The Return of the Sith
Posted on Tue Oct 22nd, 2019 @ 7:18pm by Jundal Quellus & Thane & Bomoor Thort & Amare & Rynseh Lahan
6,205 words; about a 31 minute read
Chapter:
Chapter V: Unbound
Location: Muracie Spaceport, Centares
Timeline: Afternoon, Day 6
In the near distance, a lost Gotal child wailed for his parents, bleating loudly over the general hubbub and din of voices that rose up from the Muracie Spaceport's primary market, his little hands clasped about his head in apparent pain or panic, as his undersized conical horns struggled to interpret the broad range of emotions being bombarded against him from all about. The shopkeepers at the various stalls, many of which were Gotals themselves, seemed to pay the youngling little heed, as they continued calling out to prospective customers, or bargaining aggressively with the various patrons pushing their way through sea of sentients at the historic Centares marketplace.
Next to no empty spaces could be spotted between the various stalls and pre-fabricated establishments, but the shadows of the people and shops were growing longer as the sun began to sink beneath the obscured horizon, the sunset spreading its largess into a grateful sky, rich hues of crimson blending into a miasma of oranges and purples. It was the start of a satisfying conclusion to the day for both patrons and purveyors, who had spent much of the day wiping away glistening beads of sweat from their flesh or manes. Whilst the weather was now surrendering to a pleasant evening warmth, the odour of perspiration had long intermingled with the enticing combination of aromas offered up by the marketplace, being a unique scent of spices, flowers and incense.
The marketplace had existed for generations, but its size and popularity had grown and plummeted throughout the storied history of Centares, just as the skyscrapers of the nearby business centres had. Once self-hailed as the 'Jewel of the Mid-Rim'; 'the last civilised stop before the wild and woolly Outer Rim', the planet had endured the centuries since its strip-mining by the First Galactic Empire and found some grand measure of rejuvenation in recent centuries.
Sufficiently distant from Coruscant and unaligned with Alba, Centares nevertheless found itself frequented by a large number of Core World and Outer Rim visitors and traders, moving along the Perlemian Trade Route, who brought with them both wealth and ideologies, Centares itself boasting a population mixed in terms of both species and beliefs. Holding true to its ancient claims, Centares was seen by many to be the last bastion of Coreward civility by Republic citizens before the apparent wilds of the Outer Rim Alliance and its supporters. Trading off of this, Centares welcomed tourists moving between both political structures within the Third Republic, capitalising on the hopes and fears of both, peddling wares both familiar and exotic to travellers stopping at the planetary waypoint.
However, the world's proximity to Alliance space, its industrial and economic history and prowess, as well as its penchant for independently-minded thinkers, had left Centares troubled politically, struggling to find a firm identity for itself against the backdrop of galactic civil strife. Corporations, naturally, had found the planet's booming economy seductive, and there was a growing presence from such interests across the planet's various cities and bustling spaceports - with Muracie being no exception. Equally, there were just as many vocal political agitators as there were salesmen.
In the midst of this particular crowd, however, hidden within the profane and moving carefully forward, offering only the occasional casual inspection of the various wares on offer, was Thane, Amare and Bomoor, garbed in dress suitable for ambling tourists enjoying the sights and smells of Centares. To the passing viewer, seeing the Human/Nautolan/Ithorian trio, they would appear to be nothing more than well-dressed tourists and insignificant, enjoying their last stop before their holiday or return home.
For the stretch of parade they were moving along, a curved cover stretched out overhead, but numerous banners and torches stretched down from either side, adding several flashes of colour and intrigue to already-vibrant displays on offer to them. The smoke of nearby scented candles and spit-roasted meats straddled the warm dusk air and assaulted the three Force users' olfactory senses.
To Thane, there was a peculiar sense of normalcy to it all, especially after all that had transpired to bring them here, as his closest friend and apprentice joined the Sith Lord as they wandered through a marketplace, their presence entirely innocuous and unremarkable.
It was not a bad destination after Korriban, the destruction of the Jedi orbital station, his and Zenarrah's betrayal of Jedi Master Rynseh Lahan, and the inevitable arrival of the Judicial fleet, limited though it likely was. The mismatched astromech droid of Captain Rex Vickers' had plotted an appropriate path for them to safety, drawing them to a centre of commerce in which they could slip away into obscurity, the Red Raptor's identification codes updated once more. It was something he had actually entrusted to the maimed smuggler, who seemed to have some penchant for such things, alongside a list of replacement parts for the shattered G2-O7.
