Lost Tribe of the Sith: The Collected Stories

by Miller, John Jackson

  Not that Iliana knew it. Now, as she had once the day before, Iliana stepped toward him and looked into his eyes with sudden warmth. “Caretaker, are you sure there’s no way to see the recording now—to alter it?” Her gloved hand brushed gently against his arm.

  “Gloyd’s blood, girl! I’m twice your age, at least,” Hilts said. He looked at her with incredulity. “You are a Sister of Seelah.”

  Glaring, she shrank back. “And you’re a festering old wart!”

  “That’s more like it. Can we get down to facts now? Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t be able to doctor the message on here. And I don’t want to!” He turned away from her and gestured to the paintings on the atrium walls, depicting the arrival of the travelers from the skies. “This gadget is our only functioning link to that past, to how we came to be. I wouldn’t tamper with it if my life depended on it.”

  “How about someone else’s?”

  Hilts heard the sharp hiss of Iliana’s lightsaber being activated. Turning cautiously, he saw that her companions had taken Jaye by the arms. “Now, there’s no need for that.”

  “I think there is. Start taking apart the device, Caretaker. And while you do,” Iliana said, “we’re going to take this Keshiri apart. There might be something of him left, if you work fast enough.”

  Hilts’s eyes alternated between his writhing, panicked assistant and the gleaming widget. He didn’t even know where to begin, but he had to do something. Reluctantly, he took the small pyramid in hand—

  —and nearly dropped it when several figures crashed through the glass windows above, plummeting into the atrium. Dressed in the ancient uvak-leather garb of the Skyborn Rangers, the new arrivals hit the marble surface behind Jaye’s captors and ignited their lightsabers. At the same time, several of Iliana’s warriors from outside entered, retreating from the charge of a grisly-looking mob of misanthropes. Her weapon already drawn, Iliana sprang to her allies’ defense, releasing Jaye, who dived for the floor near Hilts’s feet.

  “Now, boy!” Holding his aide’s tunic in one hand and the recorder in the other, Hilts tumbled toward the Sandpipes, away from the fray. Behind them, crimson energy crackled, tearing into Sith flesh. There were two groups of assailants after Iliana, he realized.

  Recognizing who they were, Hilts understood what he had to do.

  “Human trash!” Iliana screamed with fury as she locked lightsabers with a scarred behemoth of a woman. “Traitorous wench!” yelled a bald mountain of male anger, one of the leather-armored arrivals from above. Clashing, the combatants seemed as interested in insulting their enemies as striking them. So much so that in between blows, they chanced to hear—

  “Hey! Up here!”

  Heads turned to the glass contraption towering near the north wall. The rumpled Hilts clung to the maintenance ladder by the Sandpipes, with a terrified Jaye on the rungs just beneath. Holding the recording device in one hand, the Caretaker swallowed hard and spoke.

  “Factions of Kesh—invited guests—welcome. Um … you’re all early.”

  3

  They just had to knock out the windows, Hilts thought. Thirty years he’d spent trying to keep his portion of the capitol building from falling apart. The warring oafs had just set him and his staff back another thirty years—provided he survived the afternoon.

  “I have to say I’m surprised to see you all here,” Hilts said, stepping over shards to the center of the room. The warriors had stepped back from one another but still held their lightsabers before them, leaving a wedge of space in between for him and Jaye. “It’s eight days until Testament Day. But this is a palace. I guess we have some extra rooms here for you—”

  “Shut up, old man!” The beefy black-haired woman with all the scars took a step forward and pointed at Iliana. “We want to know why she’s here!”

  Hilts looked to see Iliana and her companions, some bloodied from the battle, backed up against the Sandpipes, ready for their last stand. Iliana’s face flashed with defiance. “Don’t answer that cretin, Hilts!”

  “Don’t you raise your voice in this place, woman!” The hulking bald man with a black mustache stepped forth from his leather-clad coterie and made an unkind gesture to Iliana. “The house of Korsin was no place for Seelah—and no place for you!”

  Seeing the line of warriors behind Iliana poised to move, Hilts quickly stepped between them and the giant. “You—you’re Korsinite League, right?”

