Before - Legends Catharsis (KotOR, OCs, Mandalorian Wars) - Chapter 14 Posted (8/17)!

Well there goes Vera. Calculated fall, and she really is letting her emotions get the better of her, strategy out the window. Once again, neither Kale nor Vera are in a good place. Though, I have to admit, I was not expecting a show-down at their first meeting.

Nice use of the Ebon Hawk as well.

 

SoA - we'll certainly be seeing more of how Vera is changing, but I wouldn't say she's 100% fallen, or when we might know when that happens.

Onward!



Chapter 13 - Holdings



Kale awoke at some point, his body lying against a cold floor. He opened his eyes and blinked, but did not realize why he could not see his hands before him, though he could feel their reality near his face. He let one of them rub against his chin, feeling rough stubble there in place of the smooth helmet he had been wearing.

Been wearing where? Where is my armor? Where am I? he questioned at once, his hands traversing his body until he knew he was entirely whole, though naked. His body, intact, was cold, his skin dimpled with the chilled air that seemed to be ever present as he exhaled, the warmth of his own breath disappearing instantly. Nor could he see.

His mind felt foggy, bare memories of traversing corridors strapped to a board, faces of humans and aliens above him, lights and their glare, sounds of clanks and booms and more, but none of it made coherent sense. He rubbed his skull, feeling dirty, rough hair under his hands. There was no bump on the back of his head, so some time had passed since he’d been thrown onto the ramp of that ship after watching his wife die.

His wife. Jena. The memory of her dead body triggered something – a thought. A figure. A woman. Something about a woman resounded in his addled state, that there was a woman who was a key. But wait. Was it Jena? He closed his eyes and rubbed them with his palms, trying to think. There had to have been a woman, of that he was sure. But who?

Nothing came to mind. No face, no pair of eyes, no figure beyond that of a trim woman, nothing solid. It was a blankness he couldn’t describe or really understand, a blankness which had no name. He smacked his hand against the flooring and cursed inwardly.

The flooring was rough and broken, not smooth. Cracks were hewn deeply into it and he could push bits of his fingers into the crevices there, but as he pulled against them, seeing if he could pull any piece from the ground, nothing budged or moved and soon his fingers were sore with the effort. The ground bit into the flesh of his naked buttocks and legs and he shifted, hoping to find a smoother grounding.

There was no sound in this room. Well, more of a tomb. He almost wished to laugh aloud at that, but the sound would crack the silence in which he sat now. The breaths escaping his mouth produced the small burst of warm air that rapidly cooled itself, and as the consciousness of his living set in, he now heard the sound of and felt the presence of the cold air enter his lungs, rest for a moment and spread through his blood throughout his body, and then emerge seconds later as oxygen’s converse.

Perhaps this was to be a death by slow asphyxiation. There were many ways to die, Kale knew. He could list a thousand just from the annals of Mandalorian warriors who died throughout history. Slow asphyxiation was a common death in space battles when a Mandalorian lost his Basilisk droid, or was shot from an airlock in a ship explosion. Cut off from an air supply, he would die after two hours. The suit insulated the coldness of space for only one hour before the internal components would begin to freeze any moisture on them, and then would work inside the suit and past the bodysuit.

So he wasn’t sure if the slow asphyxiation in space was classified as death by lack of oxygen, or death by frigidity. It’s not like the Mandalorians recovered many of their comrades before two hours or so. And after those two hours, the body was frozen regardless. They all knew the risks of that part of their combat.

Kale scratched a fingernail against the floor, the gentle scrrrrrchhhh nearly as loud as a fragmentation grenade near his ear. He stopped and waited for a few moments. Not even an air circulation machine sounded nearby.

Maybe it was the slow death, and these would be his final moments.

Better to die in a cell than live in a cell.



He awoke again later, his body curled together, his hands pressed between his knees and thighs, the hands still cold. The right side, on which he had been lying, was frigid. He rubbed a hand against the ball of his shoulder and felt the ridges the floor had pressed into the skin. Some bits of the floor, a stone of some kind, were stuck in the tissue of his skin and he brushed them off or out, the little bits clicking as they hit the ground once more.

He stood up slowly, his muscles tense and uncooperative. Though he’d not slept on his left side, or so he thought, it was nearly as frozen as the right. He leaned down to touch his toes and felt the tendons and ligaments in his back and legs creak until his fingers tapped his toes. Kale let his back rise some and hung over his knees, like a deactivated droid, letting the blood flow warmth into his limbs.

Then standing back up fully, he bent over backward as far as he could without falling, feeling his stomach and chest expand as his arms arced backward. He did not feel a ceiling against his hands, and knew that the room was thus at least 3 and a half meters high. He still couldn’t see.

He held his right hand out in front of him and walked forward, testing the floor on each step with his toes before setting his whole foot down. He came into contact with a wall very shortly thereafter, the material rough like the floor. He found that the wall he faced was perhaps three meters across and ended in sharp, ninety-degree angles. He continued along the adjacent wall with his right hand, and found that this wall was perhaps five meters in length.

The wall that faced the three meter wall had a smooth part in the middle. Kale knew instinctively it was a door, but he felt every inch of it and could not find a seam, a hinge, a handle, anything. It was one solid block with no imperfections.



****



Vera stood in front of that midnight door, sensing the Wound inside, knowing it was the Mandalorian lying there in the cold. She did not need to view the camera feed to know what the man was doing; even with his utter lack of life in the Force, somehow, she felt his emotions, even the motions of his body. It was disconcerting, and to Visto Cafran she had turned.

He stood there, next to her, watching her watch the door. They were not on Coruscant, for this Mandalorian would not be turned over to the High Council. Vera could guess at what they might do – put the man on trial, perhaps even imprison him for life after, but she had other ideas. Visto knew them the moment he saw her, but had not yet spoken a word in favor or opposition.

Vera needed a base of her own away from Coruscant and more permanent than her ship, and after looking through the archives, had discovered this long-forgotten world. They were on a planet long-secluded from the Core, a world the Jedi fled nearly ten thousand years prior. The Jedi built this temple, now mostly a series of overgrown ruins after disuse, but one section stood fully intact: the prison. The histories of that time corresponded to an unacknowledged schism of the Order, one wiped clean from the official histories. The Jedi had locked their own inside these walls, that she knew.

