“The Force is a sword with two edges. Cut one way and vanquish. But be careless on the backswing, or allow your mind to wander, and you risk undoing all you’ve accomplished.”
The Aundus-Valay, Above Zetrea
Outer Rim
At first there was only darkness, a vast emptiness that stretched across time and eternity to engulf all that there was.
Stars swelled into being amidst this abyssal void and grew with strength, gaining and losing their light in equal measure. A symphony of celestial scale that could only be witnessed, never heard, never touched. In the vastness of that score there could be no noise. Only an aching expanse of lonely silence and the cold chill of a place that had never known the heat of life.
From nothing, from nowhere – the first arcing edge of a world. A dull thing, bland, a swirling mass of white and blue and green, with more than its fair share of browns. Here and there, as more of it pulled into view, could be seen splotches of darkness on the canvas of white. Smoke, perhaps, the blight of industry slowly tainting, slowly poisoning the sky. The world of Zetrea; a world of machines, of artifice … of war. Deep beneath the clouds, beneath the whites and blues and greens and browns, down far below the hues of a natural sphere, factories of impossible size burned their forge fires long into the night.
In the heart of that world lay fuel. In the heart of that world lay metal. And both were the prize. Both were the contentious fruits that had pulled worlds to the brink of war for want of Zetrea's resources, and some far beyond into conflicts of utter ruination.
Zetrea. Seat of the Margrave. Home of the Palace of White Fire, of the Gardens of the Midnight Eye. Of the Ten Thousand Forges and the Militant Court.
A cradle for ships that reached out into the void above the surface of the world and laid waste to cultures far removed from their own – or so close as to be kin. Wounds that scarred the galaxy and left lives asunder, most never knowing nor caring that the instruments of their destruction were built here. Wars were won and lost with resources and the means of manufacturing the tools of war, and Zetrea was no stranger to the game.
Centuries of practice had perfected their arts. It made them wealthy, made them powerful. Where once they played their rivals off one another, now they did little to stay their own hand. Now they had the soldiers (mercenaries in the main, but not all), now they used the weapons and ships they made to keep what they'd earned. Red-gold banners snapped above their towering cities and their sigil – the Rakau Talon – was blazoned proudly onto hundreds of outposts at the edge of their ever-increasing territory.
That wealth spilled out beyond the borders of their world, beyond the pale silver moons that circled them, beyond the outposts that walled their influence from the galaxy at large. They held no seat within the Republic, nor with any grand coalition of worlds, but their credits spilled into the accounts of all who held the power to ease Zetrea's way. Senators and warlords alike knew the scent of Zetrean alloy and Zetrean lucre, and most fell beneath the shadow of one or both.
And so it was that the world required a place to demonstrate to outsiders the majesty of their vision, the breadth of their strength, and the immensity of their glory.
Across the world which spins against the sea of stars passes a massive phantom of white and silver.
It gleams with opulence, with the expenditure of wealth without heed to function. One could surmise that the ship could have begun its life in the blueprints of a fleet warship, a flagship fit for kings or emperors. But it had grown fatter, grown wild. Buttresses of marble and liquid silverine alloys swept the length of it. Viewports dwarf the upper levels and allow those outside it to glimpse the seemingly endless storefronts and gardens within.
Into and from this monstrous pleasure warship – the Aundus-Valay – flow ships of all makes and sizes. Some slink into the lower ports beneath the surface of lights and glamor, shaking and creaking and groaning as they make their approach. Some are dignified and of the utmost grace. Others are shuttles of various makes and models – some of the Republic's merchants, others of the Hutt-controlled worlds, and yet more from worlds with equal weight but far less exposure. These were flanked by bodyguards and honor guards, and swept into the highest and most prominent ports the Aundus afforded.
For it was within the Aundus that the business of Zetrea's Clans was conducted, and there no small taste of the river of Zetrea's wealth could be had for the right set of skills at the right time, or a mind devious enough to play the system to their own advantage, consequences be damned. Games of chance and games of politics merged into one seamless ebb and flow within the marble promenades and the rusted inner decks within it, a crucible far enough from the core of the galaxy that choices mattered and lives had weight.
