Precipice of Darkness

Posted on Thu Mar 29th, 2018 @ 7:01pm by Sotah & Thane & Jundal Quellus & Bomoor Thort & Thurius

3,573 words; about a 18 minute read

Chapter: Chapter IV: Rezer's Edge
Location: Red Raptor, Taanab Orbital Station
Timeline: A few days after "Revelations and Renewal"

With a sharp hiss, the entry ramp secured itself behind Bomoor and he found himself once again in the small but efficient cockpit of the Red Raptor. Aside from some slight creaking of the hull and a dull whirring somewhere deeper in the ship, he could hear no movement, but he sensed that Thane was already present where Bomoor had left him to nurse his recently-augmented hand. He gave a quick glance into the pilot's cabin, seeing a few of Sev's contraptions laid out but no Mandalorian in sight, before stepping out and into the ship's corridor, which forked off in three directions around him.

Bomoor was not surprised he found few others on the ship; since they had docked at the Taanab Orbital Station, everyone seemed in a rush to get somewhere: Berry and her supposed old friend, Nimo, had been very reclusive throughout their journey and hurried off together once they docked. The duchess had shown some interest in replenishing her supplies as well as obtaining some rarer organic samples from the sector, for which she took some of her portable equipment with her as she left. Sev, as usual, had been rather aloof in his intentions, but appeared to require additional parts for his current weapon project.

Stepping forward, he did not have far to walk before he found himself outside his own chosen cabin and he swiftly slipped inside. Going to place a small bag of his own supplies from the station down onto the bed, he was hindered when he realised that the spot was already occupied by another object. He set his bag aside on the small chair instead and craned his head downwards towards the bed.

He very quickly realised what the object was: it was Thane's previous lightsaber, which he had gifted to Berry only recently. The shining silver hilt had been placed with some purpose onto his beige sheets. This was a message from the young Aquar-Firrerion hybrid; a rejection of the teachings the weapon represented and a rejection of the one who sought the most to teach her those lessons: Thane. Bomoor's first thoughts shot to the newcomer Nimo and the hushed criticisms of Berry's new companions he surely must have spoken to the impressionable young girl. But that was not true, he knew that the young woman had an extremely strong will of her own; one that had led her to even clash with himself at times. She had never truly seen eye-to-eye with the philosophies they taught and had chosen to simply slip away, perhaps to return to Velusia and continue her own quest for whatever cause she deemed true to herself.

Reaching down and gripping the lightsaber firmly, he thought at what Thane might think, knowing that his attempted apprentice had come to his friend over himself to say her goodbyes, even in a wordless gesture such as this. He would have to make it clear what she meant, even if Thane already knew deep down that the pair was always oceans apart and he could never hope to swim against that tide.

For now, he set the hilt down on the desk, beside the small holoterminal, which represented the next task he was to complete. It was one that he had been putting off but, after two attempted transmissions to the ship from Coruscant already, he knew he could not delay further. Summoning the courage he had felt in his last conversation with Thane, he flicked the device on and tapped in the address that would route his call through the ship's central communications transceiver.

After a minute or so of the outgoing call being placed, the projected dots shifted from the pulsing Awaiting Connection icon to form the faint blue figures he knew all too well: The Reborn Jedi Council in all its supposed glory. With a sharp intake of breath, Bomoor spoke first:

"Masters of the Council. I am calling with grave news surrounding the recent activities of myself and Thane. In an attempt to obtain one of the Kaiburr Shards Axion has been seeking, we were captured by a group of Mandalorian warriors, under the banner of the True Mandalorians. Finding ourselves trapped by the Force-negating effects of a Ysalamiri network, we were detained for several weeks in torturous conditions before being able to escape. It was at this time, that we encountered Jedi Knight Loren, who we learned had been sent to inform on our activities..."

Sotah was the first to react, shifting ever so slightly in his chair, faintly visible as it was. A patterned hand rose to stroke one of the tendrils that stretched down from his aquatic features, a sign Bomoor had long learnt to be one of nervousness, as rare as it was for the Selkath Consular.

In his Jedi throne, Grand Master Quellus leaned forward, and his ornate flowing robes drooped over his robes as he rested his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers. Even through the holoprojection, the callouses of his manicured blue fingers could be made out.

