The Old Republic Series

by Sean Williams

  Scourge remained silent.

  Nyriss stretched her dry, cracked lips into an unsettling grin that seemed to fill the entire lower half of her wrinkled face. Scourge endured the rictus without comment until it mercifully faded.

  “I find it odd that someone with your reputation would be hard-pressed to defeat a single assault droid and a few patrol drones, yet you dispatched my mercenaries with ease.”

  It was obvious she was getting at something, but Scourge had no idea what it might be. “I … I don’t understand,” he finally admitted.

  “No, you don’t,” she agreed, briefly flashing another disconcerting smile. “Recite the Sith Code for me,” she instructed, sounding like one of the trainers at the Academy.

  “Peace is a lie; there is only passion. Through passion, I gain strength.” The words came easily to Scourge; the mantra had been drilled into his brain during his training until it was second nature. “Through strength, I gain power. Through power, I gain victory. Through victory my chains are broken.”

  “You know the words, but you do not truly understand them,” Nyriss admonished. “The dark side draws on the most powerful emotions: anger, hatred, fear. We are taught to use our emotions to unlock our true potential and unleash the Force against our enemies.”

  Scourge pushed down the impatience threatening to rise within him. She was saying nothing he hadn’t heard countless times during his apprenticeship, but she must have a reason he wasn’t yet seeing.

  “The Force runs through every living being,” she went on. “When we fight an opponent of flesh and blood, we draw on their emotions, as well. All who follow the dark side instinctively do this on some level—it is so instinctive that most instructors feel it does not need to be taught.” She paused, and again he wondered where she was going with all this.

  “I have studied your records from the Academy and observed your battle with the mercenaries in my courtyard,” she said at last. “You have a special gift. You do not just feed on the raw emotions of your foe; you gorge yourself on them. You feast on their primal fear. It amplifies your hate and anger. It fuels the power of the Force. It transforms you into an instrument of death and destruction.”

  Scourge nodded. Battling a living foe was intoxicating; with each attack and counter he felt a rush of heat coursing through his veins, energizing and empowering him. Yet he had felt almost none of that at the UDM plant. “When I fought the security droid, there was nothing to grab on to. It was cold. Empty.”

  “Precisely. You tried to feed off its nonexistent emotions, and in doing so only made yourself weaker. I wonder that this wasn’t observed in you; even the most powerful gift needs guiding to be used effectively.” She shook her head. “You are so used to using your gift that you neglect the most basic source of power: yourself. The next time you find yourself in a similar situation, you must turn your focus inward. Draw on your own emotions, and you will destroy your mechanical enemies as readily as you slaughter your organic ones.”

  Scourge nodded. He did not like being lectured, but her observation was a good one: he realized that he had, indeed, learned to rely on the emotions of his enemies to feed his power, and he had not seen that such a gift could also be a weakness. But one that, with time and practice, could be overcome.

  “A valuable lesson, my lord. One I will take to heart.”

  “I have enough sycophants working for me,” she answered, brushing off his gratitude.

  “But none can do what I do,” Scourge reminded her.

  Nyriss spread her lips into another gruesome smile, and Scourge resisted the urge to shudder as a chill crawled down his spine.

  “I hope your restored confidence will serve you well on your next mission,” she said. “The files Sechel recovered from UDM proved quite fruitful. He traced the payment for the custom droid sent to assassinate me back to a group of radical human separatists from Bosthirda dedicated to freeing their world from the tyranny of the Emperor and the Dark Council.”

  Heavy sarcasm dripped from her voice, and Scourge shared her contempt. There were some enemies he could respect; there were some causes he could understand even if he fought against them. This was not one of them.

  There were recently conquered worlds that suffered under the Empire’s yoke—planets like Hallion, where rebellion was to be expected. But Bosthirda had been part of the Empire for hundreds of years. Its people were full citizens, with all the rights and privileges of those on Dromund Kaas.

