Engines of Heaven: The Cathedral

Posted on Sat Apr 4th, 2026 @ 10:35am by Bomoor Thort & Thane

4,778 words; about a 24 minute read

Chapter: Chapter VIII: Broken Chains
Location: Before the Cathedral of the Firmament, Ord Yutani
Timeline: After "Valley of the Shadow of Death"

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This post takes place in 1,213 ABY, around four years before Thane and Bomoor encountered the Cult of Axion on Nar Shaddaa, during their earliest years as Jedi Knights.

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"In those days the Faithful shall seek release and not find it;
they shall long for rest, and rest shall flee from them.
For their service is not yet complete."

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They did not descend immediately, but remained where the land still broke itself into folds and scarred ridges, half-shadowed by the sinking light and the machine's impossible bulk. From here, the structure dominated not only the desert but the order imposed upon it. Nothing near it seemed accidental - even the people moved as if shaped by its gravity.

Thane crouched low, one hand braced against the sand, the other resting loosely at his knee. Sweat cooled rapidly now that they were no longer moving, leaving his skin tight and prickling beneath his robes. The ache in his legs pulsed dully, manageable for the moment.

Below them, the Nea Glarists sorted themselves without shouted command. The hierarchy was visible at a glance.

At the highest tier, guards in full armour moved with calm authority, as they had seen with the Yutani senator. Their plates were uniform - burnished gold edged in deep, devotional red - polished enough to catch the last of the daylight. Their helms were crested, their weapons slung rather than gripped. They did not hurry. Others moved around them instinctively, as if sensing rank without being told.

Beneath them were the irregulars.

Men and women clad in mismatched armour plates and reinforced cloth, pieces clearly salvaged or repurposed. Their colours were muted, their sigils hand-painted or crudely etched. They carried weapons, but not blasters - glaives, shock-mauls, chainblades. Tools that required proximity and commitment. Thane watched one adjust the grip on a heavy polearm with the unconscious familiarity of someone used to enforcing obedience face to face.

Below even them were the unarmed. These ones moved crates, guided pilgrims, hauled lengths of cable or fabric toward the intake ramps. Many were non-Human and some Near-Human. All bore the same posture: eyes lowered, movements efficient, silent. No insignia marked them openly, but they saw it when one stumbled.

As the figure reached to steady themselves, the sleeve rode up just enough to reveal a dark brand on the underside of the forearm, deliberately placed where it could be hidden. A mark, perhaps, that allowed dignity to be granted or withdrawn at another’s discretion. Property that could pass as servant, if the owner wished.

Thane felt something tighten behind his ribs and he glanced sidelong to Bomoor, before looking back to the labourer. His gaze lingered on the branded figure as they were helped upright, not gently nor cruelly, but efficiently - as one might adjust a tool that had slipped.

To save the people of Ord Yutani from themselves.

The phrase returned Unbidden to the Jedi Guardian's mind, and with it a faint, unwelcome unease.

He understood what Bomoor had meant, yet something in the phrasing troubled him - not because it was arrogant, but because it was tempting. The idea that certainty justified intervention; that conviction, once shared by enough voices, could absolve almost anything.

He pushed the thought aside and refocused.

Pilgrims continued to arrive in steady waves, shepherded inward by the mid-ranking guards. There was no resistance or coercion here, a contrast to Marathon. People went willingly, even eagerly. Some knelt briefly at the threshold of the intake ramps, pressing foreheads to the metal deck before rising and moving on. No one looked back.

Thane studied the flow, the pauses, the subtle redirections. "They’re not screening for threats," he said quietly. "They’re screening if they fit."

"Well, we found out earlier that I don't really fit their mould," Bomoor grunted, feeling his still-split lip from the Glarist beating.

A tremor rolled through the ground then - deeper yet than before, resonant enough that the metal struts along the structure’s lower flank gave a low, answering groan. Conversations paused and heads turned, not in alarm, but in reverence.

Thane exhaled slowly, committing the strata to memory as best as possible - armour, weaponry, marks, posture. If they were going to enter this place, it could not be by force, given the numbers.

