The New Jedi Order: A Vision of Confluence

Epilogue II

Master Cilghal made sure to look each of them over once Aeonid Thiel settled his Thunderhawk to the tarmac, just inside the hangar of the Praxeum. Tahiri winced as she walked, but the healer declared her ribs bruised, not cracked or broken. For Anakin, a clean bill of health; but for Sannah - the beginnings of frostbite on her nose and fingers. Mild enough, but surprisingly not from the glacier - some of the irritated patches on her hand matched the shape of the chisel she had wielded to shatter the ritual circle.

They ate, then Cilghal helped both of the girls into healing trances overnight. Anakin just crashed in his own bunk, knowing the next day would bring only more questions. The next morning confirmed his expectations.

He spoke to Uncle Luke briefly, before being drawn into a holoconference with not just his Uncle but with Aeonid and even the Ultramarines Primarch too. The latter's shape in the hologram was jarring as Anakin dutifully repeated what he'd begun to tell his Uncle. It was hard to focus. Again and again, his mind tried to wander to the memory of Guilliman walking into the conference, back on Eboracum, and the overwhelming…perspective? That had struck Anakin then. Through the holo, Primarch Guilliman's voice was strong, authoritative, almost unrealistically rich and firm, but Anakin saw none of that churning, blinding lensing that hid his face.

Now he could see him and he looked - young. Not young young, but younger than his own Uncle. Younger than his dad. Sort of ageless somehow, an ageless youth - if that made sense, and it did not, to him - and when Anakin focused, there were threads there, lingering, threads of something that he wanted to try to grab at, that slithered around his senses like oil around water.

Thiel, sharing the Praxeum's holocom with Anakin, seemed to notice Anakin's attention and the young Jedi shrugged off his curiosity, focusing on the tale.

Sure enough, just like Aeonid, the Primarch was visibly unsettled by his description of Melin-Bralam, and then his more halting, incomplete telling about the Man in Horns that came after.

He told them about the way the Man looked, and something of what he said - but other parts he held back. It wasn't shame, but the way the Man in Horns talked to him, seemed to know him, was important somehow. Important in a way that made him hold his tongue, worried about just who he should share this with. His Uncle, of course. That was without any question. Uncle Luke would understand it best.

After his telling he didn't have much else to add and asked to be excused. Aeonid could talk with his commander and Uncle Luke about what to do but with the sithspawn, or rather the vong biot, dead, Anakin felt he'd finished what he set out to do. He certainly hadn't been looking to dig up some ancient Sith conspiracy, no sir. He and Tahiri had enough of those so far.

He found Tahiri already getting changed, and he waited outside her quarters, hands in his pockets, leaning with back against the wall.

"You're done already?" she called out, over the sound of rustling fabric.

"Wasn't really that much to say, you know? It's…as crazy as it was, it was all so fast."

"Mm," Tahiri hummed. "Does Master Skywalker want to talk to me too?"

"He will, yeah. He hasn't said, but he's going to want to know what you saw too. It really spooked Aeonid and his Primarch. I mean - really bothered them. They told us not to even say Mel- not to say the Sith's name."

Tahiri laughed.

"Like it's some kind of scary story? Like what, we say it and he pops out to wave his hands and go 'oooo'?"

"I guess? They were really serious about it." He shrugged, though his friend couldn't see it. "I'm going to trust them on it. It was 'cause of what Aeonid told Sannah that she was able to…break us out of that. Probably."

Tahiri skipped out of her quarters, leaving the door open behind her. Like usual, in a loose tan jumpsuit, sans any shoes.

"So what's next?"

Anakin scratched behind his ear.

"We didn't have time last night to - to talk about it. You and me."

Tahiri's cheer dimmed and she scuffed her heel against the Praxeum's stone floor.

"It got weird, Anakin. I'm not even that sure about anything."

"Me either. So I figure…" He trailed off. "...Master Ikrit?"