  Human separatist propaganda might cry out against unfair treatment of their species, but Scourge knew their claims were unfounded. The original Dark Jedi who had taught the Sith tribes the ways of the Force millennia ago had been human. And though their bloodlines had been absorbed into the Sith aristocracy long ago, humans still made up the vast majority of the Imperial population.

  There were human slaves, of course, but these were individuals born into the lower ranks of society, or those who had fallen through their own failures and weakness. Unlike other lesser species, they were not persecuted or discriminated against in any real way. There were no laws limiting their movements, no restrictions on what rank or position they could hold.

  Humans could rise to the highest ranks of the Imperial military; a number of worlds were even ruled by wealthy and powerful human families; and the Emperor had appointed many humans to serve on the Dark Council. Of the twelve current members, five were human, including Darth Xedrix—the Councilor with the longest active service.

  Humans had no right or reason to complain about their status in the Empire. The separatists were nothing but ungrateful scum and traitors.

  “Why did they target you?” Scourge wondered aloud. “Why not strike at the Emperor himself?”

  “The Emperor is too well protected,” Nyriss said. “Since they cannot get to him, one of the longest-serving members of the Dark Council is the next best thing.

  “And they would never strike at Darth Xedrix,” she added. “He is human; they probably consider him one of their own.”

  “What about Darth Igrol?” Scourge asked. “He is Sith, and he has served longer than anyone except Darth Xedrix.”

  “Igrol resides on Dromund Fels. Killing one of the Dark Council on Dromund Kaas—the Imperial capital—makes more of a statement.” She paused. “They may also have chosen me because of my history with Darth Xedrix. Ever since I joined the Dark Council there has been animosity between us. At the time he was one of the most powerful members, yet even from the start he sensed my potential and feared it. For decades he has schemed against me, but I have outmaneuvered him every time, slowly building up my allies and influence while his have dwindled away.”

  Nyriss wasn’t telling Scourge anything new. It was common knowledge that members of the Dark Council typically viewed one another as dangerous rivals, and there were always rumors of shadowy feuds being fought behind the scenes. Scourge believed the Emperor actually encouraged the infighting, since it dissuaded the various members from uniting their resources against him.

  Despite what Nyriss claimed, however, her rivalry with Darth Xedrix had been anything but one-sided. Both had seen their fortunes rise and fall and rise again, with neither able to gain enough of an upper hand to eliminate the other.

  Somehow Scourge didn’t think it would be prudent to mention this.

  “The separatists probably see my rivalry with Darth Xedrix as proof I dislike all humans. Untrue, of course, but a well-crafted lie will often serve where truth will not.”

  Her logic was sound, but the reasons hardly mattered. The separatists had tried to kill a member of the Dark Council. There had to be retribution.

  “I will find these traitors and eviscerate them,” he declared.

  “They’ve already been found. Sechel was able to use the information he acquired at UDM to locate their base in the mountains of Bosthirda. If they heard about the destruction of the UDM plant, they may be suspicious. We must strike quickly, before they can move to a new location. My people
are leaving for Bosthirda tonight; you will accompany them.”

  “You’re sending Sechel with me again?”

  Nyriss nodded. “They may have connections to other terrorist groups. Sechel will be able to slice their records and find out who they are working with. I’m also sending Murtog and his soldiers with you. Sechel will be your precision instrument; the soldiers will be your blunt tool.”

  Scourge would have preferred to leave Sechel behind, at least until he’d had a chance to confirm his suspicions.

  He briefly considered sharing his concerns with Nyriss, then decided to stick with his original plan of keeping them to himself. He’d just have to keep a close eye on Sechel during the mission, and be wary of walking into any traps. There would be plenty of time to deal with him once the separatists were eliminated and he had proven himself worthy in Darth Nyriss’s eyes.

  “The human filth will die, my lord,” Scourge promised, bowing low. “I will not fail.”