Whilst Thane did not yet trust his fellow Human, who was particularly nervous and troubled by his seemingly-unwanted-but-necessary residence on the Red Raptor, he trusted in Rex's fear - and desire to have the Dark Jedi Mentis make good on his debt for a lost ship.
A ship, Thane had learned, that carried some cargo not entirely of Rex's ownership. It was a beautiful cliche that brought some quiet amusement to the Caanan.
"Where is your new companion?" He then asked Bomoor, not impolitely. "Enjoying his freedom, I presume?"
The Ithorian had stopped to stare at a stall containing various jewels and trinkets. Luxury goods such as these were not found in every marketplace and was a sign of the planet’s prosperity, with at least some of the residents having a disposable income to afford more than the basics. He watched the well-dressed human owner of the stand was eyeing those around with some suspicion; there was a clear tension between the classes on this world as well as between those aligning with the different political factions.
Upon hearing Thane’s question, Bomoor turned and carried on walking beside his friend, “Mentis? Yes, he has spoken to me more about his time with Axion. It seems he really was inducted as a child and knew nothing else, which accounts for his… awkwardness about his freedom. He talks of never being a slave again, yet yearns to find new structure with us. Still, he is a strong warrior and focused on his blade, if nothing else. I probably can pass on some of my old master’s techniques to him.”
Lost in juggling multiple thoughts and memories at once, Amare barely had enough brain power left to pick up on Bomoor's commentary on Mentis, but her passive silence was the only thing she was going to offer. She could relate to being a freed slave only to end up in the service of another. Nevertheless, she kept her silence and resumed her introverted mental processing.
Both former Jedi felt the sting of leaving their master’s behind when leaving the Order. While they cursed the Council and how they had degraded the name of the Jedi, neither could find it in themselves to hold it against Sotah and Thurius. As their two former-pupils carved a darker path for themselves, it was not unreasonable to wonder how they would be received if and when they reunited.
Bomoor continued, “Anyway, he seemed happy to accompany Rex to the junk dealers to find the parts the man needs for the droid. Apparently, with his bones still mending, Mentis owes him the use of his functioning arms as well as a new ship. I suppose that little Jawa isn’t going to carry many bags for him.”
Since the telepathic Force-bonding with her mother on the ship, Amare had rediscovered her old Nar Shaddaa appetite to do more listening and less talking. She also found that her petty enviousness towards Thane and Bomoor's brotherhood had largely diminished in favour of using their connection to her advantage. Amare had given it considerable thought since the merging of minds with Zenarrah, and chose to follow her stratagems alongside what little she gleaned from her sole encounter with Darth Bane's holocron. By reconciling the words of them both in meditation, Amare came to an epiphany which entailed compartmentalizing impulses and feelings in lieu of pursuing the long game. Only in battle was one to unleash the power of raw emotion like a drawn sword hungry for blood. When the danger passed, destructive feelings would be bottled up, sharpened and exercised with wrath and rage on occasion in anticipation of the next conflict, and the game would resume.
With Zen's Jedi knowledge of the Sith and Bane's own recorded words, Amare came to a grim, yet solid understanding that the clock was ticking the moment Thane had placed his hands on her arms and declared her to be his true Sith apprentice. There was no telling how much time she had left before Thane...before Serus came expecting a challenge to his station as the new Dark Lord. Months? Perhaps years or decades? It was not something she was looking forward to just yet. Nevertheless, first thing was first: she needed to build a new lightsaber.
As the trio carried on walking, they found the market stalls thinning, giving way to more established shops within a partially covered arcade. The smell of baked goods and spices wafted out and mingled amongst the bustling sentients that thronged the alleyways between shops.
“Speaking of the old Order, where did our former Temple guard say she was going to be?” Bomoor glanced over his shoulder at Amare, just behind them and watching intently, “I presume she did not go with Rex as well.”
Thane's apprentice blinked a few times to pull herself out of her withdrawn reverie, and said, "Oh, she, um, she did go in their direction, but said she was splitting up to follow a lead that an old friend she once saved from the Hutts was nearby; someone who owed her a favour. She said that it was a Gree engineer named...Rombus'k, I think? I'm not sure I've heard of the Gree before. Are they familiar to you?"