It was still midmorning, so Master Ikrit recommended they get out of the Temple, take a stroll instead. Mist still clung to the distant jungle, especially below the plateau of the Temple complex and everything was damp with dew. Raucous calls echoed back and forth, trilling high and low and barking deep and bass. The Kushiban Jedi Master bounded along, easily keeping pace with Anakin and Tahiri and the longer strides of humans, seeming more energetic than Anakin usually knew him to be.

More than that, he could feel his Master's cheerfulness vibrating out of his white-furred body, filling the Force. His lips kept turning up in an unconscious smile and when he glanced to Tahiri, he saw that she too was having a hard time not being infected by Ikrit's mood.

"Okay, what is it?" She broke first - of course.

"What is what, young Jedi?"

"You!"

Ikrit spun, tail whirling, dropping low to the ground and peering up at both of them with his wide, bright eyes.

"My finest students have returned, unscathed, from facing down a Sith in his very own Temple. They protected their friend and each other, they slew a dangerous creature that threatened us all, and then, most importantly: sought out their old Master!" Ikrit chittered, purred, ears twitching. "Mm, a terrible strangeness, my good mood!"

Tahiri blushed by looked entirely pleased. His Master's praise was nice…but tainted by just how he'd slain that vong biot. He'd only mentioned his discomfort to Tahiri, briefly, before they turned in last night and she'd scoffed. Said that crushing the creature's heart wasn't really any different than sticking a lightsaber in it and besides, her ribs thanked him for taking the quickest route.

It just seemed wrong, to use the Force that directly to cause death. He imagined Jacen would probably have a lot to say about it and for once, he wished his brother was around to ask about it.

But Ikrit was right. Not a lot of Jedi could claim to face off against an ancient Sith spirit and send it packing. It was good what they did. It was. Maybe not as dramatic or lasting as the Golden Globe, but Anakin had still slept soundly last night. Whatever this 'warp' stuff was that Aeonid was so concerned about seemed like it had been tied up with Melin- with that Sith's spirit - and didn't stick around after. Besides, as scary as it was at the time, it didn't strike him as that much more dangerous than, say, Exar Kun taking over Kyp Durron's body or the evil ghost of Marka Ragnos trying to return to life.

"Finest students? Master, we're your only students."

Ikrit huffed, acting like he hadn't heard Tahiri.

"I am very interested though, young Solo, young Veila, to learn just what has young Thiel so worried. His disquiet is palpable."

"It's some kinda thing those Exiles are worried about," Tahiri said, before Anakin could get his thoughts in order. "He says it's really dangerous and Sannah said he was beside himself when he was guiding her."

"Master Skywalker passed along some of the lore he learned in his own meetings with the leader of the Exiles. I admit - I was unconvinced that this 'warp' was anything other than a perversion of the Force, not unlike the dark side."

They rounded a corner in the trail. Paths just like it snaked all around the Praxeum, winding around and offering plenty of spots for rest and reflection, not to mention places for simple calisthenics. Master Horn was well known for his penchant to rise with the sun and go for long runs.

Anakin shared a look with Tahiri. Since they seemed to banish the Man in Horns together, it felt like they were even more on the same page. When Master Cilghal had gently guided Tahiri into her slumber, Anakin felt a wave of tired dizziness, even a fleeting second of sheets over him. Now, he could feel the way Tahiri tried out words in her head, trying to find a way to describe what they'd seen and felt. A feeling rose, a memory - the two of them pausing, down by the lake, about to hop in. Tahiri's hand on his chest, a mischievous glint in her eye, and then she was splashing in. Let me go first.

All they'd confirmed last night was that both of them saw something else in that Temple. Anakin licked his lips, heart beating harder.

"I think Aeonid is right," Tahiri said, rubbing her elbow. "Anakin and I, well, we kind of know the dark side by now. That Sith, I mean, how much more obvious can you be? Slimier than a Hutt and twice as oily. He shouldn't have tried to trick us though, huh Anakin? It was tricky, but I know you and there's no way in the galaxy you'd just sit around quietly while a Sith Lord was telling me how awesome it would be to experiment on Sannah-"

Wait, what? Anakin stumbled, catching himself with a pull on the Force. Ikrit's pale green eyes watched them both with interest.

"Wait, what?"

"What, what?"