Against a backdrop of the starry void, against a backdrop of a world painted in the colors of nature above a beating heart of war machines and industry, passed the burning dream of the Aundus-Valay.
And it was within this last piece of the set that a momentous play would begin to unfold.
****
“I don't care who you are and I don't care where you're from,” the Yarkora attendant wheezed, leaning into the counter dividing him from his persistent – and most unwelcome – guest. “You will have to wait. A thousand suns could blaze their heat upon me all at once, relenting only should I permit you early entry, and still I would say the same.”
The noise of the ship beyond the audience chamber filtered through the doors behind Kujata as he stood contemplating how best to respond. The world of the Aundus-Valay was a strange one, a thing of jagged edges that intersected in strange ways, a juxtaposition of fabulous wealth and extreme poverty. A place where the upper decks shone with golden light and the verdant breath of greenery, while the lower decks stank of rust and fouler things. Of cramped spaces and closer shadows.
Its people were no exception. In his very brief time aboard the massive vessel Kujata had seen firsthand how varied the denizens and guests of this place were. Some dreamt of honor and of duty whilst others searched for weakness and showed none in return. Some were hard and others weak, some wore masks of bravery to cover their fear while others feigned fear to gain an advantage.
As more people gathered, as more betrayed who they played at and played at being what they were not, the less solid his grasp of the natures of those around him became. The pulsing, vibrant threads of life that bound them to the Force – to Kujata – sang a cacophonous symphony to his senses and made it difficult to gather a sense of the singular being before him. Without an anchor, without a brush of his senses through the deeper parts of the mind of the man, he'd have to guess.
So.
How best to respond?
He could try bullying, and it would be by far the easiest course of action. In sizing up the strange long-faced and wispy-bearded beast he'd determined immediately that there wasn't much physical prowess to be had in the attendant’s lanky frame.
An alternative might be appealing to the attendant's presumptions of high culture. Unlike himself – garbed in a worn-out long coat and simple tunic of moderate quality – the Yarkoran's lanky frame was draped in a two-layered vest and the opulent flowing tunic of the Zetrean upper crust. On top of that, a pair of synthetic rubine glasses peeked out from one of his outer vest's pockets – the glasses of a gentleman or gentlewoman who could not bear the blaze of the mid-day sun. Not something a poor laborer could hope to afford, and to display it so brazenly …
“Look,” Kujata began, taking care to leave the Yarkoran enough breathing room that he wouldn't feel crowded. “I understand the position you're in. I really do. And I wouldn't be asking this if I felt there was any alternative solution. As a gentleman, I'm sure you understand the pressing urgency and the stresses of business … the rewards and losses that come with timeliness and delay.”
A slow, sympathetic nod. Good.
“So you must understand the position I'm in. I'm on a tight schedule, a very tight schedule, and the sooner I can meet with your employer the sooner I can present the deal I've come to present. I've no doubt that she will accept and that such a deal would be of immense benefit to the people I represent and to the company which employs you – a benefit that would likely trickle down into the pockets of those who helped to make this happen, who helped to seize the opportunity before other could get to it.”
Conflict raged across the Yakoran's muzzle. The poor man was trying very hard not to imagine the potential benefits of a galactic-scale business arrangement and the commission thereof … and was failing terribly. Kujata could feel the anxiousness and the avarice practically radiating off of him. And still.
And still.
The conflict came to a cool, icy conclusion. A professional, to the very end. “I'm afraid, Master Turazi, that the answer is still no. The Matriarch of the Britu Clan is does not permit her schedule to shift at the whims of her lessers.” A pointed look told Kujata that he fell firmly into that category. “The most I can do for you is to offer to page you on your comlink when the appointed hour arrives.”
It had been building for some time now – and growing stronger with each denial and each measured, dismissive word out of the Yakroan's smarmy muzzle – but the irritation that swelled within Kujata flared at once into a white-hot rage. How dare this underling, this glorified droid, deny him the chance to cut his travel time in half? How dare this … thing … speak to him like that?