Visto, a lover of history and a deep intellectual spirit, knew what this world meant to the Jedi from long ago; he had seen the forbidden texts before Atris locked them away. He had not said it to Vera yet, though she felt it radiating from him: he had read the history of this planet with his friend Exar Kun, and they had been here before. Their presences, such young and promising Jedi, still existed in the temple where they had stayed for some time, researching the powers forbidden them by the Order.

Visto was uncomfortable standing here, but he had hailed her call and had come. No doubt, she knew, that he wished to convince her of his opinion, that her tactics would lead her down a dark path. She would let him speak his piece, if he needed to.

“You have asked me to come, Revan. I can feel much, but I am no clairvoyant: what do you wish to ask me?” Visto said, somewhat coldly.

“Can a bond exist between two people?” she asked. He knew what she meant, and he shifted slightly before replying.

“Yes. There are a number of these, and the greatest number are found among certain species, twins of various sentients, and especially between and among Jedi. The Master-Padawan bond is strong in most cases, though as you yourself know, that is not always the case,” Visto said. She didn’t feel stung, though she knew he referred to her stormy training under Kreia. The woman had disappeared long ago, and Vera never had a thought as to where she’d been, never felt a glimpse through the Force that Kreia was here or there. Kreia was a master in cloaking her presence, but even the most gifted in that art could be found by their Padawan learners, or their own Master. That woman was her trainer in the Force and nothing more; nothing of her presence remained in Vera.

“Can one exist between a Jedi and one who is devoid of the Force?” she asked simply.

“Yes, one can. It is rare, to be frank with you, and it is dangerous,” he said.

“What isn’t dangerous these days?” she mused.

“Sounds like something I’d joke about too,” Visto said, and Vera almost caught a hint of a smile on his face. But, had it existed, his visage returned to a more serious one.

“Tell me why it is dangerous.”

“You already know the reasons, Revan. Is this all you came here to ask of me? Questions you already know how to answer? My time is not precious, not like it used to be, but there are things I could be doing for the Order,” he said curtly.

Vera tugged on her lip with her bottom teeth. She wanted to apologize to Visto for treating him the way she had earlier, pushing off his fatherly concerns, so rudely telling him to back off after Serroco. She needed, she knew, his advice on what to do with this man, knowing he could advocate the Council’s path on one hand, her path on the other, and provide his own idea with a third hand. She wanted to tell him she loved him and wanted him to join her because she needed him, because leading billions was so desperately lonely.

But she said none of these things and instead stood looking at the blackness of the door, the void a tomb for the person with a void inside him. Visto stood with her a few more moments longer, his right hand curling and uncurling. Vera knew he wanted to speak, but like her, he did not. He left, his boots clicking softly on the stone floor. A few moments later, the distant hum of his shuttle reached the prison section before tailing off into silence.

She stood at the door and watched it.



She woke on her own and reached out, feeling Alek and Meetra’s presence nearing the prison section. She stood and brushed the gentle dust from her armor and turned to face them as they entered the corridor. Alek was in his rust-armor, a new cape attached to it. She raised her eyebrow behind the helmet and swallowed a snide comment about the cape. Meetra was in simpler armor, brown and cream, and her hair was now up in a loose ponytail. They both looked relaxed, and Vera even thought, somewhat pleased.

“Let’s see the bastard,” Alek snarled, though with a smile. The allure of seeing the war prisoner seemed to pique some lust in him, and his gaze was alive with something primal.

“In time, Alek,” Vera replied.

“No, not in time, now,” Alek said commandingly. He was much taller than Vera, well over two meters in height, and his confidence now seemed to fill him to the brim. His exploits at the front were becoming more well-known, and his guise as Captain Malak spread his fame across the galaxy. He was receiving interesting nomes de guerre, like “Scourge of the Mandalorians” and “The Steel Fist” for his ferocious fighting, both in interpersonal combat and in leading fleets into battle (though always with her strategies pre-planned).

“Order me around like one of your civilian soldiers or admirals and I’ll put a blade through your jaw for speaking like that,” Vera snapped back. Alek recoiled, and his saber hand twitched but stayed where it was. Meetra looked somewhat taken aback, but said nothing. Vera tensed; she would draw her saber if he did.

Alek, needing something to do with his hands, readjusted the collar of his armor, tugging on it as though it wasn’t fitting perfectly, though it was. “What will we do with the war prisoner, then?” he asked, his tone much subdued. Vera relaxed, letting her guard down seeing his compliance before her.

“We will keep him here and mine him for information. I have probed some of his mind and know that he was the commander responsible for firing on Serroco. He was not a significant commander in the Mandalorian army, nothing like Fett or Ordo, but I am assuming he was on the rise, judging from the bits I’ve gathered. Intelligence is working on his background and we should know more soon.”

“Shouldn’t we turn him over to the Council?” Meetra asked.

“They wouldn’t know what to do with him,” Alek said dismissively, waving the idea off physically.

“They would know some things to do, but I do not wish to give them such an important pawn. The Council is weak, soft; they would not have the stomach to do what I plan to do. They would politely ask him to reveal information, and when he doesn’t, they would turn him over the Republic. As an alleged war criminal, he would have rights – to a lawyer, to a trial, to judgment. He would be paraded publicly before the galaxy and probably found guilty, whether he speaks or not. The Republic needs someone to openly punish, to tell the galaxy ‘look – this man is at fault, heap your blame at his feet.’ And then they would lock him in prison for eternity.

“I believe he deserves none of these things. A trial before the Republic would be a distraction; we need the media focused on our war efforts, how we are beginning to change the equation at the front, how the recruitment efforts are succeeding, how the Revanchists are inspiring change and defeating Mandalorians hand-to-hand. Nor does he deserve to defend himself, to give attention to the Mandalorian side of this story. They are the embodiment of evil; to even risk giving the galaxy a sympathetic figure would do far more damage than a finding of guilt.”

“How do you know he would be sympathetic?” Meetra asked.