  CHAPTER 7

  FOR THE SECOND TIME in the space of a single month, Revan found himself at a table in the back of the Dealer’s Den, surrounded by the dregs of Coruscant.

  “You couldn’t have just contacted me via holocomm?” he asked Canderous as he took a seat.

  T3 obediently rolled underneath the table to sit patiently at their feet, safely away from where the waitresses might trip over him.

  “I need to talk to you face-to-face about this,” the Mandalorian replied.

  “Sounds ominous.”

  T3 chirped his agreement.

  “You still having those nightmares?” Canderous asked.

  “Sometimes. I’m dealing with it.”

  The dreams were coming only two or three times a week now, instead of every night. Revan didn’t know if this was because his subconscious was gaining more control over the repressed memory, or if it had something to do with the fact that he was taking steps to investigate his vision. Whatever the explanation, over the past week he had finally been able to grab a few nights of fitful rest. It wasn’t enough to get rid of the dark circles under his eyes, but he no longer felt utterly exhausted.

  “Tell me what you found,” he said.

  “I didn’t learn anything about a planet covered in storms and eternal night. But I did dig up something you might be interested in.”

  The astromech droid at Revan’s feet beeped twice. It was obvious even to him that Canderous was hesitant to speak.

  “I hope you’re not waiting for me to try to buy this information from you,” Revan joked. “I left most of my credits at home.”

  Canderous shifted uncomfortably, then leaned forward to speak in a low whisper. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, you being a Jedi and all, but I think you have a right to know.”

  “If you’re worried I’ll go running to the Council with your secret, don’t be.”

  “It’s not just them. You can’t tell the Galactic Senate, either.”

  “Whatever you’ve got to say must be pretty bad,” Revan remarked.

  “Depends on your point of view.”

  The big man leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. Revan stayed silent, giving his friend time to gather himself.

  “I got in contact with some of my people, just like you asked,” Canderous said finally. “I found out that dozens of the strongest chiefs are gathering their clans at Rekkiad.”

  Revan recognized the name. Located in the Outer Rim system of the same name, Rekkiad was a virtually uninhabited world of ice and snow.

  “They’re planning another invasion,” he guessed, assuming that was why Canderous was worried about the Jedi or the Republic finding out.

  “No, they’re not,” Canderous assured him. “Not yet, at least. They’re searching for Mandalore’s Mask. They think you hid it somewhere on Rekkiad.”

  An image flickered through Revan’s mind: he and Malak standing on the top of a glacier, surrounded by a swirling blizzard. It vanished before he could grasp it, retreating into the dark corners of his subconscious. Yet the brief flash of the resurfacing memory was enough to confirm what Canderous had said.

  “I think they may be right,” Revan muttered.

  Canderous was silent, obviously expecting him to say more. But there wasn’t anything he could add. The memory was gone.

  “You know what the Mask means to my people,” Canderous said. “Without it we are lost, vagabonds wandering the galaxy without a purpose. Recovering the Mask could be the key to restoring Mandalorian honor—and power.”

  Revan knew all this. That was why he had hidden the Mask after slaying Mandalore the Ultimate—a final act to demoralize a defeated foe. He’d hoped it would take the Mandalorians generations to recover from the loss of their most revered cultural symbol. Without it, the war-like clans would be too busy fighting among themselves for power to even think about conquering Republic worlds. But if the Mask were to be found again …

  “Whoever finds it will be hailed as the new leader of the clans,” Canderous continued. “Mandalore will rise again, and the Mandalorians will follow.”

  Revan knew that Canderous was sharing this knowledge with him out of loyalty. They had been through too many battles together for him to keep this secret. Yet he also understood why Canderous had been reluctant to speak. He was still a Mandalorian, and he feared for the future of his people.

  The wounds of the Mandalorian Wars were still fresh in the minds of the Jedi and the Republic. The looming specter of a Mandalorian army unified by a single war-like leader would not be ignored. Even if the Jedi Council refused to take action again, the Senate would send its fleets to crush the potential threat before it could begin.