Wouldn't it be so easy to lay a hand to the hilt of your lightsaber? To thumb back the switch and let its crimson light spill forth? Would the smug little bastard still deny relief from the heat of a thousand suns, or would he shit himself and spoil those fabulously expensive trousers?
His hand shook, his fingers aching to touch the cold black steel of his weapon. To let his flesh caress the familiar ridges and pads that lined it and unleash the fury that welled within him. But he took a breath instead, then another. He let the memories that welled up alongside the fury settle back down.
“There is no passion...” he sighed. There is serenity.
Easy to say. Easy to chant. Much, much harder to grasp. Little glimmers now and then, little moments where the Code made sense … these were his solace. His comfort. But they seemed to grow rarer the older he became, the older he felt. How easy it is to lay claim to wisdom when you're too young to understand how slippery it is. How naive, yet … he couldn't deny that naivete was a comforting mantle when embraced without thought.
“Did you say something?” the attendant asked.
Kujata shook his head. “Nothing worth repeating.”
Sensing that his antagonist was conceding the fight, the Yarkoran had the temerity to chuckle. A deep, wheezing sound, and not at all pleasant to listen to, nor to stomach.
“Very well then, Master Turazi. It was a pleasure making your acquaintance. I shall let you know when we approach the appointed hour and the Matriarch is ready for you.” A thick, hairy paw laid itself on Kujata's hand, still splayed against the counter. “I shall endeavour to speed up the process should I spy any appropriate opportunity, if it is any solace to you.”
And it was clear the arrogant underling would do no such thing. Especially now now that he'd won.
So be it. Some fights were not worth fighting. Especially the ones that meant nothing.
Kujata acknowledged the attendant’s words with a grunt and pulled his hand from the empty gesture of solidarity. He whirled from the counter and made his way towards the door, seeking only to be rid of the foul, bitter taste on his tongue. But if he'd expected to find serenity in the promenade beyond the Britu Clan's main offices he was sorely mistaken.
At once the whole of the Aundus-Valay's noise came crashing down on him, smothering his senses and blinding him to the subtle threads of the universe for want of a moment to reorient himself.
The crowd was endless, thousands of faces bearing down and passing him by, pushing and shoving as they tried to get to whichever pressing meeting or profoundly important errand awaited them. Most were dressed in the finery of a dozen Outer Rim cultures, some bearing weapons and others only the sharpness of their jewelry. He recognized most of the species around him – a Twi'lek, a half-dozen Ithorians, even a blasted Jawa who eyed the crowd with a deep topaz shiftiness – but some eluded him.
Voices sang their chorus of languages in a sea of sound around him. He understood some, though the rest would give him a headache if he focused on them too long. Little bits might find translations in his head but the rest would only feel comprehensible, driving him mad for his inability to remember translations he didn't posses. He'd known some Knights and Masters of the Jedi Order who had a gift for linguistics … it was never a talent he shared with them.
One learns what one needs to on the field of battle or in the course of a hunt. The rest? The rest is dross.
Or so it once seemed.
Seeking refuge from the storm, Kujata pushed his way against the crowd and passed through the winding paths of the upper levels of the Aundus, squinting against the glare reflected from marble pillars and glowing signs and advertisements scrolling across most of the empty spaces on the vaulted ceiling above. There were no hawkers here – they were not permitted, lest they intrude on the sanctity of this illusory district of the elite – but the Jedi Knight felt as if he were assailed on all sides by the grasping hands of all the mercantile empires of the galaxy, a fate far worse.
Places like this, which catered to those who felt themselves far too important or influential, tended to dress up the usual downfalls of society with fancier clothes and prettier names, but no matter where one went it usually ended up being all about the credits. About who can get the most from you. Who can sell you what you didn't know you needed, be it a fancy new speeder or a dream that would grow to consume you.
It wasn't until he pushed free of the Aundus' main thoroughfare that he discovered a moment of peace. Adjacent to the primary row of shops, offices, hotels, and temples was a small little garden. In the heart of the garden bubbled a gentle fountain. On all sides save the one he'd passed in through were the walls of storefronts which held no windows. The only light in this place came from the path behind him and a viewport above which laid bare the starry expanse beyond the Aundus' bulkhead.
