Embers of Consciousness

Posted on Sun Oct 5th, 2025 @ 5:08pm by Bomoor Thort & Thane & G2-O7

2,980 words; about a 15 minute read

Chapter: Chapter VII: Uprooted
Location: Armoury, The Red Raptor
Timeline: After Irrikut

The hum of the hyperdrive was distant here at the front of the ship, muffled beneath layers of bulkhead. Bomoor crouched over the workbench that had so often been used by their Mandalorian ally, Sev Rezer. Until recently, it was a room the Ithorian had rarely entered; but as he increasingly sought solitude of late, he had wandered in and stumbled across the remains of the ancient fabricant droid they had recovered from Korriban.

Since then, he had spent several long sessions in the armoury, poring over the pieces and attempting to work out where each one should go, and which parts were either missing or beyond recovery. He was rarely disturbed, aside from occasional visits from G2-O7 when he required a parts analysis. Bomoor had studied some engineering and computing as part of his Jedi training; but he had never imagined the life of a slicing sentinel as his career path. Yet now, he threw himself into it once more, seeking a puzzle grounded in the material world to occupy his mind.

With one hand steadying the dormant chassis of the half-gutted, rusted droid, the other plunged deep into its cranium, trying to find purchase on the memory unit and pry it free. With a low bellow of exertion, he wrenched it loose; his arm shot back and struck the droid’s arm, sending the limb clattering loudly to the metal floor.

"Oh, great," he moaned, leaning down to retrieve the part. He gave it a brief glance before setting it carefully back on the bench and turning his attention to his prize still clutched in his other hand. He pulled the workshop light closer to examine the unit in detail.

It was unlike any standard memory chip; more like a crystalline core, its intricate lattices and embedded nodes glimmering faintly under the light. This was ancient technology: it resembled the kind of data crystal one might find within a holocron rather than a conventional droid’s memory bank. Perhaps such sophistication had been necessary to support the near-sentient nature of a fabricant’s personality matrix.

Whether the data had survived these thousands of years since the age of the original Sith race, however, was another matter entirely.

Still keeping his gaze fixed on the strange crystal, he shuffled over to a small panel near the door and tapped a button linked to the ship’s droid. Within moments, the door slid open to reveal the spherical chassis of G2. The little astromech tilted its legs backwards, gliding smoothly into the room before sidling up alongside Bomoor.

It gave a short whoop and two soft beeps that Bomoor understood well enough as a greeting.

"G2, can you run a micro-resonance scan on this memory unit?" he asked, lowering the crystalline object to the droid’s level. "I don’t know whether we’ll find a modern equivalent to whatever this is; but if you can locate any matches, that would be a start."

G2-O7 whirred softly as it activated its secondary senor lens and cast a gentle beam of red-hued light over the object. The Ithorian watched patiently, staying still for the scan but with his mind half-lost in thought. He thought back to their time on Korriban when these parts had been unearthed: the twisted Terentatek creature, the mind prison and their narrow escape after their battle against Axion's cultists. Finding this droid had been a mere footnote but their experience of the ancient fabricant army within the Rakata mindscape had made it seem important that they bring these remains with them.

He was drawn back as G2 emitted a brief crackle. Then, without warning, the droid stiffened and fell silent.

“G2?” Bomoor leaned forward, watching the little droid’s dome twitch with an almost organic motion, “What are you doing?”

A high-pitched trill escaped the droid; not part of its standard diagnostic sequence. Lines of Aurebesh scrolled rapidly across the nearby terminal, strings of long-forgotten cipher unlocking in an instant. A faint burst of static followed, and then, a voice:

“Ah. Well… that’s unexpected.”

The voice that came through the ship’s comm was distorted at first: soft, strained, but familiar.

“Hah… if anyone’s hearing this, it means you’ve poked around where you probably shouldn’t have. Name’s Kip. Well, a construct of me, anyway. Some sort of fragment. A memory of a memory, tucked away deep in G2’s systems, underneath the surface data that mind wipes can't reach.”

There was a pause, a faint hiss of static, as though the speaker were… considering. Then, the warmth returned, faint but unmistakable.

“Bomoor… is that you? I'm just getting acquainted with the Raptor's sensors but I think that's you. Glad you're still around to find this. But, in tripping the failsafe I implanted, that means that you've come across some data that is of interest to the Flamewalkers. What did you just ask G2 to scan?”

Bomoor was taken aback, suddenly talking with the disembodied voice of the mysterious man who had assisted them at the start of their journey into hunting down the cult. But then again, from what little he knew of the Devaronian, it seemed just like him to pop back up in such a strange way.

"Kip... you put some code into G2 without telling us?" he replied, looking between the intercom where the voice was emitting and towards the droid that now sat jittering as though it was nervous at being part of the scheme unwittingly, "What else did you leave behind on the ship?"