"I think we may need to play dress-up," he surmised out loud. Despite the comical term he used, there was no humour on his tone. The implication of what their roles might need to be was heavy on him.

With clear confusion, Bomoor turned to his friend, "I don't see how I'm going to..."

Then his eyes dropped down an inch with heavy realisation, before adjusting his response, "I suppose I do have one place in their society: as a slave. Not my favourite role but..."

He looked back down, now spotting the scrawny, tattered companions that a small handful of the faithful had following them. Non-Human species were carrying bags or towing small repulsor carts towards the vessel. Seemingly so accepting of their assigned fate in a Galaxy that should have rejected this way of living aeons ago.

"I can probably pull it off," he continued, "Particularly looking as ragged as I do now."

Thane looked aside as Bomoor prepared himself, studying the figures moving below with renewed attention. Non-Human and Near-Human labourers moved constantly through the outer works, hauling crates, guiding carts, carrying lengths of cabling or folded fabric toward the intake ramps. They were not guarded closely. They did not need to be.

Many bore the same concealed brand Thane had already noted, placed beneath the forearm where it could be hidden by a sleeve. What unsettled him most was not the branding itself, but the ease with which some wore it. Heads bowed and movements practiced, making him wonder at how long and how deeply this insidious religious order had been operating on Ord Yutani. A few even mirrored the devotional gestures of the pilgrims they accompanied, pausing briefly to touch metal or murmur prayer before returning to their tasks.

They had not merely been forced into the system - some had chosen it.

The vessel - seemingly co-opted as a type of cathedral or religious warship - dwarfed everything around it. Even from this distance, its scale was difficult to reconcile. Entire cargo trams vanished into its lower apertures without slowing. Structural ribs thicker than starship hulls intersected at brutal angles, old metal overlaid with newer construction that bit into it like enforced obedience. Banners the size of city blocks hung across its sides, concealing seams and access ports beneath scripture and symbol.

Thane watched the guards again, noting the distinctions with sharper clarity now. The most senior among them wore full gold and red armour, uniform and immaculate, their authority unquestioned. Beneath them, the lower ranks were more crudely equipped, armour cobbled together from salvaged plates and reinforced cloth. They carried melee weapons rather than blasters, tools that required proximity and intent.

And beneath even them were those who carried nothing at all.

Thane swallowed silently and Bomoor’s words returned to him again, unbidden, about saving Ord Yutani from itself.

Thane did not reject the idea. He understood it too well for that. Yet, it unsettled him all the same - not because it was cruel, but because it was persuasive. Because it framed certainty as virtue, and intervention as duty. Because it was easy to imagine how someone might come to believe that control was kindness, if it was imposed for the right reasons. It reminded him of many of the more unsettling lessons that had been led in their years at the Temple, including those led by Grand Master Quellus himself.

He looked at Bomoor again, taking in his battered state, the dust-caked robes, the visible fatigue. The role he would have to play would not be questioned. Not here. Not in a place where hierarchy was not merely accepted, but sanctified.

"This is just a way in," Thane said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. "Nothing more."

He watched another group pass beneath them, servants moving ahead of their assigned faithful without complaint, without hesitation.

The ground thrummed again, deeper than before. A low mechanical resonance rolled through the sand and up into Thane’s bones, a reminder that whatever this place had once been, it was waking now with purpose.

"Ready?"

Bomoor drew in a steadying breath and nodded once, the motion small but firm.

"I’m ready."

They slipped down the ridge together, keeping low where the rock still offered cover, then moving quickly across the open sand. The hum of the great vessel deepened as they approached, vibrating through their boots and through their bones. No one looked up. No one questioned their arrival. The flow of bodies was constant enough that two more shapes folding into it drew no attention.

A transport had just offloaded another cluster of pilgrims and attendants. Mostly Humans with sunburnt skin, travel-worn clothes but eyes bright with intensity as they looked towards their destination. But among them shuffled a pair of beaten-looking aliens: a wiry Weequay whose tough, corded skin had dried and cracked from long exposure and a broad-shouldered Aqualish whose lower tusk had been cracked clean through. Both bore the same hidden brand beneath their sleeves, both moved with the same resigned precision as the others.