"I am sure you feel you have some substantial grievances against the decisions of the Council, young Jedi Knight Thort, but you must be ever-mindful of our wisdom - and the necessity of the actions we take." The words were not kind as the Chagrian spoke them, and he did nothing to invite discourse from the Ithorian on the matter.

"You could not be trusted!" Morla Dero rattled loudly, a bony, skeletal hand pointed towards where Bomoor must be appearing to the gathered Masters in their Coruscanti retreat. "You are too close to Thane; too close to his darkness - to his rebellious nature!"

Although appearing deflated, Sotah appeared to shift once more, ready to respond to the Kaminoan's tirade, but Master Nillak interceded first, a hand raised in what must have been intended as a diplomatic intervention. "Bomoor," the leader of the Jedi Watchmen said, not with an edge to his tone as he used the Ithorian's first name, "you must understand, we do not make decisions out of malice or any perceived witchhunt against your friend, but see it from our perspective-"

Quellus then spoke again, his voice deep and with an edge to it. "Would you have trusted you?"

Bomoor wished he could allow the inner rage he felt at the responses flow forth, but he stuck to the script he had played over in his mind:

"I see no benefit in discussing the motivation for her deployment or the light it casts my own assignment in, but it is my sad duty to inform you that, weakened by the Ysalamiri trap, the Mandalorians were able to kill Loren as she set about to defend us in our weakened state."

While the images were only small, Bomoor saw his old mentor Thurius cast a worrying, but knowing gaze towards his fellow Master and friend, Sotah, who himself seemed to sink slightly into the velvet seat cushion of his council-member's seat. Bomoor's dark eyes widened as he realised: He already knew.

While it still disturbed him seeing the deep pain emerging in the kindly Selkath, he went on:

"I shall forever be grateful for the assistance Loren provided us in our time of need but I also cannot forget that it was under your direction that she went into danger and that it was under your direction that I too was ordered to work against the best interests of former-Knight Thane and to what end? The ongoing need for justification that the Jedi are the only source of morality in this galaxy? The compulsion to squash all that would raise their voice to query those teachings?"

Some of the Council began to mumble inaudibly amongst themselves, whilst Quellus appeared barely able to contain his outrage at the Ithorian's words, having let his steepled hands drop during Bomoor's complaints as he rose suddenly to his full height, towering over his artificially-represented fellows.

"You forget yourself, Thort!" He bellowed, the jewels of his decidedly un-Jedi trappings glinting as he gesticulated. A few of the more mindful Masters withdrew from the proceedings, Hale Dunrar's eyes shifting quickly between his angered leader and the young Jedi Knight he was shouting at, apparently uncomfortable at what was developing but seemingly unwilling to challenge any behaviour.

"We are the Jedi Masters - you are but recently a Padawan, young to our ways. Between us, we have centuries of collected experience, and hold generations of toil, wisdom and tutelage with us. It falls to us to carry the legacy of the Jedi Order into the new age, learning from the mistakes of the past to weather the storms of the galaxy."

Quellus pointed at Bomoor, his body sidelong and daring the Ithorian to challenge him. "Grand Master Waay brought enlightenment to our Order following centuries of darkness, born of the ancient failings of soft, 'lenient' Masters before him - the apologists of the New Republic and the blind of the Old. It is these ideals, taught by wise sentients far in excess of your paltry naivete and inexperience, that hold back the tide of the Dark Side! It is this philosophy that keeps the Sith from ever returning, that keeps the Third Republic pure." He glowered at the young consular. "Loren underst-"

"No!" Bomoor interjected, "I disagree. I no longer feel that it is you who should dictate my future. I am not a tool that the order can simply wield until blunted and broken. I value the opportunities that being a Jedi has granted me but I do not feel that gives you ownership of my being and you certainly do not hold the keys to universal truth, no matter how righteous it may seem."

Drawing himself up and holding his arm outwards towards the device, he concluded his speech: "My companions and I will continue in our mission to dissolve the Cult of Axion, because it is a cause we all believe is right. However, at this time, you will accept this as my formal resignation from the Reborn Jedi Order. I thank you for providing me a home for all these years but, like many of my kind, I now feel it is time to migrate onward."

Directing his final thoughts mostly towards Sotah and Thurius: "May we meet again someday under better circumstances."

