my name. I can't show you my face. I can't tell you where I come from, or who I work for. I can't promise you that you'll be safe, that a year from now, or a month from now – hell, a day from now – the Cree'Ar won't find you and finish whatever the hell they started here. All I can promise you is that we'll never be more safe than you are, and we'll never stop fighting to make you safe again. Now we're taking you to a place where maybe, just maybe, you won't get murdered for what's in your blood.


“Refreshers and mess hall are through that door, bedding's stored in those crates. It'll be cramped for a day or two; there are more of you than we were expecting.


“That door and the ship beyond are off limits. You can try to get through if you want; you won't be successful.” Ink headed for the “off limits” door, but was quickly stopped by a question.


“Are we prisoners?”


He turned back to regard the middle-aged woman who had asked the question, a pair of young children huddled at her feet. “I'd love to say no, but yes. We can't let you go, and even if we could, we can't afford to alter course. Our destination is secret, so once you've arrived, your knowledge of the place could pose a security risk if we were to let you go. I'd like you to think of yourselves as being in protective custody, but I understand if that's not good enough for you. Just . . . try to remember who was shooting at you, and who we were shooting at. If that's not good enough, I don't think anything will be.”


“What about them?” The woman pointed at the two bodies that had been brought along, the captives who had been executed before Ink had taken action.


Ink faltered for a moment, looking to the door he wanted so badly to walk through, so wearied by the bloodshed and the loss, the failure to uphold his own ideals. “We'll move them to storage. When we arrive, I'm sure we can work out appropriate accommodations. If they were someone's -”


“He was my son,” the woman said, and Ink's eyes drifted immediately to the children at her feet.


“Oh, I'm . . . I'm sorry for your loss.” He darted for the door, desperate to escape.


“What's in our blood?” It was a new voice. It stopped Ink just short of the door, just short of freedom. He turned to face the speaker, caught the concerned glance from the Ithorian medic along the way. “What's in our blood that's worth murdering us over?” the young man, a Devaronian, asked again. He seemed genuinely at a loss.


“You're all Force sensitives. Judging by the . . . screening process they were putting you through, I'd say some of you are more sensitive than others. I just wish I knew which they were screening for.”