Bomoor fell naturally into step behind Thane with his shoulders drooped and gaze lowered, with the posture of someone accustomed to being overlooked. But once they were swallowed by the noise of the crowd, he leaned in just enough for only Thane to hear.

"This place…" he muttered, voice thick with restrained revulsion, "It turns my stomach. All of it."

His eyes flicked to the branded workers ahead of them, then to the guards watching from their elevated platforms.

"And I know it’s not very Jedi of me," he added under his breath, "But part of me hopes I get to rough up a few of these slavemasters before we’re done here."

He allowed his words to hang, before huffing in a humourless breath.

"In a very Jedi non-lethal kind of way, of course."

"Oh, of course," Thane confirmed with a muted but sarcastic nod, although the wry humour almost seemed out of place. "Wouldn't dream of any other kind."

Bomoor straightened again as the group was shepherded toward the next checkpoint, slipping seamlessly back into the role he had to play: a silent, compliant shadow in a hierarchy that demanded it.

The interior swallowed them whole. Heat gave way to tempered air that smelled of oil, hot metal and incense burned too long. The light shifted from desert glare to stratified illumination: narrow beams falling from vaulted recesses above, cutting through drifting vapour and welding sparks. The sound changed as well. Outside had been wind and engines, but inside was resonance.

The hum was constant, however. It vibrated through the deck plating beneath Thane’s boots and up into his spine, a deep mechanical cadence that felt less like motion and more like anticipation. Pilgrims continued forward along broad central avenues, while labourers and attendants were directed to peripheral corridors branching downward.

They moved with the current, not resisting it, not hurrying - and the scale revealed itself in layers. The corridor they entered could have accommodated a gunship without difficulty. Structural ribs thicker than cruiser hull plating intersected overhead, disappearing into shadow. Suspended from those ribs hung enormous banners of scripture and symbol, but between them Thane glimpsed something older.

Faced insignia, half-obscured by devotional fabric. There were circular crests, familiar to even the most amateurish historian. Ancient sigils not yet fully ground away of the Old Empire.

Some had been hammered flat and others scorched, but a few remained intact, stark and unmistakable beneath new iconography. The past had not been wholly erased here, but appropriated. The realisation was telling and explained much in short order.

Along one wall, towering displays projected rotating schematics of the vessel’s interior systems. Automated pathways glowed in disciplined lines. Resource readouts scrolled in columns of data: atmospheric composition, mineral density beneath the crust, water table depth, biomass distribution. Planetary scans cycled slowly, annotated with 'extraction potential' and 'conversion efficiency' .

The machine was not simply housing belief - it was calculating.

Workers passed before those displays without hesitation. A pair of labourers tightened bolts along a reinforcement strut, murmuring scripture in low unison as they worked. Nearby, a robed technician adjusted a console with one hand while the other traced a small devotional sigil against the metal casing. Prayer and production were almost indistinguishable.

Thane’s gaze drifted upward to a recessed gantry where more senior Glarists stood observing the flow below. Their armour gleamed beneath directed light, gold and red polished to ceremonial perfection. One inclined his head as a shipment manifest scrolled past on a suspended display.

"Droid foundries are sealed," a voice carried faintly from above, matter of fact. "All lines redirected. Starship assembly and war machine fabrication only. No further civilian replication. The Holy hands will suffice."

A ripple of approval followed the statement, not loud, but unanimous.

Thane felt his jaw tighten.

Repurposed.

He had not yet seen the heart of the vessel, but its intent was becoming clearer with each step.

The corridor widened again, opening into a vast internal chamber where cargo trams moved along elevated tracks and cranes repositioned entire structural segments with slow, deliberate grace. The air vibrated more intensely here, as though they were nearing something central.

A cluster of pilgrims knelt along the edge of the chamber, faces lifted toward a colossal bulkhead that curved upward and out of sight. Upon its surface, scripture had been etched in towering characters, illuminated from beneath. At the centre of that scripture, framed in light, stood a single name.