Bringing his arm down on the device, he ended the call and the holographic figures blinked out of existance before they could respond to his words.

Bomoor was left with his head swirling about with so many thoughts and feelings. Yes, he had called the Order his home but it was also another prison of sorts: a prison of the mind. Binding him to a narrow view of the galaxy, which sought to chisel him down into a neat little pawn, with which to continue the crusade of the Reborn Order.

He hated that he could so easily be used, even without his conscious knowledge. It was a slower death of the self; even slower than the one he had almost experienced on Jericho and it made him sick. His eyes darted about the cabin, which was so small for his size, even now imagining it as a prison. But there was a light that shone faintly, like the dim hope of escape from a long tunnel. The light came from below his bed - a dim orange-red glow, which sought him out like a warmth that had not been there before.

Kneeling down, Bomoor reached under and pulled out the source: it was Krayt's holocron. In his hands it shone brighter than it ever had when he had held it before. It pulsed like the call of the holoterminal, just waiting for him to open his side of the connection. The Former Jedi was now ready to answer that call.

---

The small lamp built into the corner of the aged desk flickered to life with the same laziness of most of the Raptor's vaguely faulty electrics, its dim light casting shadows that stretched faintly away from the various objects cluttered about it. The small terminal that rest alongside it was inactive, with a few sheets of paper with poorly-scrawled handwriting scribbled across them resting atop it.

With a resigned huff of frustration from the writer, another sheet was pushed aside, the High Galactic letters that had been etched onto it with a classical nib-styled calligrapher's pen thin and spidery, legible but decidedly a fair distance from how Thane's handwriting had been before. Placing the pen down carefully, the Human examined the two new mechanical fingers that whirred where his old ones had so recently been.

Attempting to close his hand into a fist, the new digits shook ever so slightly as they successfully made the shape, the cold of the clean, gun-grey metal brushing against the pale skin of his scarred palm. Examining the artificial adaptation of his hand, Thane considered that the medical professionals aboard the Taanab orbital station had done a commendable job. Although they would never feel like the original organic thing, he had full motion in them and he could 'feel' whatever they touched, with the added bonus of no longer feeling the associated pain. Similarly, the reconstruction effort had extended to the rest of his hand, out of necessity from the debilitating damage caused by Bomoor's weight back on Jericho, and metal struts (for that's how Thane viewed them) ran along the tendons and joints of the rest of his hand, proving unsightly, but were in fact strengthening, making the hand much stronger than his left.

The shaking, the doctors assured him, was purely as a result of Thane's own mental/emotional issues with the cybernetics, and would be something that would pass as he grew to accept them. Placing the hand flat to stop the frustrating motion, he trusted in them that they were right; he had invested a great deal of credits in having a superior-grade prosthetic provided, and had even accessed his long-dormant Caanan bank accounts to do so - something he had not ever done in his time with the Jedi Order.

He leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes as he tried to clear his mind of the discomfort in his hand. In the relative silence of his cabin, he could hear the faint humming of the cheap desk lamp as it struggled to maintain its weak light, as well as the whirring of the small fan-like object affixed near to the ceiling that kept the room airy. The light smell of ancient pages permeated the room, a welcome scent for Thane's nose, also fixed courtesy of the private medical practitioners of Taanab.

Most of the injuries of Jericho had been healed, wiping away most of the wounds, damaged bones and malnutrition Zrad Rezer and his band of barbarians had inflicted upon him. However, but for Morgo's intervention, he wondered if he would have been as intact as he now was; her field treatment and mastery of medicine had allowed him and Bomoor to rise up, strong enough to fight their way out of the ancient penal colony.

In a certain way, it now vaguely upset him that she had seemingly elected to abandon him, the Raptor and their mission, although it was not completely surprising. Whilst she, like all the others, had seemed keen to explore the Taanab orbital station as soon as they had docked, she had yet to return, and Thane had noted a good portion of her portable laboratory equipment was conspicuously absent, but he had yet to check her cabin. Despite her successful rescue of him and Bomoor, he knew that their last encounter before Jericho had been pronouncedly sour, with Morgo believing him to have threatened her, in spite of his actions back on Coruscant to keep her from the authorities.

The duchess had been keeping surprisingly close to Bería since the journey from the Exile asteroid base, as well as that peculiar red-headed alien the young woman seemed to know. In truth, after his initial treatment in the medbay and hearing Bomoor's confession, he had spent much of the flight to Taanab on his bunk, craving restful sleep, which had then been conspicuously absent.