“I have seen into his mind and he is filled with remorse over the bombing over Serroco. I do not know how he would react in a Republic trial, but there is no easier way to gain sympathy than to profess his apologies, or to blame a superior, or something. It would be a natural reaction, and not one we need in public. We cannot allow the Mandalorians to be humanized in any way,” Vera answered.

“So, if we are doing none of those things, what are we doing?” Alek asked.

“We will let him sit with his mind, find out as much as we can from afar, and then interrogate him,” Vera said.

“Do you know how to do that?” Alek asked somewhat skeptically.

“Not in the way we may need to, no. Meetra, I need to ask you a favor,” Vera said.

“Anything, Vera,” the newly-minted Knight replied. Following the capture of the Mandalorian on Nar Shaddaa, there had been a few…incidents with The Exchange. Meetra had proven her mettle in battles necessary to get off the planet, and she had relayed the exploits to Kavar. He knighted Meetra almost on the spot upon her arrival back on Coruscant, while Vera took the Mandalorian to this planet.

“You must gain access to the Archives in the Temple on Coruscant and bring me a few specific holocrons and tomes on interrogation. You will know which they are, and you will find none of them in the public sections. Can you do it?” Vera asked.

Meetra looked unsure, her gaze flicking to some space at Vera’s right, searching for an answer. Vera knew the request was difficult, the illegality and immorality unspoken but obvious.

“Yes, I can,” Meetra finally said.

“Thank you, Meetra. There are few people I can trust to perform such a task. Normally I might ask Alek, but I think even he would acknowledge the absurdity of his being in a library,” Vera said, laughing.

“Absolutely right,” Alek said between chuckles, actual pure laughter. Meetra joined in, a big smile on her face. Vera felt some of the tension release with the laughter, and felt much better than she had in a long time. The company of friends could dispel the black thoughts constantly in her mind, and for that she was glad.

“For now, I shall remain here and discover what I can from this Mandalorian. Meetra, return as soon as you can. Alek, return to the front and give the bastards your special brand of hell, though try to lose fewer ships in the process if you could. Go now; we are making progress every day we give hope to the galaxy.”



****



Meetra’s transport touched down at the Temple; a protocol droid greeted her and offered to carry her belongings, but she thanked the teal droid and told it that she was leaving them on the transport. Little sound penetrated the vastness of the Temple; few Jedi or civilians walked among the oversized atriums and halls. Meetra felt tiny and alone in this massive edifice, wondering if her presence disrupted the stillness of the Temple.

She supposed this was the Order at war: most Jedi flung across the galaxy, fighting to stop an enemy too powerful for the Republic. She wasn’t nearly old enough to know anything but the history of the war with Exar Kun, but Kavar had been a young Padawan and told her plenty. Even Master Cafran, when in a good enough mood, would speak some. They recalled the days when the Temple was empty; she imagined it was like this.

Her boots were soft-soled, but even the quiet whisper of her footsteps traveled a long distance inside the Temple. A few droids moved about, their gears and wheels and androidal feet clanking and whirring and clicking, but that was all. She moved past the Grand Atrium down one of the halls until she came to the library.

Meetra knew, simply from listening to the timbre and confidence of Vera’s voice, that she had been a magnificent student of history, philosophy, politics, strategy, and metaphysics. Meetra smiled to herself: though hardly the intellectual Vera was, the library had always been one of her favorite home away from homes; she’d been caught by Maloum and Atris more than once for sleeping on a desk or in a chair or before a holocron.

She hesitated on the entrance to the library: was she merely following in the footsteps of Vera? The question was one she’d asked herself before, but it came to the front again, standing there. Not that it was necessarily bad to follow such an important and well-rounded Jedi: Vera was often whispered about as a young Nomi Sunrider before Vera took to space with her talk of armies and battle. Now they whispered about her more quietly, and with names less than respected anymore: Exar Kun was often at the tip of a tongue.

Meetra knew that was bantha poodoo; Vera could never act and kill the way Kun did. It wasn’t in her nature, and Meetra would never follow a Jedi like that. She deeply respected Vera for what she was doing, and following her had been her choice from the beginning. The Mandalorians were brutes, and negotiations were never going to work – they only responded to force. And force was what Vera brought to them.

Vera had asked her for some dangerous holocrons and works on interrogation, some that Meetra figured might veer into torture. As she stood there at the entrance to the library, she felt some unease creep into her stomach: was it right to take these works to Vera? Meetra had seen Vera’s posture, her aggressive stance in response to Alek, but also how even speaking about the Mandalorian revealed deep-seated anger in her. It was akin to watching a hurricane, not from inside or near it, but from above in the sky or in space, seeing the swirling clouds and the absolute might curling, waiting to strike at any second.

But the Mandalorian deserved to suffer for killing those innocents on Serroco, didn’t he? The Order always spoke of forgiveness and respect for sentient life, but did all sentient life deserve the same respect, especially considering what the sentient did with their life? Meetra exhaled: these were the questions she knew all Jedi struggled with, and speaking with Vera or Visto or Nomi or Kavar would lead to four differing answers. The right answer for each person was their own calculus, not that of any other, or so Kavar told her.

Stopping the Mandalorians was of the utmost urgency, and if the Mandalorian in captivity could help them, then all things were necessary. This was a war for the soul of the galaxy: war was violent, brutal, horrific, bloody, terrible, and a million more adjectives. If that meant the Mandalorian would suffer, then so be it. The galaxy was not at peace, and she would give her all to return it to that status.

Meetra stepped through the entrance to the library, her determination overwhelming that small voice in her stomach. No Jedi sat at desks, no Padawan learners milled about, trying not to study. Meetra pushed out her senses with the Force, but heard nothing and felt no one nearby. Maloum had been dead a few years now, lost to old age, but the possibility of Atris being around could not be ignored. The library was her territory, and the frosty woman had an unusual ability to cloak herself from other Jedi.