Contispex.

The murmured prayers shifted in tone as it was spoken.

Thane kept his head lowered as they passed, eyes moving only when shadow allowed. The dark presence he had sensed in the desert felt nearer now, not diffuse but directional. It pulled not from deeper within.

Ahead, the flow began to divide again. Pilgrims were directed toward ascending platforms that spiralled upward along the inner hull. Labourers were guided downward through narrower passageways marked with coded numerals and material classifications.

He slowed slightly, scanning for an opportunity. A maintenance conduit ran along the chamber’s far edge, partially screened by stacked supply containers. Two workers peeled off toward it, pushing a cart laden with power couplings. No guard followed them.

The hum intensified suddenly, deepening into a resonant surge that caused several figures to bow instinctively.

"The First and Final Flight approaches," someone near the kneeling group whispered with reverence. "The Cathedral of the Firmament rises soon."

Thane did not look toward the speaker.

First and Last Flight, he repeated in his mind.

The words settled heavily and he angled his path gradually toward the supply containers, adjusting his pace so that it appeared incidental. The press of bodies masked the movement, devotion serving as its own distraction.

Bomoor shifted himself just faintly closer to Thane as they shuffled along, eyes uneasily shifting to ensure he was not caught speaking.

"If this vessel launches, I get the feeling the fleet will be in trouble," his voice was as low but audible as was possible from his multiple lungs, "And if it escapes this system, they are compiling the resources to seed themselves across multiple systems. I sense we may be here at a key moment: perhaps even a shatterpoint in time."

They reached a doorway, where their group was being directed. Another Glarist soldier came marching purposefully out of the room and Bomoor slid away as the man's gaze fell upon him with an upturned lip of disgust. It lasted a moment, but it was enough to stick in Thane's mind. With a snap, the man's head turned to the Humans of the group, giving a nod and ushering them inside. The room was a small barracks, with a series of beds lining the walls. It was militaristic, functional and, much like the rest of the vessel, appeared to have been recently assembled for their arrival.

Thane and Bomoor quickly secreted themselves away to the corner, with Bomoor standing to attention while Thane sat down on one of the stiff beds. Bomoor nudged his eyestalk around to see if anyone was watching them: aside from the guard vaguely watching the whole room, it seemed little attention was directly on them.

"So, where do we go from here, Master?" Bomoor tried to jest, but Thane sensed he was growing increasingly troubled as they trapped themselves in the heart of this machine, "Do we face the vessel or the one we sense controlling it?"

Thane's attention had drifted upward, rather than answering, drawn by something above the row of bunks lining the wall behind Bomoor. At first he thought it was another devotional banner, another piece of scripture meant to sanctify the utilitarian space, but these were different.

Sheets of thick industrial fabric had been tacked to the bulkhead, their edges already curling slightly in the dry, recycled air. Unlike the scriptures etched along the Cathedral’s exterior, these were written plainly in antiquated High Galactic, which Thane had learnt in his noble youth on Caanus. The lettering was stark and deliberate, the message meant to be read quickly and without translation, and probably to indicate a degree of historical importance through the language choice.

The images beneath the words were harsher still. There were exaggerated depictions of familiar species filled the posters. Twi’leks with bulbous eyes and slavering mouths, Rodians drawn hunched and verminous, Duros rendered with warped proportions that turned their long skulls into something grotesque - even Ithorians appeared there, their silhouettes twisted into something almost insectoid.

Above them, stood Humans, tall, noble and clean.

The artists had carved their features into impossibly symmetrical forms. They had strong jaws and calm eyes. They wore armour polished to a divine sheen. One Human figure even placed a boot upon the back of a cowering Snivvian while another raised a radiant symbol of the Goddess above the scene like a sunrise.

The script beneath it read simply:

HUMANS SHALL STEWARD THE GALAXY

Another poster showed a column of Humans marching beneath the same symbol while indiscriminate fictional alien figures knelt along the roadside.