  In their disorganized and depleted state, it was unlikely the Mandalorians would be able to resist. After the inevitable defeat, the Senate would likely impose martial law over the surviving clans, forcing them to disarm and abandon the customs and practices of their warrior culture. If the Republic found out about this, the Mandalorians as Canderous knew them would cease to exist forever.

  “Do you believe the Mandalorians will attack the Republic again if the Mask is found?” Revan asked.

  “Depends who finds it,” Canderous answered candidly. “Some of the clan leaders want nothing more than to avenge our defeat. Others would rather try to rebuild our society. We were great warriors before we started conquering Republic worlds; it’s possible we can restore our honor without violating the treaty terms we agreed to.”

  The terms I forced you to accept, Revan thought.

  It was ironic that Canderous was sharing all this with the architect of the Mandalorians’ greatest defeat. Almost a decade earlier, Revan had been one of the few willing to take action against the invading clans. But he was not the same person he was back then. He no longer clung to the simplistic ideals of right and wrong or good and evil. He understood better than anyone that dark and light were intertwined in strange and complex ways. And on some primal level, he knew this was all somehow connected to his visions of a dark, storm-swept world.

  The Mandalorians had the potential to be a very real threat, but his visions had convinced him there was something far more dangerous lurking beyond the borders of known space. The fate of the entire galaxy might rest on the repressed memories trying to break free from the prison of his own mind, and sending a hostile Republic fleet to scatter the clans wouldn’t get him any closer to unlocking the truth.

  “I’m not going to say anything about this to the Senate or the Council,” Revan assured his friend. “But whoever finds the Mandalore’s Mask will shape the destiny of your people for the next thousand years. I think it might be a good idea for us to be there when that happens.”

  A broad grin spread across Canderous’s scarred, square jaw, and he reached across the table and slapped the Jedi on the shoulder. “I knew I could count on you.”

  “Time to get the old gang back together for one last adventure.”

  “Not everyone,” Revan countered. “Juhani and Jole
e are Jedi; they still answer to the Council. They might feel obligated to say something about this.”

  “I got no problem with leaving the cat girl and the old man behind.”

  “I don’t want to get Mission and Zaalbar mixed up in this, either,” Revan continued. “They’ve worked hard to build up a nice importexport business over the past year. I don’t want them to throw it all away.”

  “They would if you asked them to,” Canderous noted. “Wouldn’t even think twice about it.”

  “That’s why I’m not going to ask. Mission’s had it rough her whole life. Now that she’s finally got it back on track, I’m not going to mess things up for her.”

  “Okay, scratch the Twi’lek kid. But what about Zaalbar? That Wookiee knows how to handle himself when things get rough.”

  “Mission and Big Z are a team. We can’t break them up.”

  Canderous rolled his eyes. “We’re getting a little short on bodies here.”

  T3 whistled loudly, and Revan reached down to give him a reassuring pat on the head. “Don’t worry, little fella. You’re too useful to leave behind.”

  The astromech droid whistled again.

  “Good point,” Revan replied. “HK’s a little too trigger-happy to bring on this mission. Things tend to get bloody when he’s around.”

  “You realize we’re going to a planet overrun with Mandalorians?” Canderous reminded him. “Bloody is probably unavoidable.”

  “I’m hoping at least some of the clans can be reasoned with,” Revan explained. “If we bring a homicidal assassin droid with us, I don’t think they’re going to give us much of a chance to explain why we’re there.”

  “We’re a little short on bodies,” Canderous repeated. “What about that other Jedi who helped you during the war? Not Malak. The one they call the Exile.”

  “Meetra,” Revan said.

  “I heard she and the Council had a falling-out.”

  “I don’t know where she is.”

  “Might be worth tracking her down,” Canderous pressed. “She proved herself during the war.”