"He wanted you to experiment on Sannah?"

Tahiri's brows drew together and he felt her confusion.

"Isn't that what he offered you?"

The red-skinned Sith, comfortable in his green-black soapstone throne. Fingers steepled, rings and jewelry catching the light. The timbre of his voice, honeyed. Learn from me.

"No, he just wanted to teach me. He wanted me to take up his…his legacy."

"Huh."

Tahiri launched into a clearer description, at Master Ikrit's prompting. They compared now their stories. The Sith had been formal with Anakin, like talking to a peer, talking about being a proper host and then offering a gift to make up for his mistake with the vong biot. To Tahiri, the Sith talked more like a teacher - no, she corrected herself - like an elder family member. Warm, but kind of patronizing. What he'd said to her was just a welcome, nothing about trespassing. Nor did he apologize, but instead, said that it was traditional for a host to offer a visitor a gift.

That gift being, specifically, his holocron. With it, he assured Tahiri, she could shape Sannah in any way she - or the girl - desired.

Because Melin-Bralam told them both the secret of the Melodies. Anakin chewed his lip. Tahiri wrapped his presence around his, warm, confused, scared. Worried. He pushed to her his own fear for their friends, assuring her that he was just as out of his depth as she was.

Neither of them had said a word of this particular revelation, not yet. Uncle Luke was going to know, for sure, but Anakin had hoped to have time. Time to understand it himself.

"My students," Ikrit said softly, "I will not push you. A Jedi should not rush into matters, but give time for meditation and reflection."

Anakin exhaled, hard. Tahiri looked pale, so he reached out, looping is arm around her narrow shoulders. She leaned into him.

"It's - well, it's not what the Sith was offering us or anything. I mean," He smiled, that quirked half-smirk that was pure Solo. "that part was weird. This is more…more like I - we - know someone else's secrets."

Since they had paused in their stroll, Ikrit hopped up onto a fallen log, just beside the cleared trail. Chestheight to both of them, he plopped back to sit, curling his tail about himself.

"The Melodies," Ikrit said.

"That's a good guess," Anakin allowed.

"Not really, young Solo. You went to the world of the Melodies and met an ancient Sith. You did so with young Sannah with you, and now you bear old truths. It is not a complex puzzle."

"He made them," Tahiri whispered. Revulsion tainted her presence, ugly and twisting. "He said they were experiments. How wrong is that…"

"His Great Work." Anakin added. "He sounded…really, really proud of it. And I think it's even worse too."

"Worse than treating Sannah's ancestors like toys? What could possibly be worse than that?"

Anakin lipped his lips. He wasn't sure. It wasn't anything the Sith said. It was the little things. The statues, the murals. The carvings on the Sith's throne. The Melodies themselves. It twisted around in his mind, pieces and parts linking together into a picture he really, really didn't like.

"No one will think any less of Sannah, or Lyric. Or any of her peoples," Ikrit assured them both. "We do not judge a people by what they cannot control. They have been fast friends to the Jedi for some time now and I have never sensed any deception, or darkness. The light always reveals; you know this, Anakin. It is better to cleanse in daylight, than let linger in shadow."

"You know about all the predators on Yavin 8, right?"

Ikrit did, of course, as did most who attended the Praxeum. Even though Yavin 8 wasn't a common place to wander to, it was important for those who lived on the fourth moon to know about the dangers of the eighth. It was just neighborly.

The murals stayed vivid in Anakin's memory. Their holos of it were safely in Master Solusar's hands, and no doubt she would be digging deep into lore and symbolism to study them.

"I think - I think they might all be experiments."

Tahiri gasped and Ikrit stiffened. Anakin forged forward.

"In the mural, it showed us people hunting and eating all different kinds of animals. They looked like reels and avrils and stuff, but then later on, the murals turned into-" he winced "into what looked like some kinds of sacrifices. People were climbing into the bodies of the animals they hunted and killed and then running around."

"No. No way…the statues, Anakin, the statues too-?"

"That's what made it click for me. There were statues in the same room as the mural. One was a Melodie. The others were like a Melodie, but with…different parts. One was a man who had the lower body of a giant snake. Another woman was stuck to half a spider."