PURITY IS ORDER

Thane’s fingers had curled slowly into the bedding beside him without him noticing. The stiff fabric creaked faintly beneath the pressure and he stared at the images longer than he intended, especially the warped image of the Ithorian. Something about them unsettled him deeply. It was not simply the cruelty of the message, though that was plain enough, but the certainty of it. The way the lines and colours suggested inevitability rather than argument. The suggestion that the galaxy would simply function better if arranged along these lines.

More dangerous thoughts.

His gaze lingered on the stylised Human figures a moment longer before he forced himself to look away. Bomoor’s quiet question was still hanging in the air and Thane blinked once, as if returning from somewhere further away, then looked back toward his friend. His voice, when it came, was dry from the desert and the recycled air alike.

"They’re probably the same problem," Thane said as he leaned forward on the bunk, elbows resting on his knees as the deep hum of the vessel pulsed through the deck beneath them. "The machine and the one controlling it," he clarified quietly. "This thing isn’t acting on its own. Someone is directing it, feeding that presence we felt outside." He glanced briefly toward the door where the guard still lingered, then lowered his voice further. "If we find the one at the centre of it… we might be able to break what's holding it all up. Kill the dark master and we may stop this cathedral before it joins the fight." A small thrum drew his eyes up again. "We don't have long. We need to find the control centre, or throne room... Or whatever grand chamber this bastard is hiding in."

Bomoor's eyes flicked up at the images as he saw Thane's gaze holding on them. His dark pupils held on them for a moment, not betraying whether he felt anger, concern or sadness at the sight of his race, amongst so many others, being depicted as lesser, bestial organisms.

"Then let's excuse ourselves without delay," he agreed, adding, "The master and slave routine seems to play into their expectations but, if it stops being effective, I won't complain this time if we dip into the aggressive negotiation handbook again. It all worked out on Aloxor after all."

With a nod, Bomoor then looked towards the doorway, noticing a new uniformed Glarist had appeared and was murmuring to the men posted at the door.

"We just need a suitable opportunity to slip away," he pondered as the newcomer finished his brief interaction and stepped fully into the room. His boots clicked once against the metal threshold as he entered, the sound sharp enough to cut through the low murmur of the barracks. His gaze swept the room with the bored scrutiny of someone looking for an excuse to exert authority. When his eyes passed over Bomoor, they lingered a fraction too long; a curl of distaste forming at the corner of his mouth.

“All personnel," he boomed at the room, "Stand at the ready for inspection.”

The room shifted instantly. Labourers straightened. Pilgrims stiffened. Even one of the guards adjusted his stance, chin lifting in reflexive obedience.

The Ithorian Jedi lowered his gaze and adopted the slouched, submissive posture expected of him, but his eyestalk angled just enough to track the newcomer’s path as he began to stride along the row of bunks, inspecting and questioning the other parties.

Bomoor leaned the smallest fraction toward Thane, voice barely a breath. “This one could be our ticket out of here… if perhaps he could be 'convinced' to take us away for questioning.”

"We don’t have long," Thane agreed. "Control centre, command deck, throne room. Whatever they call it, it will be at the core." He followed his glance toward the doorway, noting the new arrival immediately.

The man carried himself differently. Not a higher rank, it seemed - but he was eager. The kind of man who enforced order because he needed to prove he could.

Thane watched him sweep the room, watched the pause linger just a fraction too long on Bomoor. Not suspicion, but more disdain.

Useful, Thane thought, even if the thought was uncomfortable.

"All personnel," the man called, voice cutting cleanly through the barracks. "Stand at the ready for inspection."

The response was immediate. Bodies straightened and heads lifted. The room snapped into rigid order with unsettling efficiency. Even those who had been moments from rest complied without hesitation.

Thane rose smoothly from the bunk, posture shifting just enough to suggest authority without drawing attention. His movements were deliberate and controlled. Beside him, Bomoor folded into the expected shape of subservience, gaze lowered, presence diminished without disappearing, playing the part begrudgingly well.

The officer began his inspection and Thane tracked his progress without moving his head, measuring distance, timing, the rhythm of his steps. The man questioned one of the labourers, dismissed another with a curt gesture, paused to adjust the position of a crate by a few centimetres as though the act itself justified his authority. Thane gave more thought to Bomoor's suggestion; a man like that would move between sections. He would have clearance, or enough of it to open doors others could not.