Thinking over their initial failure, what Bomoor had told him, and his own terrible actions, Thane knew why his brief periods of sleep had been plagued with nightmarish spectres and feverish ideas he could never quite grasp. That fury he had felt in the medbay towards the Jedi Council had yet to truly dissipate, just as his agony at the death of Loren had failed to subside - not that he felt he necessarily deserved to lose that.

He had also failed to return Bomoor's show of faith and integrity by confessing his own dark deed, instead keeping secret his murder of Master Sotah's first apprentice, and his closest friend beside the Ithorian. It was depressing to exist as increasingly was in the shadows of morality, even with those close to him, but he knew it to necessary if he were to ever avoid a repeat of the disaster that set in motion the tragedy of Jericho, just as he knew it to be necessary if he were to really end the threat of Axion and his twisted cult.

Feeling his ire rising, furious at the set of circumstances thrust upon them by the meddling of the Reborn Jedi and his own ineptitude, Thane opened his icy blue eyes once more. His sight wandered over to his bunk, underneath which his relic was safely nestled, entirely untouched since his hand was still whole.

During his time as Zrad's prisoner, he had had copious amounts of time to think over his hubris and subsequent defeat at the would-be Mandalore's hands; for days, he had stewed over his failure and been company only to his own darkness and frustrations, aside from the occasional fever-driven conversation with an ailing Bomoor. When the Force had been returned to him, he had felt that very-same rage and fear come truly to the fore, first in fuelling his desire for emancipation and second when Loren threatened to reveal his newfound power to Grand Master Quellus and his squad of yes-men.

That rage had not left him, and despite how he knew he should react, Thane did not in fact want it to leave him. His senses had been sharpened, his mind oddly focused, and his powers more pronounced - an acceleration of the change he had experienced since indulging in the depths of the Dark Side of the Force.

He rose from his chair, and retrieved the holocron from beneath his bunk. Its black lining gleamed despite the lack of quality light, and the unearthly red glow glimmered within the heart of its lattices, even to the artificial touch of Thane's new prostheses, thrumming with forbidden energy.

Holding Darth Bane's heirloom within his hands once more, the once-Jedi Guardian's heart began to pound more heavily in his chest, the power of the holocron crackled as he and it connected once more. A familiar, powerful aura spread into him, welcoming, exciting and enthusing him all at once.

It was not such a big step, after all, given what he had already considered at length on
Irrikut, and the dangers that lay before them. Whilst the threat of Axion was paramount, he had no desire to be that far-flung vigilante operating at the edges of the law, or merely some misguided Force user who dabbled in the arcane, forgotten to the histories as a former Jedi Knight who was almost slain by outcast Mandalorians.

When last they had spoken, the holocron's gatekeeper had made bold offers and promises to Thane. To any onlooker or cynic, they would have sounded suspect or hollow, the pledges of a long-deceased megalomaniac seeking some semblance of lost glory, but Thane wondered otherwise, and made his decision - the decision he knew, in his heart, he had made when he had stopped Loren's.

The heir to Caanus drew deeply on the Force, and as expected, the light of the room shrank into the shadows, and the brilliant red spectre of Darth Bane grew out of his pyramidal data-tomb. Garbed entirely in an affectation of his creator's orbalisk armour, the gatekeeper adopted a height that dwarfed Thane by two or three feet, wearing that typical grim expression of disdain and quiet curiosity he always seemed to award Thane, golden eyes peering out of his artificial headpiece.

Not speaking, Bane offered a slight quirk of an eyebrow at the young Human as Thane dropped to one knee and bowed his head in uncharacteristic deference, the ancient Sith Lord's arms crossed over his barrel chest, carefully inspecting the fallen Jedi.

"I pledge myself to you and the teachings of the Sith." From his robes, Thane produced the leather-bound lightsaber hilt of Loren and placed it between him and Darth Bane, not once bringing his head up to regard the once-Dark Lord. "My Master."

After only a few short moments, the gatekeeper slowly extended a translucent hand towards Thane's head, stopping short of his mess of dark hair, not saying a word. Instead, Darth Bane simply smiled.

CHAPTER END

 

RSS Feed