She traded glances with both men who were more worldly and experienced than she was, genuinely curious if they knew. At first she didn't understand why Zen chose to go on her own, but then dipping into her mother's shared memories reminded her that Zen was self-driven, and preferred to work alone. Going solo seemed to be the way of the Jedi Shadows.
"We both know of the Gree," Thane replied on both and Bomoor's behalf, his mind racing through its internal halls to uncover near-forgotten lessons on sentiology from the Jedi Temple. "I have personally never knowingly met one, nor ventured near their middling rump state. They are considered to be one of the 'great ancient' races of the galaxy." He threw a glance back towards the Nautolan. "As old as, if not older, than the Builders of the Mind Prison, in fact."
Thane turned his face forwards once more, but rather than enjoying a further examination of the foreign wares being peddled about him, his gaze was drawn to a cluster of six armoured figures pushing their way lazily through the crowd. A couple of them wore helmets with dirty visors, but all of them, being a variety of Humanoid species, were clad in an array of tan-and-orange armour sets, a faint (and, frankly, useless) camouflage pattern just about visible across the lighter plates adorning the soldiers. The figure leading the group, who seemed to pay no mind to brushing past unsuspecting travellers, wore a helmet not dissimilar to a Mandalorian design, and a tattered beige battle-cape ran down his back from his shoulders, a large heavy repeating rifle held in his gauntleted hands. Backing up the rear of the group, light clanking steps audible as its metal feet impacted the stone ground, was a battle droid, with two grass-green unblinking eyes glowing within its skull-like cranial unit.
Like the half a dozen soldiers, the battle droid was emblazoned with the black-and-red crest known galaxy-wide, carrying with it a name of an organisation that needed no introduction nor description: the GalactaWerks symbol.
It was not a welcome sight to Thane, and he had stopped walking to eye the cluster soldiers, finding their appearance all too reminiscent of battles past - especially Onderon. "GalactaWerks Marines," he said, just loudly enough for Amare to hear, for Bomoor needed no introduction to them. "The limp arm of Republic law beyond the Rim."
With narrowed eyes, Amare sized up the marines' weapons and equipment, and it gave her an unwelcome flashback. "They remind me of those men I fought on Nar Shaddaa," she quietly mused. "The night I stowed-away onto the Raptor I mean. The Contrarian told me that my old boss at the club, Tayla, owed a favour to the Bounty Hunters Guild and used me as an above-board means to pay off the debt. She gave me those blasters just to make the mark seem real, as if I were supposed to be a gangster causing trouble. Someday, I'll give her real trouble. No matter how long it takes, I will pay that Twi'lek schutta a visit and make her regret what she did."
"I'm not surprised they remind you of your attackers. GalactaWerks Marines often seem to be former thugs, unemployable or dispossessed veterans," Bomoor observed, watching the Marines and their droid with wary eyes as they exchanged words with members of a growing crowd a short way from the three Force-users, "Either that or they are part of some proud family dynasty of Marines: I never understood those people who boasted about their father's father being some senior bucket-head and how they were going to be the same."
In these narrow streets, the sight of GalactaWerks brought back memories of the crisis on Onderon, where GalactaWerks had hardly been the shining light of the Republic to another fringe world.
Bomoor added for Amare's benefit, "Don't underestimate them though; they're not all brainless and they're almost always dangerous."
A short burst of loud microphone feedback suddenly whined out loud from where a short Sullustan man dressed ragged maintenance worker's overalls was. He had brought a bulky industrial comlink up to his mouth and began to bellow a sibilant string of rally cries to the crowd. Amare turned to see what all the commotion was about.
"We will not be discouraged!" yelled the Sullustan, the equipment on his toolbelt jingling and jangling as he spoke into his voice amplifier. "We will not be silenced! Stand with me! Stand up for your friends! Stand up for your families! Centarans for Centrality!"
A vivacious wave of cheering sprang from the gathering mob, many of whom pumped fists in the air in support of the newly planted seedling of revolution. The Sullustan began to point into the direction of the GW Marines, calling them "the oppressors" and their superiors as "the hands that rob of us of our freedom".