The forbidden section was located to the rear of the library, chained off by old lock and key. Meetra felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth: even in this era, with such incredible technology that could protect the works in an airtight, impossible-to-enter vault, the Jedi remained traditional and used a lock and key. It was almost as if the Jedi knew these works might be necessary and therefore should be more accessible. Meetra tugged at the chain, feeling it rattle solidly. She did not have a key, and was not skilled in this kind of lockpicking at all.

Meetra unhooked her saber from her belt and adjusted the blade length and strength to their lowest amounts. The cerulean blade emerged half a meter shorter than normal and with a low intensity, such that the hum was far reduced, though it felt incredibly loud inside the silent library. She pushed the blade through a link in the chain, melting the steel away. The chain clattered to the marble floor before she could catch it, but no alarm sounded and she didn’t sense the alarm of Atris nearby.

She picked up the chain and hung it over a space in the grating and then pulled the door open. There was one pathway stretching before her about forty meters, with shelving on each side. She looked to the sides of the shelves, expecting topics and references to what lay there, but the wooden cases were silent. Meetra paused before the first set and reached out with the Force, trying to form Vera’s question in her mind.

The response of the books and holocrons in the section left her vibrating from head to toe, with the sudden anticipation that they might be opened and viewed. All kinds of answers touched her senses: more whispers than she could hear of what the work offered, the delicious scent of freshly baked chocolate mixed with the taste of rain came from another, a caress of a hand that did not exist down her spine to her lower back and then sliding around her waist to her thighs.

She cut herself off from the Force quickly, the sensation of her body’s urgency to respond to that mysterious caress unnerving her. She had underestimated the danger of this place, that such works imbued with the Force could respond so easily, so seductively to her query. Meetra paused for a few moments, catching her breath physically and figuratively, as well as trying to dampen the unnatural lust still coursing in her. After some time, she walked down each aisle, looking over the books and holocrons by title, careful to avoid touching any without necessity.

“Discovering Secrets” sounded promising: it was an old book, though not very dusty, as though it had been recently viewed. Meetra cracked it open and slowly flipped through the book, conscious to keep the Force at bay though she could feel it almost clawing to return inside her skin. The book was certainly what Vera wanted and Meetra placed it on the only cart in the section.

“The Art of Interrogation” and “Divining Hidden Truths in Jedi” also made it onto the cart. Even cut from the Force, the holocrons turned themselves on when she neared, revealing some of what was inside them, each image or clip meant to entice the viewer to fully open them and indulge in their secrets. Their allure was powerful, drawing sight and sound together, just like a good holo-movie did as well. Even closing her eyes, the holocrons reached out for her.

She found three that seemed applicable, and knowing their power when physically touched, she Lifted them with the lightest touch of the Force she could manage into a small pouch on her waist. Even then, they were crying out for her attention and the effort required to block them out was beginning to tire her out mentally as well as physically. The section in which she had found the holocrons and three books seemed to be the only one relevant, so she passed quickly through the rest, averting her eyes from imagery and making sure she had secured the most useful works.

She pushed the small cart to the end of the section, Lifted the books from it and placed them on the ground before her. The chain had one link missing from her blade, but she refashioned it with her last reserves of strength, bending two links open and then closed around the other in a steel embrace across the bars of the doors. She adjusted the chain to rest in front the way she had found it, though a few centimeters higher than before, and turned to leave with the books in a handled bag she had Called from behind the librarian’s desk.

Meetra stole out of the library as quickly and quietly as possible, now expecting Atris to emerge from some dark corner in the only way she could. But Atris never appeared; no Jedi did between the library and her transport. She stuffed the holocron pack inside the bag with the books and then tucked them in a corner in the engine room, eager to keep them away from her as long as possible.

She started the transport up, maneuvered the small Correllian vessel toward the opening door, and pushed forward on the steering column. A small flash of white caught her eye, and she turned to look at Atris standing at the entrance to the hangar bay as Meetra’s ship carried her from the Jedi Temple, back to Revan.



****

 

And I bet it was Atris herself that had been doing shady things with those books on interrogation recently. Vera's questions for Visto make me wonder: has she started a bond with Kale.

I can't wait to see where the rest of this goes!

 

SoA - I love Atris. Sometime, I have to write a short from her perspective. She's quite a bit of my inspiration for my Revan here, actually. Onward we go, dear reader(s).



Chapter 14 - Pains



Memories returned to Kale slowly. He had eaten no food and drunk no water in what felt like weeks, yet he remained alive. Near the beginning of this never-ending imprisonment, he attempted to remain in peak physical condition, doing push ups and squats away from the hole in the ground that passed as a refresher. Even those bodily functions had ceased as well. He was weak, tired, slowly wasting away into a pile of bones and skin.

He felt caught in a time-sink, a purgatory, a pause in life. Nothing moved in the room, no sounds came from the outside. The walls were devoid of life; no rustles of rats or insects could be heard inside the walls, even when he rested his ear against them for hours.

Each day, he had to concentrate strenuously to recall even some of the simplest details of his life that should be second nature. His name was Kale Ordo. He was a Mandalorian. His wife was named Jena, and she was dead. His father had never been found, but was presumed dead. He had been a commander in Mandalore’s navy two decades ago. Kale’s favorite book had been a small work, The Strategy of War, a central work for the Mandalorians. He once memorized it, and now tried to recall passages. Some came:

“The man who strikes first recklessly shall fail. The man who strikes first with confidence is the victor.”

“The matter most affecting victory is the heart of the warrior; if the heart is weak, the warrior will fall. If the heart is strong, the warrior will succeed, in life or in death.”

“Strategy is not the enemy of the bold; it is their guiding hand.”

He screwed up his eyebrows attempting to remember more, but little came through but snatches and glimpses. His mind wheeled from that small book, resting on a shelf in his old home now, to memories of his wife. She was there, he knew, a solid element in his heart and soul, a piece of him now lost. Her image, the feel of her hand on his waist, the scent of her favorite body oil – none of it came to him. The inability to recall and see her made him cry.

Kale sat there, naked on the ground, thinner than he’d been since a boy, struggling to recall even basics. Mandalorians were never implicated as intelligent, but Kale knew he’d been somewhat different in his upbringing, the way his father sat him on his lap and read large, heavy books to him before he inevitably dropped off to sleep. This inability to push through the clouds in his head…in some ways it was worse than sitting inside his likely tomb.

