NationStates Jolt Archive

There is no emotion, only peace.

The mottled blues and violets of Hyperspace swirl around the flat disk of a ship. The ship is now very near its final destination, the last leg of a very long voyage.

Peace is a lie, there is only passion.

This ship is silent but for purely mechanical sounds. The hyperdrive hums in the background. Here there are ticks from power couplings, there are little hissing noises of the air scrubbers. Even the two droids, one tall and vaguely humanoid, the other squat and strictly utilitarian, lie quiescient in the starboard bunk.

There is no passion; there is serenity.

The only living occupant of this ship lies as still as the deactivated droids. Beneath thick layers of clothing and a black mask, it is impossible to tell the gender of this deathly still figure. It lies upon a bed in the little room that serves as the freighter's sickbay, awaiting an automated arousal from torpor. Yet the mind quests when the body is idle. The ship, the droids, even hyperspace have long since faded into the background, into the song that is existence. Each chord seeks its proper place, though the note sees neither the player nor the instrument. Each is guided by one masterful hand.

The Force shall free me.

When the end is tyranny and corruption, what does it matter what your intentions were, what your religion was?

Now, at last, the hyperdrive powers down. The swirling colors resolve into long lines which shrink into stars. A needle pierces the clothing of the figure to inject a stimulant.

This figure stirs, and sits up. To be forced back into the cramped quarters of the mind, after such rapturous melody... It stands, and goes to the cockpit to peer out at the void. There are few stars this far out, and most of those lights that seem to be stars are surely other galaxies, other civilizations, other religions. Those aren't why this ship is here. Those aren't why the fleet behind it drops out of hyperspace in military precision. The threat that lies out here, that is the reason. The threat, and the power.

The Force shall free me.

Creaking, rust covered, seemingly a junkyard item, and yet it is so much more. The personal bodyguard of his master, he serves with brutal efficiency, with no pity, without mercy, reveling in the deed. Blood red eyes coming to life, it lifts its head to gaze upon its master. Statement: Master. We have... arrived.

Hunger. Pain. Cunning.

Three aspects that led to power.

The acolytes learned, but he despaired inside of what was left of his body and soul. None of them were good enough. None of them questioned. No innovations.

It was frustrating. How long had he waited for one good enough? How long had he had to kill one promising apprentice after another that thought they could face him?

Too long...he could not remember them all now. And time's rate continued to increase for him. Soon he would be sucked into the singularity...but he was so close. So close to learning the ultimate teaching...

And still none of them had the right combination.

He sighed aboard the formidable platform of bristling weaponry that was the flagship of his particular splinter of the Empire, the fleet or two or three that he controlled, the handful of planets he watched over.

In a younger year he had held dominion over a vast portion, even the dominant portion, but now his mission obsessed him. His latest mutilatory practices were proving succesful, but dare he take the final step?

Not yet.

"My lord, a fleet enters the system.."

Outside contact? And an entire fleet? Hmm. He reached out through the pathways...And found something extraordinary indeed.

Power. Unbridled power. A breach in the Force through which it spilled through in a hurricane of true strength.

Girding himself with the unignited hilt of his single blade, the man, for he was simply human, turned to the apprentice clad in robes, kneeling in front of him, called by a simple thought.

"Yes, lord?"

The apprentice looked on his master, clad in dark gray robes, blade at his side. The man was ancient, and looked it. Hordes of wrinkles fought for control of his body, and a long, silver beard flowed down his front. His hands were long, wiry, and reeked of old age. His entire body sported wounds of greater and lesser degrees, some looking very fresh indeed.

"I simply wish to alert the Guard on the planets. See that it is done."

The apprentice left, followed by a man in uniform. "Yes, lord?"

"Activate a few wings and make sure the admirals are on alert. Do nothing unless commanded by me."

"Your will, lord."

What is this? Can I face it before I find the secret? It is almost beyond reckoning...perhaps it is the one I need...

Hmm. I will wait, for now.

Here at last, he had found them. He could sense them here, in this system. He didn't need HK's warning, or the softly beeping instruments on the console to know that they were here. "You have a surprising talent for stating the obvious, HK."