  “I am Korsin Bentado,” the shiny-headed man said, his deep voice thundering in the chamber. He gestured to either side. “This is Korsin Vandoz, and you know Korsin Immera from the last Testament reading. We’ve come, Caretaker, to celebrate the lives of Yaru and Nida Korsin at this grand and celestial time. We hope that all is ready—”

  “Well, it will—”

  “—and we hope that you can show the misled among us the truth of the Testament. That the leader came from beyond, that the Tribe is the body of the leader, and that those who would imperil the body deserve neither mercy nor life,” Bentado said. He gazed reverentially at the statue Iliana had once mocked and bowed his head. “One becomes all, and all one. Korsin now, Korsin forever.”

  “Whatever you say,” Hilts said. Turning, he shot a surreptitious look at Jaye and shook his head. Hilts knew these people well. A former slave had founded the Korsinite League a century earlier, taking Korsin as a title for himself, separate from the hierarchy of Lords. Emancipated, he patterned his life after those led by the first Grand Lord and his successor daughter; as he declared, any worthy could aspire to Korsin-ness, just as he had. His followers took it to heart—and, being Sith, decided they could just as easily adopt the title for themselves. Which they all did, over the movement founder’s complaints—and, eventually, his dead body. Now there were hundreds of self-named Korsins of either sex running about, chanting mantras and declaring their empires of one to the crowd at large. To strike up a conversation with a Korsinite was to risk death by cognitive dissonance.

  “I still want to know why that—that woman has been allowed in here!” The scar-faced female slapped a bare hand on Hilts’s shoulder and twirled him around. Hilts realized with a start that the hand had only three webbed fingers.

  “You’re Force Fifty-seven, I take it.”

  “Obviously!” Her companions jostled behind her, growling ferally. The woman Neera was in fact the least gruesome of the bunch, Hilts saw. No one knew much about the original 57; Seelah Korsin had evidently taken steps to erase that faction’s existence from memory. But the Keshiri tales spoke of those early Omen crew members as deformed in some way, the opposite of Seelah’s perfect human specimens.

  The modern Force 57 was far more than fifty-seven in number; looking at Neera’s allies, Hilts wondered if every misshapen human living on Kesh had found his or her way into the ranks. They were easy to pick out when they ventured near the capital; even those least blemished by birth had dozens of self-inflicted scars. Fifty-seven, Hilts imagined, although he had never had the opportunity or desire to count.

  “Seelah banished our kind, so she could have her blissful perfection,” Neera yelled, gesturing to the walls. “This place is disgusting! You see who’s missing from these paintings, don’t you? Where’s Ravilan, the leader of the Different Ones? Why, they don’t even bother to show Gloyd—the one the Korsins let live, like a pet!” She spat on the marble. “Your precious Pantheon is missing members!”

  “You are, too!” Iliana shot back. “Seelah was right to purge the defectives! And we’re going to do it again!” The Sisters surged forward—only to be blocked by Hilts.

  “People, people!” Looking back, Hilts saw that his triangle of neutral ground had shrunk. “This isn’t the place for this!”

  “You’re absolutely right, Caretaker,” Korsin Bentado said, tightening the fasteners on his lightsaber hand’s glove. “The defilers must pay the penalty. We will finish this battle here and now—and then outside, where the other factions are gathered. The blood will sanctify this
place. The Korsinite League will be triumphant—and in eight days, we alone will hear Yaru Korsin’s blessings.”

  Cowering near his master, Jaye squeaked. “But there are thousands of people out there!”

  “If that’s how it has to be.”

  “It doesn’t have to be this way!” Hilts yelled. Remembering the recording device, he raised it into the air. “You’re here for the reading. We could do it now!”

  Iliana glared at him. “You said it only activated on Testament Day!”

  Hilts looked back at her and shrugged. “I’m Sith. I lied.”

  “The League will not accept a reading of the Testament on any day besides the anniversary,” Bentado said, golden eyes glaring under bushy black brows. “Would you be branded a heretic, Caretaker, like these others?” The line began to move again behind him. “We’ll hear the founder in eight days—alone!”