He put his hand against the wall, exhaled in frustration, and stared into the nothingness.



The figure entered the tomb a second time, and somehow light existed even when the tomb’s door shut closed. The man wore the same boots which clicked with the same precision; the leather made sharp squeaks as he moved, knelt, bent down, whatever it was he was doing. Kale simply sat there, naked, not looking up at the man. When he spoke, the voice resounded as though it came from the most distant depths of the man’s soul, even with the Mandalorian vocabulator masking the true timbre and resonance. Days later, Kale would wonder just why this man wore a Mandalorian helmet.

“I am the Revanchist, Mandalorian.”

Kale knew the man was speaking the truth; an aspect of the man’s solidity in the room betrayed the absolute metaphysical aura he could feel wash over him every second the man stood there, every second the man was not in the tomb. The aura was omnipresent, the walls and door and stones breathing with the life of the Revanchist, alive with the power of the man. The man was no myth, but flesh and body and blood. Even in the confines of this tiny room, charisma, intelligence, and might rolled off in waves.

“You are a Mandalorian warrior. A commander, in fact, in the Mandalorian military. You captained a ship that committed an atrocity. Do you recall these things?” the Revanchist said in a quiet voice, squatting to Kale’s left.

The burning planet, one of the only images that would not leave him, came to the forefront of his mind and he involuntarily shut his eyes, trying to push it away.

“That’s right, Kale Ordo, stare into those flames of hell that you unleashed. Stare until your eyes melt, until your heart stops, until your soul is as burned as the billions that died. Embrace your sin, embrace it with loving arms, live in its moment for all time,” the Revanchist whispered. The man paused a beat: “But I will not let you die, not yet, Kale Ordo. You will not leave this life that easily.”

The boots clicked, the door creaked open as noisily as before, and then it closed with a heavy, definite thunk.

Kale opened his eyes and felt intense heat around him, a rush of air far hotter than anything he’d felt in the days or weeks he’d been in the room. And all around him was not the cold, darkness of the prison tomb, but flames all around him, taller than he, towering over him with their fantastic whites and reds and oranges and blues, mocking his eyes that had not seen light in so long.

He shaded them but the light found its way through the solidity of his arm, through his eyelids, the light and the heat now so close that he could feel his toes turning cold, as one puts their hand under scalding water and feels at first it was an ice bath they entered.

And then the pain began, spreading a few seconds behind the white-hot coldness as the two sensations traveled from his toes to his ankles, then up his calves and snaking between his thighs and then it started in his fingertips and he opened his eyes and there was nothing but fire around him, the light burning into his eyes, the pain now in every pore of his body with such intensity that he wished it would end right then along with his life but it did not cease.

The agony continued for what seemed to be hours. Soon, he could not help crying out, trying to distract his body from the pain. It did not work.



****



Vera stepped away from the room, exhausted. There was too little time in a given Galactic day now for everything she needed to do. Reading through the books Meetra had brought as well as viewing the sometimes horrifying holocrons expended more energy than she’d imagined, fighting off the seduction that oozed out from them in the Force. The techniques were not working well on the Mandalorian – well, the pain certainly worked, but he remained silent in defiance.

Even entering his mind was producing no results; he seemed to grow foggier each time. She puffed up her cheeks and blew all the air from her lungs out before taking new air in, trying to calm herself. She didn’t know why he was not responding to the treatments, why he refused to speak, why the only sounds that came from him were cries of pain. Maybe she was doing too much? Or too little? She needed advice, but there was no one to ask. Not anymore.

She leaned her forehead against a rocky wall in the corridor outside the prison cells, thinking and breathing evenly. The Mandalorian was only a small element in this grand game playing across the galaxy, but something kept her drawn to him, but what that was eluded her. There was fascination in standing nearly face to face with a mass murderer, in probing his mind and emotions and background, in testing her self-control by not loping his head off with a clean blow, or stabbing him through the heart. He was mysterious, and she needed to know more.

Her forehead itched and she leaned up, wiping away the dirt on it. There were things to do now, though she wished to rest, the interrogative techniques pulling so much from her each time. She didn’t quite know how to recharge her reserves after delving into such darkness, fighting to keep it separate from her internal character, though it grew more difficult over the weeks. This was a necessary moment in her life, and she would come out the same on the other side, she knew it.

Vera made her way to what once passed as a kind of communications room; inside sat one protocol droid, compiling intelligence and communiqués requiring her response. There was always a large amount to view on the datapad, but the droid was keenly programmed to push a number of requests back so that lower-ranked Jedi or admirals could take care of them, leaving only the most important for her.

There were only thirty today, less than the forty or fifty that normally came through. The droid used to read them in its monotone voice, but after about five she would be fast asleep in an uncomfortable position and would need to catch up later. Now the droid was more or less mute, only asking what it could cook for her or reminding her of things. She was glad to not have a more chatty companion, though she missed her talks with Meetra.

Meetra had been nearly as white as Atris’ tunic by the time she made it to the planet with the books and holocrons, and Vera sensed how much it took from the young Jedi to bring them to her. Meetra had many questions for her and Vera had answered them as best as possible, trying to guide the young woman on her own path, yet keep her close to her in the war effort. Vera sensed that Meetra was as important as Alek, a major piece in the war.

Vera scrolled through the reports, answering vocally to the droid, which put her responses down and sent them in reply to the correct communiqués. A holoimage map hung across from her, updated via secure link to the Naval headquarters on Coruscant so she could keep awareness about the war. Alek, ‘Captain Malak’, was busy near Ord Mantell, as the Mandalorians were attempting to swing forces up and toward the Republic’s left flank.

Mandalore was a smart bastard, that she knew and had discovered again more than once when she thought she was beginning to trap him. Most forces had been concentrated down on the right flank, between Taris and Onderon, cutting off the Parlemian trade route as well as threatening the Hapes Cluster. Much of the Mid Rim to the east had fallen now to the Mandalorians, even if only nominally. They were a massive force, but could not hold each and every world individually and at all times. They lacked a rearguard, and Vera knew it was their weakness.