“Heh… don’t sound so surprised. the artificial voice replied, "I only ever leave breadcrumbs where they might matter. G2 was just the safest vault I could find at the time. As for what else I left behind… nothing dangerous, I promise. But if that crystal you’re scanning is what I think it is, Bomoor… then you’ve just stirred something very old. Something the Flamewalkers once swore to keep buried.”

"It is from an ancient droid from the original Sith people," the Ithorian explained, "It would have once been a prototype for a special type of machine called a fabricant. A twisted creation that was meant to re-animate the bodies of the dead to continue to fight in wars long gone. I do not believe this particular unit was ever meant to be a true fabricant, but it is built on that same architecture. The crystal I scanned was some part of its memory core."

"Fabricants, huh… that’s not what I expected to hear," the voice echoed, "Still… maybe it explains a few things."

The door to the armoury slid open without urgency, admitting Thane. His presence was quieter than it had once been, though no less notable. In his hands, he carried a narrow tray of brushed durasteel, upon which two low glasses shimmered faintly. Violet vosh fizzed gently over tonic, their scent mixing with the cold metallic tang of the workshop.

The Caanan looked different than he had in recent months — the lines of his jaw now half-concealed by a roughly and recently grown beard, dark against his pale skin. It was a rare indulgence, a change that made his aristocratic features appear more weathered, more severe. He was even wearing a full and heavy grey cloak, despite being within the confines of the ship, lending a more traditional, if dark, Jedi or Sith appearance.

He paused just past the threshold, hearing Bomoor’s voice — and then another. A strange one. Familiar, yet filtered — digital. Thane’s brow furrowed, not with confusion, but wariness. By the time he set the tray down on the table beside Bomoor, the voice had already said its piece.

"You have company, it seems," he said evenly, sliding one glass toward the Ithorian. "And I was beginning to think we were the only ghosts left aboard this ship."

He took up his own glass, hand reaching out from within his heavy sleeve, but did not yet drink, turning his golden eyes toward the softly glowing crystal on the bench. They shimmered faintly in the low light — both altered by the Force and the choices he had made. His gaze then shifted to G2, who remained stiff and strangely subdued.

"That was Kip, was it not?" he asked, not needing confirmation. His voice was calm, but undercut by a note of tension — not fear, precisely, but the discomfort of something unexpected brushing too close to memory.

"I did not hear the start. Only the tail end as I came down the corridor," he added, before letting his eyes rest on the terminal once more. "Still, I would know that voice anywhere. Always turning up in ways that made you wonder whether he had been watching all along." There was a pause as he finally lifted the glass and sipped. "I brought this for the sake of old rituals," he said, glancing sidelong at Bomoor. "Seems even more appropriate now, given the company."

He then gave a faint shake of the head, staring down the data crystal. "But what in the void would a Flamewalker want with a fabricant?"

G2's sensor zipped to the newcomer and the familiar voice answered.

"Thane… heh, you always did have a knack for showing up when the questions start getting uncomfortable."

There was the suggestion of a smile in his tone — distant, reflective.

"What would I want with a fabricant? Same thing anyone like me ever wants, I suppose — knowledge buried too deep for anyone sane to dig for. That crystal you found utilises a kind of science almost lost to time,” Kip said after a pause, his voice steady but with an undertone of unease. “An ancient technology that blurs the line between organic and mechanical life; the kind my people swore to keep out of the wrong hands. Curious that you mentioned the Sith; their kind were never meant to wield such power. But their slavers in the Eternal Empire — they held this knowledge at the height of their dominion.”

A faint crackle followed, as if the transmission flickered with the weight of memory.

“Tell me,” he continued, “have you ever heard of a Mind Prison?”

The device's name fell heavy upon the ears of the two men who had almost lost their minds in such a contraption.

"Indeed," Bomoor answered, "It was our thankfully temporary imprisonment in such a device that we learned about the Fabricants. I still sometimes remember that strange other life I led inside that box."

The Ithorian seemed to drift off momentarily before snapping back, "But, you are right: it was not the Sith but their attackers that built the machines. But what does it mean to the Flamewalkers all these years later?"

“That crystal you found… it’s clever, but primitive. A memory lattice — a data vessel built to hold more than machines were ever meant to. It borrows from principles once used in the shaping of Kaiburr, but without any of the Force resonance. Whoever made it sought to imitate life and mind, not channel the Force itself.

The Cult of Axion has taken an interest in such designs; not yet their main focus, but as a contingency. Their master still hunts for the true Kaiburr shards, but they’ve begun to wonder if power can be made instead of found. On Bespin, they’ve commandeered a derelict research station once used for experimental crystal synthesis. Still crude, but enough to peak my people's interest.

If they succeed… they won’t need to find the real thing. They’ll forge their own connection — an echo of the Kaiburr’s gift, bound not by faith or destiny, but by design. As ever, I had planned to stop them but...”