  Seeing the combatants surge forward, Hilts felt Jaye clinging tightly to him. In a flash he made a connection.

  Eight days.

  “Jaye! Your calculations!” Pulling the Keshiri’s head from his chest, Hilts yelled urgently. “Your calculations about the Sandpipes!”

  The aide looked up, tears of panic flowing freely. “Now? But you said no one would be interested in—”

  “Now, Jaye!” he rasped. “Tell them!”

  Quaking in terror, the little Keshiri released his master and addressed the assemblage. “Begging your Lordships’ pardons—”

  “We’re not all Lords, Keshiri!”

  Jaye nearly fell over at Neera’s response. His humongous black eyes darted back to Hilts, who mouthed urgently: Say it!

  “Begging your pardons, but when the Protectors landed, they brought their Standard Calendar, which we Keshiri adopted, regardless of our different length of day and year—”

  Another lightsaber ignited in the crowd.

  “—and we calibrated our Sandpipes to your magical chrono, aboard Omen. When the mountain temple was sealed and Omen abandoned, bearers brought the Sandpipes here, still keeping time—”

  Two more lightsabers, and more movement.

  “—but we found years ago that the sand didn’t flow through the pipes at the same speed on the mainland as up on the mountain.” Red energy shining in his face, Jaye swallowed. “It runs slower.”

  Bentado raised his weapon—and an eyebrow. “How much slower?”

  “One second slower,” Jaye said, voice creaking. “Your Standard Day is really a second shorter than what we’ve been using all this time.”

  Neera and the 57s rumbled with impatience. “What the blazes difference does that make?”

  Hilts clenched his fists and looked at Jaye. “Tell them!”

  “Over two thousand years? It makes eight days’ difference. Which means—”

  “Which means,” Hilts said, stepping beside his quivering aide, “that by our founders’ true timekeeping, Testament Day is today. And the Festival of Nida’s Rise really begins today, as well.” He looked to Iliana and lowered his voice. “But Yaru’s day is the important one.”

  Bentado stomped toward the pair and raged. “This is preposterous!” He grabbed Jaye by the wrist. “You’re telling me this Keshiri fool counted all the seconds since practically when Omen landed? That must be ten million—”

  “The word in your language is billion,” Jaye croaked. “And it’s more than sixty.”

  Iliana stepped forward—and lowered her lightsaber. “He’s telling the truth,” she said. “I don’t see any deception in him. Nor much of anything else.”

  Bentado turned back to his allies, who nodded in silence. Even the wretched 57s had paused.

  Hilts looked at the Keshiri and marveled. Well done. Now shut up!

  “The reading is on,” Hilts said. “I declare the Pantheon’s Peace.” Holding the recording device aloft, he looked from one of the faction leaders to another. “Deactivate your weapons—and call in any of your rival leaders from outside,” he said. “I can’t tell you people how to run your affairs. Maybe Yaru Korsin can.”

  4

  “… when we landed, we were few. Our survival was not guaranteed. The Tribe—what we have become—was the necessary mechanism. Once we knew Kesh held no dangers for us, the only threat came from ourselves …”

  The starship captain sat in his command chair, facing death—and, unbeknownst to him, several of his remote descendants, separated by time. The image of Yaru Korsin flickered in midair, casting eerie shadows through the darkened atrium. It was neither the robust Korsin of the later paintings nor the bug-eyed deity of the Keshiri sculpture who appeared; it was simply a man. A spent warrior-king, clutching his chest and speaking his last.

  “… and just as I had you trained in secret, Nida, there are secrets you must always keep. The true power is behind the throne. Should disaster befall—remember that …”

  Platitudes passed from a ruler to his child, both long dead. Hilts had studied the words for so many years, they had lost their magic for him. True, that first sight long ago of Yaru Korsin, animated, had excited his imagination. But this time it was different. Standing behind the device and its projection, he found himself looking not at the ancient figure, but through him, at the gathered listeners. The atrium had been cleared of dead bodies and living warriors that afternoon; now, as darkness fell, only the faction leaders remained, including a dozen-plus brought in from outside. Hilts searched from face to face. Some had that same look of wonder he’d once had; humility was a new concept for most Sith. Others seemed untouched.