Or a projection of it, anyway. Kujata no longer knew how deep into the ship he was, and had no immediate way of knowing if what he saw was truth or illusion. Though it didn't matter – whatever the case, it was soothing. Seconds slid into minutes, and minutes into an hour.
He found himself crossing his legs beneath him upon the grass and sinking instinctively into a shallow state of meditation, the hustle and bustle beyond the garden melting away.
Finally he'd found the inner calm he'd been searching for back in the Britu Clan's foyer.
Too little, too late.
But such was life.
****
To dance was to live.
From somewhere beyond the walls of her quarters aboard the Dellenum came the thrum and hum of a ship in motion, and the dull muted voices of those who moved within it. But these things were white noise. They were the static hiss of the universe – present, but unheeded and irrelevant.
She danced.
Sweat streamed from her bare skin and flung itself free as she stepped through the forms she'd learnt by heart. In her hands swept twin swords, thin-bladed vibroswords from a time long before her birth, but no less deadly for their age. In the hilt of each was set a pale blue gemstone and from the end of each swung thin tassels which whipped at her hands as she moved. They were as familiar to her as breathing, and as necessary.
A pace forward, two back; do not show your back, do not give in to momentum lest you plan to use it, be wary of those who would seek to trap you in your weakness and seek to trap them with it instead...
There was a beautiful simplicity to combat. To the dancing of swords.
Within the dance there was little beyond the edge of the blade. The galaxy divided itself into two spaces – that which was within the reach of her swords and that which was beyond. A clean line, sharp and clear as crystal. Everything else that exists in the space beyond lost its importance, lost the value affixed to it. The memories of what was and the coming of what will be. There was no hate out there anymore, no sadness.
When Zeti Trankan danced the swords there was only peace.
She had a sense that the galaxy was less complicated, more connected, and bereft of the artificial complexities of a life lived within it. She set aside that which did not matter and focused instead on the movement, the whistle of the vibroswords as they sliced through air, the feel of each exertion straining her muscles, and the void her strikes left behind.
Ten years and six had passed since the day of her birth, and she only grew quicker, her strikes more sure. Beneath the dark green of her skin rippled a coiled strength honed from ceaseless practice and the rigid discipline of her father's stern hand. The soft lavender of her eyes belied the hardness of the mind beneath them. She was a Mirialan compact of frame but who lacked no heart, and had overcome the weaknesses of her size with technique, with determination.
Her proudest moment had been the look on her father's face the day she'd passed muster. The day she'd been ordained a Crusader and been fitted for the blue plate armor of a soldier, though that mirror sheen was split with a pair of emerald strikes down the front and shoulders. A Crusader, it told any who cared to look, but still green. Still unbloodied. That would change soon enough.
What would her father say when he watched her fight her first battle? What would he think when she slew her first opponent in honorable combat? Would he smile again, that smile he saved for her and her alone? Would he praise her before the others of the unit and show them all his pride? Or would he save the gestures of love for the quiet moments afterward as they dined and swapped stories of the field?
With a start she realized that her pace had faltered. She'd lost the concentration and focus of the dance. The outside world crept into her mind and dispelled the moment, and she'd been mired in thoughts of what was to come. There was nothing wrong with this, nothing strange or unseemly, yet she felt … cut off, somehow. As if it was a violation of some rule she'd never been told.
A deep breath, and a pause. Push all that away, she told herself, closing her eyes. Focus on a single point, let everything else rush past. Lift up your swords, yes, and breathe. And step. Forwards, and back. Let the vibroswords hum their melody as they move, let them lead and surrender to their will ...
She was lost to it again. Zeti danced the dance of swords and poured the whole of her being into it, and in return she found solace in its steps. Shame it couldn't last forever.
After some time a rap on her door put an end to her practice. “Who is it?” she demanded, putting an ounce of duracrete into her tone. Trying to mask the breathlessness of her voice.