"A reel. A purella. And-"

"A raithe and an avril. Some others that I think might match a songbuk and a dysart." He shifted, uncomfortable. "I read up on some of the other large animals on Yavin 8 last night, before I turned in."

Ikrit's expression was grave, something Anakin only knew from his long friendship with the Kushiban. He shook his head, ears flopping.

"This is foul indeed. The Sith taint all they touch, and I weep for the long-lost souls that might have been trapped away in those bestial bodies."

"That could've been Sannah. Or Lyric…" Tahiri looked sick, one hand held to her stomach. "Anakin, the Changing." Her face paled. Unbidden, he imagined Sannah sinking into one of the shallow rocky pools, eyes closed. Then wide in panic as scales rippled up her whole body, as her arms fused to her sides. Begging for help as her hair fell out and eyes went glassy, black and dull.

Calm washed over him. Ikrit was standing now, tail swishing in agitation.

"Easy, children. Easy. Do not give into fear. The Melodies have Changed for millenia. Do not fear for your friend now. Let's continue our walk. It will be good to move and breathe."

Ikrit hopped down onto the trail, looking over his shoulder.

"Come along!"

The Kushiban Master was right. Anakin fell into a breathing rhythm, banishing the thought of Sannah twisted into a monster. Lyric had been through it and the Melodies never feared their Changing. Stars above, they even looked forward to it. Tahiri settled too, until they both were comfortable enough to continue their recounting to their Master.

He was interested to hear that Tahiri had seen the very same Man in Horns that he did and even heard the same words. It seemed that whatever that thing was, it had interest only in Anakin, not Tahiri. Privately, he was glad it left his friend alone. He knew how to handle this sort of attention. He knew how to keep the dark at bay. He'd been doing it his whole life. It was a burden he'd shoulder without a blink to keep Tahiri safe.

The difference was at the end. Tahiri kept her hand in Anakin's as she talked, squeezing occasionally, but not grabbing at him. Taking reassurance, but not needing it.

"When He was talking to Anakin, there was something behind him. I thought it was just the way his cape was swirling around, but then it got clearer and I realized - I saw someone else. She came up behind the Man and she looked right at me, like the Man was looking at Anakin."

A woman. Nothing he saw at all. Tahiri took in a deep breath, chest expanding and then she blew it out hard, puffing her cheeks.

"I think it was me. I mean, a kind of me? She was older than I am and she looked like an adult but that was definitely my hair. I have to fight it every day so I think I know what it looks like. But she had tattoos and scars and she was wearing…she was wearing vonduun armor and she looked right at me and smiled."

His teeth ground together and he kept from squishing Tahiri's hand in his. Just like the hints of himself he felt and heard in the Man in Horns, of course Tahiri would see some twisted echo of herself.

"And what did this Man want?" Ikrit asked, as calm as if he was wondering about the weather later.

"He wanted me to take his hand. He said we could…we could be more than death."

"Lies, of course," Ikrit said easily. "This rings like one last, desperate act from a withering spirit."

It hadn't felt like that. The difference between Melin-Bralam and the Man in Horns felt like night and day. They felt distinct in ways Anakin couldn't put a finger on. He wasn't even sure the Sith was aware of the Man.

"What did the woman offer you, Tahiri?"

Beside him, his best friend didn't meet the eyes of their Master. She glanced away, at the treetops, at the slivers of blue sky above, at the mossy dirt of the trail beneath their feet. She didn't look at Anakin either.

"She didn't say anything."

The problem with their connection, the way they always brushed against each other, the way they just knew the other, was that Anakin could feel her lie.

He didn't mention it.

Everyone had their own darkness to overcome. He gently squeezed her hand, and he felt her gratitude wash back to him. He'd just have to trust that she knew he was there.

The last time she'd been this busy, she had been running for her Senate seat. That had been a whirlwind she very much never, ever wanted to experience again. In retrospect, the mistakes she made, the obvious flaws in her plans, how very green she was had her stomach curdle in embarrassment. A few minor changes and instead of being the progressive and clear-eyed young Senator the media loved to profile, she might have been relegated to a sneeringly ignored child of nepotism.