The problem, she knew as she stared at that constantly updating map, was that to get to the rear, would require too many resources than could be spared. If she pulled a large fleet together, even relying on merchant marine and prototype vessels, the line would break like a weakened dam, and the Parlemian route would lead them along a series of economic giants, not military giants, until they reached Coruscant. The capital was well-defended, thanks to her insistence, but it would fall to any direct assault without question.

A swing to the rear, through Hutt space was risky by allowing the Mandalorians that direct line, but then she would be behind their fleet and then what – she wouldn’t be able to catch up before they were in the Core. And yet the Mandalorians lack of a rearguard to watch their own backs was the only weakness she had found through so much studying; not even the foremost military thinkers and academics could find any other way to shift the strategic balance in their favor.

It was a stalemate, a grinding and halting effort that took two steps forward one month and two steps back another. The military had been in conflicts more extended than this, though not in living memory. They were frustrated with her leadership, or at least some leaders were who had voiced their opinions anonymously to the media. She massaged her neck as she recalled all those big speeches she had given, knowing she had raised hopes too high without understanding just how long the war would take.

“Master Revan, your meeting begins in five minutes,” the protocol droid announced to her. She blinked, realizing she had dozed off for half an hour. She popped the helmet off and rubbed her temples while engaging in a quick breathing exercise. She turned her chair to the right to the other viewscreen as it snapped on. Her image feed was off, but on cue the other attendees appeared on their screens.

Malak looked fatigued, or else he wasn’t getting enough sunlight: he looked paler than usual, with sunken bags under his eyes and redness around them. His hair had grown back, but he’d clearly shaved it off once more and now was sporting large blue tattoos in a pattern on his head. Vera didn’t like it, but if it didn’t interfere with his prowess in battle, she didn’t care. He could be oddly fussy about his appearance. Probably why he went by Captain Malak as well.

Rear Admiral Saul Karath appeared on the screen next to Malak; he also looked exhausted. His once full head of hair seemed to be thinner somehow, though Vera only caught a glimpse before the admiral jammed his hat on. He’d successfully held off the Mandalorians across the Taris-Vanquo line but refused to take well-deserved leave and was back at Taris after losing his command ship at Serroco. He had beat himself up over the planet’s destruction after being warned by the seemingly renegade Jedi Carrick that it would be destroyed. Vera had convinced him to channel the anger at himself into anger against the Mandalorians and it was working.

Admiral Inntun Davaros appeared on the third screen; he was the top officer of the Navy on Coruscant, the replacement for the failed Grand Admiral Kaleerian. She had purposefully not promoted him to the level of a five-star admiral and he remained with four instead. There was plenty of grumbling after that, but the Navy had failed too many times under Kaleerian and they needed to be reminded of that fact. Davaros was competent if not particularly inventive or creative, but he was a step up compared to his predecessor.

General Marl Yusanis was the final member of this small five-man committee. Though Vera was mostly devoid of sexual attraction to any other person, even she admitted that General Yusanis was one of the most attractive men she’d come across. He was Echani and known to be one of the most skilled non-Jedi with a blade; rumors persisted that he had fought Nomi Sunrider to a draw in a friendly skirmish nearly twenty years prior. There were also rumors of his affair with a Jedi Master in the past decade, but Vera didn’t care to know if it was true or not. She could understand why, though. While the Echani enjoyed relative autonomy from the Republic, he had offered his services five years before and quickly rose to the peak of the ranks through extraordinary charisma and his strategic mind.

Vera put the helmet back on and allowed her screen to broadcast her image.

“Gentlemen, welcome,” she said simply. Each nodded in response; all could see the others. “Let’s begin with Admiral Davaros.”

“Thank you, Revan. Gentlemen, please refer to your orbital map. As you very well know, Mandalore is testing the left flank. Captain Malak will certainly expand on this, but I’d like to talk some on Mandalore’s motives from my position. As the situation along the Taris-Vanquo line has hardened, and with little success on the right flank near the Hapes Cluster, Mandalore is seeking to shift the balance of power and test us on another axis.

“To me, this speaks of some frustration. The involvement of the Republic and particularly the more-battle tested Jedi has swung the fortunes back toward us, though not so far we can push over like a breaking dam. If Mandalore is in fact frustrated, then we might be able to force him into a situation where he will make mistakes. But this seems to be less than likely, considering his talents in strategy. You are gifted Revan, as we all are in strategy and tactics, but Mandalore is a being unlike any other.

“But after being tested for the past two years, I’m confident our logistics train can shift enough resources to cover this new area. However, we are struggling in producing enough high-quality recruits fast enough in addition to a dramatic slowdown in resources to produce further ships, weapons, and basing equipment. I hope we can speak further on how to reverse these setbacks, as we may become a ‘datapad army’, if you will, without actual physical tools to prosecute the war. That’s all I have currently, Revan.”

“Thank you Admiral, Davaros, we shall cover those issues. Rear Admiral, if you please,” Vera said.

“Thank you, Revan. I’d echo what Admiral Davaros has said, as well. On the front here, I think we’re nearing an opportunity to break the Mandalorian control of Taris. Mandalore has more resources but has pulled some from this part of the front to reinforce the strikes out where Captain Malak is serving. He had the resource advantage but never seemed to press it in the past few months; I believe this was due to focusing on the flanks as opposed to the center. Now, the balance is much closer and I believe in a month we can make a strong push to take Taris back.

“To be up front, Revan, morale is beginning to dip here on the edges. We haven’t won a major confrontation in nearly a year, obviously not for want of trying, but because we’re at a stalemate. We need a powerful moment – a new weapon, a new victory, a new partner in this war in order to raise morale. That’s all I would add,” Karath finished.

“Thank you Rear Admiral, we will discuss that as well, I believe I have a few ideas. General Yusanis, if you please.”