"Hmm," Amare hummed in observation of the developing incident, the neurons in her head bursting with conflicting thoughts and ideas. "I wonder..." she started to say as she swatted at a stray fly buzzing near her. The fly, however, reminded her of the phrase, 'being a fly on the wall'. She closed her eyes, drinking in the emotion and tension between the people and the marines. "I can feel the anger from the crowd, and the fear from the soldiers. But the people are anxious; they lack the courage to fight." She opened her eyes again, "They feel wronged by GalactaWerks. Why isn't the Republic helping these people?"
“Because, despite what our friendly Supreme Chancellor would have you believe,” Bomoor answered in a gruff tone, “The Golden arm of the Republic does not have any real grasp out here. Therefore we get this discount democracy, sold exclusively by GalactaWerks to these poor people, who have no choice but to accept their authority,”
A couple of adolescent Gotal began bleating out the Sullustan’s motto, “Centarans for Centrality! Centarans for Centrality!” while erecting a crude banner adorned with the Centrality emblem.
Bomoor continued as they chanted, pleased to have a chance to talk about the relatively mundane topic of politics, “The Centrality they talk about is a growing movement putting pressure on the Republic to stop devolving its own power to third-parties like GalactaWerks and instead believes that matters of security and governance be centralised within Republic-led organisations such as the Judicial Forces.”
As he finished talking, voices within the crowd grew more distressed. It appeared that the marines had begun forcing their way through the crowd towards the protestors. Before they reached them, however, they found several members of the crowd barring their way.
“What’s your problem, droid-head?” a Sakiyan male shunted the lead marine backwards, “Ain’t you ever heard of free speech?”
The orange-armoured soldier thrust a hand forward and jerked the Sakiyan’s arm aside violently. With a gnarled voice filtered through his helmet, he hissed, “This is nothing but public disorder! The Intendant has made it clear that we are to intervene in the name of civilian safety. Now, step aside or I will throw you in a holding cell.”
Politics was never Amare's forte as it was more boring to her than quadratic equations, but she recognized it was a necessary evil, even on her relatively peaceful homeworld, Glee Anselm. Generations ago, the casual Nautolan way of getting together and solving civic problems without the excessive need of courts or legislation was occasionally held up as a progressive model for the galaxy to follow. The planet had survived the Yuuzhan Vong War mostly untouched, and yet over a thousand years of prosperity didn't lead to excessive decadence and strife; they in fact became more conservative and maintained the paradise, improved tourism numbers without disrupting the culture or the pristine environment, and contributed to advancements in space and oceanic exploration often through generous non-profit ventures. There was a kind of enlightened orderliness to it, the calmness of the ocean on a clear day, people understanding one another without the need of pointing a blaster at each other's heads. Of course, all of that had been built on ancient wars and campaigns of genocide against the surface-dwelling Anselmi, but it wasn't something historically-minded Nautolans would ever openly talk about.
Then the Nautolan people made an ambitious push by forming the Glee-Namadii Star Collective. A loosely organised federation of worlds and enterprises dominated by the Nautolan people, the GNSC was heralded as the way forward for a new, more liberal- and diversity-minded generation of the species, but it ended up as being a critical error from which the Nautolans had yet to recover. After the Republic's heavy sanctions on the Collective following the Second Outer Rim Conflict for supporting the Outer Rim Alliance, things quickly deteriorated on a global scale.
The planet hadn't fallen completely into ruins as much of the infrastructure held up amidst the turmoil of off and on occupations of the world, but many involved in the Glee Anselm Revolts between 1,190 and 1,194 ABY had lost their lives, and when the dust settled, the home of the Nautolans became another bastion of crony corporatism with GalactaWerks pulling all the strings; everything from farming to orbital space operations became GW's domain to administer. Around the time Amare was born, the planet had fallen into an extended recession period while GW banked on contracts and subsidies from the Republic to control and retool Glee Anselm's once pristine economy. Even the jewel of the planet's galactic attractiveness, the tourism industry, had become heavily commercialised to the point of becoming little more than a joke featuring stereotypes with bad island accents and booming gambling and "red light" districts both on land, and in the old deep sea subnautic settlements. The clever Nautolan elites that sold out and joined the company reaped the rewards while everyone else suffered, struggled, and lost their cultural pride and sense of community.
It was the deteriorating situation there that led to the Wolphs attempting to migrate to a new colony in the Mid Rim, only to end up at gunpoint to a murdering band of pirates and slavers.