Kip's disembodied voice trailed off.

"I presume," Bomoor picked up, "You don't know whether the flesh and blood Kip ever got around to it."

A simple affirmative rang out, "Bingo."

Thane’s brow furrowed. He stepped closer to the console, eyeing the crystalline core as though it might shift under his scrutiny.

“So this intelligence is at least a year old,” he said, more to himself than to the others. “Even then, they were dabbling with synthetic resonance... forging mimicries of the Kaiburr.” He exhaled slowly through his nose. “That the Cult of Axion even has minds capable of attempting such a thing is alarming. It implies a scale and reach far beyond what Mentis suggested — enough influence to commandeer laboratories, maintain research, and draw in those with enough insight to walk the edge between alchemy and engineering.”

He looked to the console, as if expecting Kip to reappear in the static. “And I presume the Flamewalkers will be as helpful as ever,” he added coolly. “Watching from the shadows, uncertain whether to light a torch or let the dark spread.”

His gaze flicked back to Bomoor, sharper now.

“We cannot allow them to succeed — even if their science only scratches the surface. If Axion no longer needs to hunt the true kaiburr… if he can simply make his own?” He shook his head once. “Then he becomes a threat of an entirely different kind.”

Bomoor peered at the crystal, his dark organic eyes trying to spy the impossibly small lattices within the structure and imagined his mind once again being lost amongst them.

"Unquestionably," he replied solemnly, "Whether or not their venture ultimately succeeds, the power of such a technology should not be worked on by such perverse hands as those of the cult."

He closed his hands around the crystal, making a stern fist, "We will finish what Kip started."

“Then it seems the old fires still burn.” came the reply from Kip's data ghost.

A low pulse of static followed; not interference, but something like a quiet breath caught between circuits. “You’ll have the Flamewalkers’ eyes on you and, for what it’s worth, our faith. However far I’ve drifted, I’m certain the real me would count you both as friends still.”

There was a faint mechanical whir through the comm, and the terminal beside G2 lit up with new lines of Aurebesh. “I’ve compiled what I had on the Bespin facility — the coordinates, entry points, research profiles. G2 will have access to it once this channel closes.”

The voice softened again, almost wistful. “And if you do cross paths with him… tell him F6T’s still waiting for that recalibration he promised. He’ll understand.”

Another brief hum; the crystalline glow dimmed. “May your path burn bright, my friends. Don’t let the dark make you forget the warmth.”

The sound collapsed into static, the light fading until only the hum of the Raptor’s systems remained.

Thane stood silently for a time, staring at the darkened crystal. The hum of the ship returned, quiet and constant — like the breath of something vast and half-asleep. The echo of Kip’s final words still lingered in the space around them, disembodied and already fading, yet refusing to fully leave. The Caanan did not speak. He simply regarded the dead crystal with a narrow-eyed intensity that, for once, held no disdain.

He could not say with certainty whether Kip Hoddai had lived or died — whether that strange, smirking pilgrim had been consumed by the same darkness they now pursued, or had merely stepped away, as Flamewalkers seemed so often to apparently do, into mystery. But he felt the weight of finality all the same. It was not grief, not truly. Not like what he had known on Jericho or Caanus. But it was something adjacent — a kind of quiet sorrow at a door left slightly ajar, through which no reply would ever come. Like the closing lines of a half-read poem drifting from memory.

He had never fully understood Kip. None of them had. The man had spoken in riddles, half-truths, and allusions — a flicker of ancient fire in modern flesh, dancing always just ahead of the light. The Flamewalkers, whoever and whatever they truly were, seemed content to walk parallel to the great currents of the galaxy without ever stepping fully into them. Watching. Waiting. Judging. Even now, Thane could not say whether Kip’s lingering gift was an act of friendship, of faith, or simply convenience. But it did not matter. The gesture had been made, and that was enough.

He raised his glass again in a quiet toast, though this time he did not speak. Not to Bomoor, not to G2, not to the ship. Just to the space itself — the breathless void between stars, where men like Kip seemed to belong. He drank, slowly, and lowered the glass. “Old fires,” he said at last, echoing the Devaronian’s final sentiment. The words felt heavy on his tongue, but true.

Then, his posture shifted. The moment passed. Thane turned away from the bench and the crystal, his cloak stirring faintly behind him as he moved. There was a clarity in his eyes now, sharp as a blade drawn free. Whatever had passed between them and Kip, whatever ghosts lingered aboard the Red Raptor, there was no time for sentiment to calcify. Their enemies worked still — twisted minds forging false miracles in the dark. If the Cult no longer needed to find kaiburr shards, but could instead make one, even in a frail or pale imitation, then they were closer to true apotheosis than ever before. And that, above all else, could not be allowed.

“We have work to do,” he said again, more firmly now. Not to mourn. Not to reflect - but to act.

END OF CHAPTER

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