“Thank you, General Revan. Though we require fewer resources as a branch compared to the Navy, we are beginning to see strains in our logistical chain, particularly in terms of armaments for artillery and large vehicular warfare. We’ve also noticed another uptick in prices for wares, something we may need to look at again. Though criminal enterprises are not using these weapons, Intelligence believes, and I concur with them, that The Exchange and the Hutt are re-entering the market in order to drive up prices again. They’ll make more money, of course, but I see a political motive – they could later claim to a victorious Mandalorian army that they were applying pressure on the Republic and avoid significant punishment. Since we will be victorious, though, their reply to us would be that they simply sought protection in case the Mandalorians came close to their interests.

“I should also mention that we’re seeing the same with some of the galactic corporations, such as Lhosan Industries and the non-militaristic part of Czerka. Though Lhosan pulled out of Taris two years ago for safety purposes, I feel that we are somehow losing legitimacy as protection for Republic-aligned corporations. Not that we must somehow cater to these entities, but their support is vital not only regarding supplies, but in keeping the overall morale of the galactic civilians up. When theirs falls, we suffer from recruiting problems as well.

“Regarding our military issues, currently there is nothing major I need to bring to the attention of the committee. We, like the Navy, will always suffer casualties and this we understand. We shall continue to do our damnedest, General. Thank you,” Yusanis said in his rich baritone. She had noticed the others nodding during his update and knew he had his finger on the military pulse as well as that of the political arena. She could foresee politics in his future, with his charisma, intelligence, experience, and good looks. She’d vote for him.

“Thank you, General. Captain Malak, go ahead,” she said.

“Thanks Revan. I’ll be specific regarding the Mandalorians here. I’m currently based on Ord Mantell, if anyone is unaware. The Mandalorians, in extending the front to this flank, have avoided a few key planets such as Katarr and Iridonia. However, I think they’re going to make a move for Iridonia, as every time they’ve come up against a strong civilization, they will eventually attack it in order to prove their dominance. I’m unsure whether they’ll attack the Miraluka, considering their Force sensitivity, but if the Mandalorians misunderstand the relationship of the Miraluka to the Jedi, they may attack there as well,” Malak said.

“And be in for a rude surprise,” General Yusanis put in. Malak looked somewhat annoyed he was interrupted, but the adjoining laughter broke the tension before he continued.

“Tactics and techniques seem to be the same: Basilisk invasions preceded by orbital bombardments. No nuclear weapons have been used, though. Sector intelligence provided by Military Intel puts the commander of the fleet as General Ordo. Though the tactics have been similar, this fleet is exceedingly well-run and I’m frustrated to say there are almost no holes in their perimeter. They do not stretch their lines to appear larger. That’s all.”

“Thank you, Captain Malak. Gentlemen, it appears we have a few major issues, each interconnected. Morale is dropping as well as resources, we have a criminal organization problem as we always do, and this third front are drawing both sides’ resources to new areas. In this last point, I feel relatively certain that even a new front will maintain the stalemate for the most part, as neither side is exponentially increasing its manpower or materiel.

“But, it is obvious that we require something that changes events in favor. I believe I have two, though the first will be unpleasant. The strategic cost of this move will pay off, but the tactical aspect is sure to be difficult to watch. Captain Malak, you would concur that the Zabrak are a vengeful race, would you not?” Vera asked.

“I would, yes, judging from those I’ve seen in this sector of space. A number have come to our bases and fleets offering their assistance, and they bring a strong warrior culture with them. A number of Zabrak under my command have proved among the bravest, certainly,” Malak answered.

“General Yusanis?”

“I agree. Every Zabrak I’ve met since this war kicked off has expressed, either immediately or by the end of the conversation, their anger at losing colony worlds in their sector. As to their warrior culture, though not as bloodthirsty as the Mandalorians and not as talented as we Echani, I do believe they are a significantly powerful race as a generalization,” the general said.

“Then, I have a proposition that should make more sense now that you two have expanded on the Zabrak, confirming my own study of their history and culture. I believe we should allow Iridonia a certain amount of breathing space during this Mandalorian expansion,” Vera said carefully.

“Pardon me, General Revan, but are you suggesting that we allow Iridonia to the Mandalorians?” General Yusanis cut in quickly, raising his eyebrows.

“You may take my suggestion that way, General Yusanis, yes. Iridonia is not a world, that if lost, would cripple our strategic position on our left flank. However, it would produce an exponentially greater reaction among the Zabrak and would lead to not only an internal rebellion on Iridonia against the Mandalorians, but would send millions of Zabrak into the Republic’s arms as recruits. They are already as advanced technologically as we require in recruits and make excellent soldiers in all facets: strategy, combat, logistics, technology,” Vera said.

“If it backfires? What if the Mandalorians use nuclear weapons and wipe them out?” Yusanis challenged.

“Intending to sound practical, that would increase the Republic’s influx of Zabrak from across the galaxy, though the overall number would certainly be lower. But I doubt the Mandalorians would do that: the nuclear attack on Serroco was a lesson aimed at me. There is no lesson to be heard on Zabrak of similar intent; the Mandalorians would rather prove their prowess in personal combat with the Zabrak. This would not mean the Mandalorians would nuke them from above,” Vera responded.

“I think this is a strong idea, Revan. And as you were going to point out, I’m sure of it, this would shift the morale balance actually toward us by making Iridonia a rallying cry for some of our best warriors, which would be infectious to our non-Zabrak soldiers. Devious, Revan, truly devious,” Karath commented.

“I agree,” was the simple reply of Malak. Davaros nodded as well and everyone turned to Yusanis.

“Keep this among us and I feel it will work as you intend, Revan. I would never wish such destruction among a people as fine as the Zabrak, but I cannot argue against the logic and don’t foresee it working out any true other way. We must keep our distance, but not so obvious that it might seem conspiratorial. Is that possible, Captain Malak?” General Yusanis asked.

“It is, General. Ordo’s fleet may not be spread out far, but his massing and attacks can often come as a surprise. We shall reinforce Katarr in anticipation of attack there as well as Ithor, considering the Ithorians are relatively defenseless and we couldn’t leave them to the clutches of the Mandalorians,” Malak answered.

“I would’ve recommended the same, Captain, thank you,” Vera said. Malak inclined his head. “On another aspect of this business, we have this rapidly worsening resource problem as well as an issue with our criminal friends in The Exchange and with the Huttese. It is time to send a message, gentlemen, to these organizations. I have already dealt with one of the five major players in The Exchange, but it appears that was not enough.