The reply was curt. “Your father demands your presence in the hangar. It's nearly time.”
Boots thundered away down the corridor. When the last trace of them was gone Zeti released all the rest of her tension with a heavy breath and an explosive exhalation, then set her blades down upon the cot she called a bed.
Beside the place they rested lay her black compression suit and the plates of the armor that attached around it, and she took little time in donning everything. Straps tightened, her double-looped belt clasped tightly, the seal for her helmet aligned correctly, mobility of arms and legs assured, and the weight resting easily against her. Blaster rifle and pistol strapped and unobstructed. Simply wearing and knowing how to wear the armor brought her to a place of confidence, of assuredness that she imagined few outside the Crusaders would ever know.
Ba’jur bal beskar’gam.
There was a reason that line came first in the mantra.
When at last she was suited she reached down for her swords, considering them a moment before sheathing them at either hip. In the battles to come she would rely on her blaster rifle and the pistol at her side … but right now, for the day ahead, for her first blood and her first stroke of honor amongst the Mandalorian people, she could not possibly leave them behind.
One last look around the room – one last moment of her childhood – and she switched down the lights and sealed the door behind her.
It was time.
****
Time passed.
Stretching out.
The garden consumed him.
He saw nothing.
Moments on the chrono, slipping away.
The sound of the fountain, its water heedless of thought.
A drop of water in the heart of undeniable artifice.
The weight of consideration, passing through.
He let it go.
And he was empty.
And at last the spell faded away.
For a moment there, a long moment, he'd felt the gentle touch of the Force in its purest form. The simple truth that all things exist, that all things are bound.
That between each living thing, each breathing being, was the energy of potential and the threads of communion that wound around them. That passed over and under and through all that stood between these husks of flesh and carapace, the shells that gave shape to the luminous light of the beings within. From before the first moment of time and long beyond the last, the Force was.
He felt dizzy, lightheaded. What had awoken him? What had torn him from the moment?
No missed communications on his comlink. The Britu Clan wasn't ready for him, so he could not yet discharge his duty. What then? What had torn him from the brink?
There. At the other end of the garden, watching him. A pair of golden eyes, a small figure wrapped in brown robes decorated with curving, winding black ink in what he could only have described as tribal patterns. Great. Another blasted Jawa, and one with an inclination towards fashion.
Sighing, he rose from his seat upon the grass and stood, stretching. When he felt loose and limber again he gestured over to the Jawa who had not yet looked away. “Something I can do for you?” Kujata asked, wary.
The little being took this as an invitation and trundled over to him.
“Kindly one looks like man in need of drink,” it said in highly clipped Basic. “Stiff drink. Fair price. Am right?”
Was this creature a peddler of some sort? Kujata laughed. “You're not far wrong, little friend.”
The Jawa blinked. Once, then twice. Then shook its head. “Little, yes. Friend … not yet. Will show you, but need pay services, kindly one.”
The Jedi Knight grinned. Not a peddler. A guide. So it was going to be like that, was it? Well, that was just fine with him. Everyone had to make a living somehow. Playing tour guide on a tub full of spice-addled nobles and merchants with overflowing accounts was probably the least harmful thing the little Jawa could be doing on a ship this size, so why not indulge him?
“Alright, my not-yet-friend. I'm Kujata, and I am definitely in need of a very stiff drink for a very fair price.”
From within the patterned robe came a curt nod. “Kindly one is Kujata? Little one is Leej.” Pleasantries out of the way, the little tour guide turned and began to march back towards the crowd, gesturing for Kujata to follow. “Let us take path, kindly one. Stick close. Dangerous place if not careful.”
In the back of his mind Kujata thought of a half dozen distant worlds where once he'd hunted, the fire and blood that soaked them. Shattered bone and gore clinging to him as blaster fire rained down through the trees, a perverse sunrise amidst the darkness of the jungle.
And he thought – how dangerous could a ship full of merchants and politicians possibly be?
The last lingering touch of his comprehension of the Force fled him as he set foot beyond the garden and plunged back into the crush of the crowds of the Aundus-Valay.