  Hilts focused again on Korsin. He’d been dying when he recorded this; bleeding in the seat that had once been the captain’s chair from Omen, he’d hurriedly recorded a message to his daughter, who was busy finishing off the rebels elsewhere on the mountain. Between coughs, the spectral Korsin spoke of the Tribe’s hierarchy, and how the structure should be managed to prevent uprisings like the one that ultimately killed him. He’d just spoken the segment about killing dead Grand Lord’s spouses and banishing Seelah; Hilts could still feel the rage coming from Iliana.

  “… that should hold the Tribe for the long term, but you’ll want to begin bringing your own people in at the Lord level. I have a few suggestions, depending on who survives …”

  “This is the boring part,” Iliana snapped. Hilts looked to his shoes. She was right. For all the regard placed on the document, he knew it included a lot of logistical detail. Several of the leaders paid rapt attention, listening to Korsin speak of their adopted intellectual forebears, but for the others it was tedium.

  Looking at the restive members, Hilts wondered about his next move. He was alone now; Jaye had been kicked outside along with his fellow workers before the reading began. That was good for them, for the moment. But the Pantheon’s Peace would conclude when the recording did—and it didn’t look like the words were leading any toward a settlement. How could he stay alive—much less protect his staff and position—if this solved nothing? Never mind the Tribe’s future, Hilts thought. What about mine?

  After several minutes, Korsin’s speech slowed. The mortal wound taking its toll, the words turned personal. Hilts looked up again, newly fascinated by the momentary connection with a man two thousand years old.

  “… Nida, my daughter, you’re more than the only good thing to come from Seelah. You’re the future of the Sith on this planet. It wasn’t … our choice to live here. But it is … our choice not to die here. That choice … will be made by you …”

  Korsin slumped in his chair. The image froze.

  “Is that all?” Iliana said.

  Hilts looked at her, unsurprised that she’d won the race to speak first. “That’s all.” He stepped to the recording device.

  “It’s enough,” Korsin Bentado said reverently. “You’ve just heard a great leader say it. There can only be one power structure—the one he invented. The one my people will represent. No compromise.”

  “You’re wrong,” came another voice. Hilts saw it belonge
d to the leader of the Golden Destiny, a group obsessed with the stellar aspects of the Tribe’s origin. “I heard a great conqueror describe a powerful people. We didn’t even intend to come here—yet we subdued this world instantly. Every human in the galaxy likely has his own planetary kingdom! We must stop fighting, reopen the temple, and return to the stars!”

  Hilts shook his head as the quarrels began anew. There were no lightsabers, yet; the leaders were too busy telling one another what they had just all heard. But it was only a matter of time. He absently fiddled with the recorder. He’d gotten it started more easily this time, but for some reason it wasn’t deactivating properly.

  Static appeared—and then something else. Fleeting images, interlaced with the scene of the expired Grand Lord.

  “There’s something here,” Hilts said, adjusting the device. “Underneath.”

  A palimpsest. He’d heard Keshiri artists speak of the concept. Occasionally, a second work was painted over an earlier version, using the same canvas. The concept had no meaning in sculpture—and wasn’t the projected image a living sculpture? But still, something was there. Maybe when Korsin used the device to record his message, there had already been another one on it!

  He rattled the few controls he understood again …

  … and a monster appeared.

  “This is your liege, Naga Sadow, speaking to the captain Yaru Korsin!”

  The leaders turned instantly from their arguments on hearing the gravelly voice. It belonged to something not entirely human, clad in the robes of a Sith ruler. Sadow’s face had a reddish cast, terminating in two pointed tentacles that writhed when he spoke. Veins bulged from his bald cranium like mountain ranges.

  And as he spoke, he gestured with hands—such hands!—tipped with talons an uvak might have.

  Neera of Force 57 spoke first. “What—is that thing?”

  “Alongside Saes and the Harbinger, you are decreed to deliver the mining team belonging to your sibling, Devore, to Phaegon. You will obtain Lignan crystals for my cause and return to Kirrek.”