His thoughts extend to the crews of the ships around the Ebon Hawk. This was the fleet that had destroyed the Star Forge, the last unbroken Republic Fleet left in the wake of Malak's madness. With Bastila's help, he had seized the ships and the crews alike. The Jedi that had been with the Fleet had been disposed of, or sent away if they had the sense to leave him to his own ends.

Anger surges in his breast at the thought of Malak and the Jedi Civil War, and his hand clenches against the metal of the console, making it creak in protest. Never, never!, had he allowed the conquest of the Republic to take precedence over keeping it intact. It was worthless now, as broken as the Jedi Order, as ruined as the body of his former apprentice. This wasn't what he'd wanted. Damn Malak! Let him burn forever! Now there was no help coming from the subdued Republic. No reserves if the Sith Empire proved beyond his current resources. The Jedi had "won" against their errant pupil, had protected the Republic from the only person who had the foresight to arm it against the shadow and the threat. Part of him hated Bastila for her part in the whole debacle.

Still, he had sensed another, somewhere in the galaxy, like the dying strains of a distant echo. The other would, perhaps, accomplish what he had not. Someday a pheonix reborn to power would correct the oversights of the Jedi Code, and come searching for a fallen leader. Someday.

Revan shakes off the reverie as the sensors report more ships being deployed in the system. His voice is shakey at first, he had come closer than he liked to admit to slipping back into a trance, but it strengthens as he gives orders.

"Deploy the fighter wings to screen the capitol ships. Come about to," he glances at the sensors and the holographic map of the system displayed on the navicomputer, "heading two-fifteen by thirty-nine. Cone formation. Stay alert, this could get bloody fast."

One by one, the captains of his Fleet aknowledge his orders. He can feel the beat of some titanic clock with each voice, counting down to the violence to come. So many deaths. They already ripple in the Force, while the dead yet live.

Oh, so long ago, when he had been young and naive, he had led the Empire. Personally he had struck down his opponents, personally he had gathered the darkest, collected wisdom of the Sith Empire. His fleets were unstoppable, his armies equally so. All had paid him fealty, and traitors were killed with ease.

Now, he held only a small sliver. As his age had accelerated, his body had slowly begun to give way, and he had cared less and less about keeping material power as focusing his mind and effort into avoiding the one thing that claimed all of his kind.

His appearance was that of a barely held together corpse. Who knew how old he was? For most, he had simply always been. His hair and waist-length beard was silver and grizzled. His body held dozens and dozens of cuts, slices, scars, and missing chunks of flesh. And yet, despite both his age and his condition, he was in top physical shape. His black Sith robe hung loosely over the muscular frame even as fresh wounds from a source no one could guess bled from his tensed arms.

His mission and the ways to complete it consumed him, but now he was momentarily distracted by this new arrival. Could they have found out? While certainly neither the originator nor a significant backer of the covert destruction of the neighboring Republic (having moved on from such illusory graspings at power at the same time he lost his iron grip over the Empire).

The bowing servant delivered him the latest report on the fleets movements. The Sith Lord's lips curled, the Dark Side that was increasingly the glue holding him together pulsing through him like blood. He had never been beat, but what he felt disturbing his system was stronger than anything he had ever encountered.

The emperor, for that's who he had been and what title he now ceremoniously held on to despite being denigrated to a minor (yet unkillable) holder of a single system, began to hand out orders. It was ironic, really, that perhaps the Sith Lord that cared least about the destruction of the Republic would be the first one to meet Revan's fleet.

A transmission sped off to the intruding opponents, assembled by the former emperor's current head acolyte, a young man who, quietly, the Sith Lord knew was wrongly going down the road of thinking he had the power to challenge his master. Ah, they all did.


You are trespassing within the space of the sovereign Emperor of the Sith, unknown fleet. While our master wishes to convey his utmost desire to meet with the admiral in charge, it must be noted that neither he nor especially the admirals watching your every move are patient, kind, or caring men. You will, hopefully, not force your own destruction, as so many have against my master, and we can resolve this situation without the need of your utter and total vaporization.

Darth Sikar, Heir Apparent

The long, silver beard reviewed the message after it was sent. Hardly fitting of the reputation of the Sith, but I have no time for extended war.