Amare frowned as it dawned on her what she hadn't considered before: She owed all she had suffered through since that fateful day, meeting Thane and Bomoor, and becoming a Sith apprentice to...GalactaWerks. She wasn't sure whether she wanted to thank them or go to the CEO's office and tear his head off.
"I don't like what those marines are doing," she commented, "and I'm certainly no fan of GW, but I understand why they have to do that. People misbehaving are like children, and if things get out of control, they'll hurt each other. My people revolted once, and many of them got killed for nothing. These people need someone strong to lead them, make them feel safe and cared for, not some druk with an amp making silly chants of rebellion. It's not right."
She felt her palms itch, anxious to reach for her concealed shoto, and a tension in her feet building as temptation came over her, pulling at her mind to step forward and take action. She wasn't sure whom she felt the need to "interact" with, just that her instincts wanted her to desperately dive towards the mob and do something, anything. However, she took a deep breath to control her budding passion, for she dared not be rash without Thane's say-so.
Thane had kept silent for the moment, quietly observing the social commotion unfolding before them. He had raised a hand to gently rest atop his apprentice's, carefully confirming Amare's decision to preclude herself from getting involved in the growing fracas, interested in, but already determined as to how, the conflict before them would unfold. A microcosm of the greater galactic political climate, Centares' friction-laden environment could only go one way, whilst neither group could dominate the other.
"It is only going to take the merest provocation," he remarked quietly, just loudly enough for Amare to hear, hoping she would also examine and analyse the growing discord before them.
The leading GalactaWerks marine was then seen to grasp one of the nearby Humans in the crowd, one that had a crimson home-woven cloth armband tied around his left arm with a shoddily-stitched Centrality icon at its centre, spin him around against a wall and plant stun cuffs onto his wrists, the detained man cursing in Core-accented Basic as he did.
The crowd grew louder, as another figure with an amp nearby added his calls for justice to those of the Sullustan, whose dewflaps were now shaking almost uncontrollably under the weight of his rage at the marines, who had presented themselves as a convenient target for their political ire. As more people threw in their curses and anger, a large rock launched itself from somewhere within the crowd and impacted the commanding marine's helmet, knocking him away from his prisoner and causing him to stumble. When he finally raised his head to be visible once more, his cranial protection had rolled away, already claimed by one of the agitators, and the angry face of a Zygerrian was revealed.
Before the Zygerrian commander could make any sort of order or comment to his fellows, one of the other marines - a younger Human - brought his rifle round, his expression nervous as he made the mistake. Immediately, the din of the crowd rose to a roar, and more objects began flying towards the soldiers, as the Centrality supporters then began moving in to swamp their perceived oppressors, repeating their mantra and surrendering to their frustrations and fears.
The Zygerrian was heard calling for backup over his wrist communicator, whilst the squad's battle droid, an alarm blaring from its audio-unit, positioned itself ahead of its comrades and raised its wrist, large plumes of foam and smoke billowing out in an effort to disperse and control the looming mob. It was not long before someone found something sharp to pierce the droid's central unit, although it did not yet falter in its defence of the marines.
Thane and the others had taken a few tactical paces back, moving more towards the opening between the marketplace and the open arena. Many people either unaligned or uninterested in the turmoil had began to run from the scene, grasping their children and the elderly, whilst Thane noticed that a few more were arriving, being an interesting combination of local security forces, more GW figures, as well as a hodgepodge of different species, some of which were carrying placards or were emblazoned with the logos of the Centrality.
Once again, Thane was struck by the comments he had made to her on the Red Raptor a few days before; what had taken Bane's order a millennium to achieve, they could accomplish in a lifetime. Thane's gaze spread over the arrayed jumble of alien faces, filled with righteous and civic anger towards one another, now falling upon each other in a frenzied bid to express their disenfranchised anger.
"Centares is a mere snapshot of the Republic's continuing centuries-long descent into corruption and disorder," Thane said openly of his growing realisation to his companions, sounding almost satisfied, a slight departure from his usual tirades on the subject. The sound of stun beams now echoed about the square, the shimmering circular halos spinning this way and that as they did or did not strike their marks. "As they face a common enemy, real or imagined, they will set aside their insignificant differences to embrace the leadership of any that can promise a true, brighter future; they will rely on the strengths of enlightened and powerful leaders, capable of saving the masses from their pathetic passions, jealousies, factionalism and menial desires."