“The Hutt are a loose organization, much like The Exchange. I believe it is time to pay them a visit and demonstrate that the current situation is untenable. Some persuasion will be required.” The four men smiled and nodded. “Good. Then it appears my message on Nar Shaddaa was not grand enough. A visit to Nal Hutta should do the trick. Gentlemen, thank you for attending. May the Force be with you.”



****



The torture soon became something closer to a routine, something Kale expected, though the timing was always unexpected and unpleasant. And yet, whether the Revanchist intended it or not, the torture, though horrible mentally and physically, told him something he almost felt he might forget sitting in this dungeon alone: that he was alive and that he could feel. Did it make any sense that sitting and sleeping in a cold cell alone made him feel closer to the ground while the excruciating pain and terror gave him strength when it was meant to take it away?

The Revanchist did not speak anymore; did not often even enter the room when the torture began. Much of it remained inwardly inside his mind: a creation of situations where pain occurred, such as the fires he somehow became engulfed in, or the times when he would slowly, inevitably freeze. But the worst, a demonstration of the depths to which the Revanchist sunk, happened when he watched the death of his wife, her image now starkly real and corporeal and so close to him. The Revanchist killed her, or let her die in this mind of minds in horrific ways, ways that he could not even think of harming another person.

Without being spoken to, he did not understand what the Revanchist desired from him. There was no interrogation in the common sense, where he was tortured for information. He had not consciously revealed it, he wasn’t sure many Mandalorians had even the occasion to, but their training as soldiers involved torture at the hands of their leadership. Kale had been drowned slowly with water, forced to drink poison and allowed close to the point of death before an anti-toxin was administered or vomiting induced, he had been burned on the soles of his feet and hands and whipped, he had been harmed in many ways. No Mandalorian relished it, but their life was a life that necessitated these preparations.

But no preparation prepared him for discovering that his leaders were bloodthirsty, that they could order their subordinate to destroy an entire planet to send a message to their enemy. This preparation did not allow him to watch the murder of his wife and somehow be okay with it, it did not make him feel one micron less anger and rage and hurt and betrayal and horror at what Fett did. They were Mandalorian! They were not Iridonian!

In a way, he knew all of that was immaterial. He hadn’t felt Mandalorian in months now, not since he had followed orders and killed all those people. He was just a man, perhaps to some a warrior, to many more a murderer. He couldn’t change those perceptions, didn’t know why he would even want to.

In the midst of these bursts of ‘life’ that his torture induced, he still consciously wished for it be the last time and be the end so he could continue to the afterlife. Jena was there, waiting for him, and he so desperately wished to be there. There wasn’t much he wanted out of actual life anymore, not if he was to sit in this cell. About the only thing he desired was to cut the heart of Cassus Fett from his body and allow Fett to see the end of his life.

He felt some sensation tickling at the back of his mind, like something was there that shouldn’t be, but as he focused on it, it disappeared. Just going slowly crazy, then he thought. He put his head down, and slept.



The Revanchist opened the door and Kale waited before turning around so the light would not hurt his eyes. He heard a rustle and then a sound of something hitting the floor, and then the door closed, the Revanchist gone. Kale waited a few more moments, then turned over and felt out with his hands. Cloth of some kind was resting on the floor, three pieces of it. It was rough; threads seemed to poke out of it everywhere as though it was somewhat unfinished.

After running his hands around it, he determined he’d been left with a pair of underwear, pants, and a tunic of some kind. He didn’t feel anything but the rough edges. But why would the Revanchist give him clothes after all this time? He hadn’t been attacked mentally in a few days, or what he was calling days. Had something changed?

Perhaps, Kale thought, this is the inevitable attempt to turn me to the Revanchist’s side. Another part of him jumped him: ‘But just what are you useful for?’ it said to him mockingly.

And then it occurred to him that the Revanchist, just maybe, wasn’t as experienced as he’d thought at first. Mandalorian intelligence had found little out about the Revanchist except that he was young, very young, to be in his position. He was a Jedi, had titled himself General, and used a little-known provision in the Galactic Code to declare himself the supreme military commander of the Republic. It was rumored he was from Corellia, hence his boldness, but other rumors pointed to some place in the Outer Rim.

Before Fett had exiled him, that was all he’d known about the Revanchist; they’d been briefed by Ordo every time new information came in from Mandalore. If the Revanchist was truly as young as many said, which seemed to be quite a consensus in a galaxy not known for it, then what would the Revanchist understand about torture and interrogation? Then again, he considered, how could the Revanchist be so damned strategic and tactical against Mandalore? He’d heard no news since being locked in this cell, but daily reporting in that brief week on Nar Shaddaa had revealed that the war was approaching a stalemate, and he had no reason to think otherwise.

Perhaps the Revanchist was a myth? But, a man calling himself that had stood in this very room and Kale had felt the authority and dominance in the room; he’d only felt that with Mandalore, and in a lesser sense, with Canderous. Never Fett, Kale noted absent-mindedly. Was he just affected in seeing and hearing someone after that long alone, that he had imagined in some feverish way the power of the Revanchist? Was it just some person hiding behind a mask, playing games with him?

His hand was still resting on the tunic, and he considered donning it versus leaving it there in some manner of spite. In the end, he put the clothing on simply for practicality, knowing that the even though he still was alive somehow without food or bowel movements or water, that such a life was being extended by the Revanchist’s Jedi powers and nothing more. And being dependent on such a person keeping him prisoner was not what he wanted, if he was going to have to keep living. Somehow, he needed to be free so he might escape this place and live some small, insignificant existence in the galaxy, away from this war. After he killed Fett, that is.

He could fool this Revanchist… and he would.

****

 

I'm a terrible reader, and I'm really sorry about that. You posted this right about when I made my move half-way around the world, and I got so tied up here, I forgot to check ever since.

But, that aside, fantastically done as usual. Vera is really losing her connection to the Jedi way of thinking, and her plans for Iridonia scare me. I am really curious what she has planned for Kale.