As he thought on how he would antagonise the situation, a faint fanfare cut through the air before Thane could speak. Tinny speakers embedded along the bulkhead crackled to life, the sound sharp enough to draw every head upward. The tone was triumphant, martial, reverent in equal measure - not unlike the odd tunes that had been forcibly played whilst they were flying in the Jedi Starhoppers.

A voice followed, measured and proud.

"The brave and pure souls of the Pious Intent have fulfilled their sacred duty. In righteous sacrifice, they have cast down the heretical Star Defender that dared oppose the will of the Glare!" A murmur rippled through the room, even from the Non-Humans, alarmingly. "Eight hundred devout now stand eternal beneath Her Terrible Glare. Their offering is accepted, their purpose fulfilled. The path is made clear."

Thane felt something cold settle in his gut. The Great Manifest.

"The desecrated hull and broken bones of the enemy shall be reclaimed," the voice continued. "Its substance sanctified - its strength made part of the holy armada. Thus is the Cathedral of the Firmament made ready." The hum surged in sync with the words, stronger now. It was not background noise nor passive - it was truly active. "The First and Final Flight approaches!"

The transmission cut and the deck lurched.

The entire structure groaned as something vast disengaged beneath them. The floor shifted violently, throwing several of the crew off-balance, one figure even splitting his forehead on the bulkhead. One of the bunks tore slightly from its anchor point with a metallic scream, sliding into another crewmember and crushing his hand against another bunk, provoking a scream of pain. Overhead, the lights flickered as power rerouted through unseen systems.

This great hulking beast of a ship was finally rising.

Thane and Bomoor's hands had shot out instinctively courtesy of their connection to the Force, bracing themselves against the bunk frame as the vibration surged through them, and they could feel it now, unmistakably. Engines, ancient and immense, were awakening and lifting the giant vessel upwards from the sands.

His thoughts snapped immediately to Master Dunrar and to the others, to the Star Defender now adrift, crippled but not destroyed.

No time, he tried to urge himself to focus, but a terrible sinking feeling was gripping his stomach. It was not something he had experienced many times, but it was enough to draw his mind back to his youth, to that awful sense of helplessness and loss that could grip tiny minds and small bodies.

He turned sharply toward Bomoor, working to excise the hesitation.

"Aggressive negotiations?" he asked, voice low but edged now with urgency. He revealed the very tip of lightsaber's emitter to the Ithorian, his thumb resting against the activator.

Bomoor shifted slightly, lowering his voice so only Thane could hear.

"One moment, my friend," he raised his palm subtely, "Allow me to try one last thing."

He stepped forward just as the inspecting Glarist turned toward them again, the man’s lip already curling at the sight of the Ithorian approaching him. Bomoor bowed his head, adopting the posture expected of him, but when he spoke, his tone carried a subtle resonance beneath the words.

"Excuse me," he murmured, in his usual pronounced stereophonic Basic, "I am a dangerous heathen and must be taken directly to your leader for interrogation."

For a heartbeat, the guard’s expression flickered between confusion, irritation and then the glassy slackness of a mind beginning to bend.

But then the deck lurched.

The ship bucked violently as another set of ancient engines roared to life. The Glarist’s footing vanished. His eyes widened, the spell breaking an instant before he was flung upward like a ragdoll. His skull struck the ceiling with a sickening crack before his dropped back to the floor as the ship's stabilisers caught up.

Bomoor, braced against a bunk frame, stared down at the corpse with both eyestalks angled in dismay.

“I... didn't mean for that,” he muttered.

Around them, the room erupted along with the vibration of the ship's engines below: shouts, weapons drawn, boots scraping as guards recovered their balance and rounded on the Ithorian.

Bomoor swung his head back towards Thane, his lowly pretence dropped.

"Well," he said, straightening to his full height, "It was worth a shot."

His hand dipped into his robes, fingers curling around the familiar hilt.

"Aggressive negotiations it is."

TBC

 

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