The former Jedi Knight now looked to his two companions in turn, a small smile curling at the corner of one of his pale lips. "With only the merest provocation," he said, echoing his earlier comment to Amare, "they will rely on us." He then placed a flat palm upon his apprentice's shoulder, his icy gaze locking upon her dark, intense eyes. "They will rely... on the Sith."
Two days earlier, Horuset system
Jedi Master Rynseh Lahan was beaten, bruised, and exhausted to his near physical limits, but he was not defeated. Dispirited—yes; betrayed—most certainly; narrowly cheated death—a regular practice at this point; but the day was not entirely at a loss. His faith in the Force was amplified knowing that even fire and multiple red lightsabers wielded by the most powerful dark side users in generations weren't enough to take him down. It was a point of pride, but Zenarrah's betrayal definitively quashed that feeling. Worse was knowing that it wasn't just once, but twice including Balmorra. She didn't just try to kill him in that weapons factory with the bombs, but she also had no problem murdering those padawans and commandos and the surrendered Axion-affiliated terrorists just to get to him. It was outrageous and intolerable, and he swore justice would never rest until he took her down along with Thane, Bomoor, and now Zaracoda Wolph as well.
The Descent had pulled away from the grasp of Korriban just as the Judicial Fleet had arrived. He answered their transmission and ordered them as a Republic General to capture the Cultists on the surface. Unfortunately, those Dark Jedi were fleet of foot in spite of the thrashing Ryn gave them. They had returned to their ship with haste to get star-side, dodged heavy turbolaser fire with such ease making the gunners look like first-year rookies, and made it in time to enter hyperspace before the fleet's interdictor cruiser could stop them.
Although not a positive outcome, it played into the bigger picture for Rynseh. For years, he had dreamed of a great Crusade in which the Sith relic elimination work of the Jedi Shadows could be taken to the extreme with very public and high-profile campaigns of crushing any and all dark side influence, Sith or otherwise. He wanted to go after everything from private collectors to the most robust crime syndicates. He even dreamt of full-on Republic-ordained tribunals and inquisitions that would challenge any dark side adherents including small and large organizations, and even planetary governments that permitted officials corrupted by anything related to the darkness. Unfortunately for him, he never had proof of a real and present danger aside from the occasional trinket that held little concern to none but the most astute of Jedi scholars...that is until now.
The Cultists' escape was, in fact, a great boon for the Reborn Jedi Order, and by extension, the Jedi Templars. Now he had recorded footage of the battle on Korriban thanks to the Descent's automated systems monitoring everything from above. At last, with the fear of the Cult of Axion still at-large, he had the means to get Grand Master Quellus and the rest of the High Council on board with the Templars' plan, along with most of the craven politicians in the Galactic Senate. Soon, his holy Crusade could begin in earnest, and there would be no hiding place from the light. The Jedi would grow to become the most powerful it had ever been in all recorded history. Perhaps, someday, a Jedi Master would rise to become the next Supreme Chancellor of the Republic. With the Reborn Order at the helm of power, peace and security would forever be assured. No more war, and the permanent quelling of the dark side of the Force.
"Rynseh Lahan, my old friend and master..."
It was the voice of his old padawan, Zenarrah. The vile traitor herself had left a parting message to be played by the computer. It was proof her betrayal was premeditated, and it further rattled Ryn's ability to temper his smoldering emotions. He leaned back further in the pilot's chair, eyes narrowed like a jungle predator zeroing in on its mark as Zen's face appeared as a hologram at the center of the console.
..."and to the esteemed members of the Reborn Jedi High Council, this message shall be my final testament and confession of my crimes against the Order and the Republic. It is with my deepest regret to have made the decisions that lead to what I've done, but they were choices that had to be made for the future of the Order. With regards to the incident on Balmorra three years ago, I accept full responsibility for the bombing of the Ishkami Weapons Factory that took the lives of five of our padawans, and several Special Forces commandos. I performed this act in the disguise of a bounty hunter wearing a Mandalorian E.V. armor suit to conceal my identity. Upon discovering Master Lahan's survival, I discarded the suit and pretended to save his life.
"I could have ended him there, but I once loved him like a father. He was good to me, believed in my power and talents, but in the end, I had realized I was nothing more than a pawn to him. The same can be said of his daughter, Rusasha Lahan, born in violation of the oaths of detachment, accepted into the Order by Jundal Quellus himself against those oaths knowing in-full her blood relation to Rynseh. I discovered that in spite of failing her initial padawan trials, and again failing her knighthood trials, she was kept in the Order because it was determined that she had a powerful natural ability in the use of Battle Meditation. Such a rare and potent gift would be extraordinarily useful to the Order, and it is virtually the only reason she moved up the ranks. Nepotism and hypocrisy on full display. Quellus attempted to bring my child, Zaracoda, into the Order upon sensing her own power in the Force. Yes, I too broke my oath for love, but unlike Rynseh, I refused to subject my progeny to the same narrow-minded dogma I was raised with. Though I did so anonymously all these years with my own earnings, I now confess that it was I who arranged to have her adopted to a kind family on Glee Anselm and used Republic law to protect her from seizure by the Seekers. Unfortunately, that family, the Wolphs, were captured by vicious space pirates. The parents were killed, and they took my child and her adopted brother to be sold as slaves.
"Now, let me be clear: my quarrel is not with the Reborn Jedi, or the Republic, but entirely with Jundal Quellus and his Templar lieutenants. He has unequivocally failed as the Grand Master of the Temple, and does not deserve a seat on the High Council, or in any position as a Jedi, period. With Master Lahan and others I shall not name as his liaisons to the Senate, Quellus has fostered a political rot that has infested the Temple for many years. Indeed, none of it had truly come to light until the day Knight Bomoor Thort took a bold stand in front of all of you and tendered his resignation with unparalleled grace and courage. Many knights and padawans had minor doubts of Quellus' leadership before that day, but some of them have been inspired since. A transcript of that meeting was sent to me anonymously by a sympathizer in support of Bomoor. I do not believe this person acted alone, and I anticipate dissent within the Temple's ranks will only worsen over time so long as the status quo is maintained.
"As I record this, Master Rynseh and I am preparing to leave Coruscant in search of the star freighter, Red Raptor. Ryn has questions for Thane and Bomoor regarding the missing Jedi Knight, Loren, and he suspects through his meditations with the Force that they have some involvement as to her whereabouts, or actual fate. My goal is to find my daughter, Zaracoda, on Nar Shaddaa. A contact of mine there has indicated that Thane may have been seen wandering the streets there recently, and there was a violent skyway incident involving a transit speeder crash near a spaceport with cockpit video images of my daughter's face clearly visible before the vehicle went down. They did not find her body in the wreckage, so I am hopeful she is safe. I have seen visions of her through the Force, and I believe her life is in great danger. When I do find her...if she is in the company of the wayward ex-Jedi, then I intend to fully side with them. I shall dutifully assist Rynseh up to that moment, for he feels I am worthy of redemption, but I know he merely misses his useful Shadow prodigy. I will not be one of his Templars. I would sooner throw myself into the maw of a sarlacc before I add even more shame to the life I have already lived. I intend to train Zara in the ways of the Force including our Jedi traditions, but I will also educate her in the options offered through the dark side. In so doing, I will be giving her the gift of choice, and I will support her chosen path, light or dark, until my dying breath.
"All I ask in closing is that you do not pursue them, Zara and those young disillusioned men that were once among our greatest of Knights. I shall willingly surrender and submit myself to your judgment in due time, and I will accept the punishments I deserve for my high crimes, but please leave those young people to their fates. Let them go their own way and humbly permit them to follow the will of the Force without politics or dogma. That was once the Jedi way. I pray it shall be so again."
Days later, the same recording was played again by Rynseh to the Jedi High Council. Zen's image winked out of sight from the center of the perfect circular Council hall. Rynseh strode to stand in its place to face the Grand Master himself.
"That, my fellow masters, is the problem we face," he addressed the gathered group of the most elite Jedi in the galaxy. "She has confessed to having forbidden knowledge of the dark side, and is willing to pass it on to her own daughter. Between this and the extreme danger posed to us by the Cult of Axion, it is quite obvious what is happening here, my friends..."
Grand Master Quellus glowered over steepled manicured fingers at the space Zenarrah's image had just occupied, whilst the rest of the Council remained silent, their eyes resting upon their leader with grim anticipation of the Chagrian's judgement, beams of Coruscant's setting sun casting a long shadow from the imposing Jedi Master. Finally, his eyes not moving, he broke the tense silence.
"The Sith have returned."
END OF CHAPTER
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