A rarity, her private office door was left open, allowing the noise and bustle of her outer offices to filter in. There were contant holocalls being fielded, bounced back and forth. Aides rushed here and there with datacubes, delivering proposals and documents by hand, not trusting networks. This was the office of a Senator of Kuat and Viqi always demanded perfection.

Her great-aunt had been wrangled, the thoughtless old hawkbat. Malaghi Shesh's ghostly arrowhead reminded all of Coruscant, every day, of the Shesh family's - and Viqi's - munificence. Its guns helped trillions sleep tightly. Its presence shamed countless other sectors. Its power demanded access and liaison with the Navy. And, soon, it would remind everyone, through choice selection of orbit anchoring slots, of the diligent diplomatic work of Viqi.

The Exiles were coming.

Oh, what a delight. She couldn't wait. Their performance at Fondor, which began with a shot heard 'round the galaxy, only reached new heights. Word was that Kvarm Jia was bowing to the demands of the Guildsmasters of Fondor. She already had him penciled in as an ally in the days and weeks to come. The Tapani Sector was reeling from the shocks of the brutal fighting. Worlds were scared, peeking through hands clapped over eyes at the suddenly all-too-real threat of the vong. Mrlsst was screaming that they were next, Shopani was arguing with their neighbors about who was more important. From Sefon to Procopia populations were almost riotous over fears of where the vanished vong fleet might next appear.

An utter mess. The war, once distant, slammed into the sector, and now whispers were that the attack at Fondor might have been the New Republic's own fault. That had it not been used as a mustering ground for the Fifth Fleet lingering there for what was obviously some new offensive, that the Yuuzhan Vong might not have targeted the world. It was provocation, some cried out. The New Republic used their worlds to stage an attack, but had been attacked in turn.

And who saved the day?

Not the New Republic Navy - though Viqi was able to admit that, privately, Brand still did a commendable job in holding the line. She wasn't sure which side she'd come down on, when the inquest came - she'd read the winds then - but she was leaning toward keeping him around, as long as it wasn't costly to her.

The Exiles, they were the talk of the sector. Hard not to be, not with four warships at anchor over Fondor whose combined firepower, it was rumored, could match all of the menace and legacy of Death Squadron. Absolutely an exaggeration, but she made sure that those rumors were repeated. Often. And in hearing of those whose ears needed to receive them.

Kvarm Jia, Senator for Tapani, was going to bow to the demands of the Guildsmasters and the Tapani Sector was going to request a formal military alliance with the Imperium Exsilius.

When she wondered just how far they were willing to go to secure the favor of the Imperium, Viqi smirked in amusement at how far she was going too. Transparisteel houses, and all that. She couldn't fault the Guilds of Fondor potentially selling out their world, now virtually defenseless, not when she was unilaterally killing billions of credits worth of contracts. Her family, she knew, was beginning to regard her as possibly insane. She was buying out of contracts, begging off ongoing negotiations and dumping lesser clients.

Some was just smart business, really. A few concerns that had contracted with Shesh were not going to exist in a handful of months, because their central offices were going to be behind Yuuzhan Vong lines and probably also burnt to the ground. For those, she was willing to cut them loose, to hells with legal agreements. No one would be alive to complain about it anyway.

Those clients who were useful, or influential, she was shuffling around. Dealing favors, trading off with the families that Shesh was in good standing with. She had berths to clear. She had many, many, many berths to clear. Kuat's orbital yards were still not recovered from the disaster of 4 ABY, when the patriarch of Kuat took the coward's way out. It was funny, in a way. She respected him for his stalwart defense of an independent Kuat, but hated him for the shame he'd heaped on the world too. A good lesson, she considered. The best intentions could wear away so quickly.

A lesson to remember too, as the Exiles clearly and cleverly maneuvered for more and more influence. Fondor was a masterstroke and if Viqi could believe it, she would swear they collaborated with the vong to cause the attack on their world. Public knowledge of it was still quite limited, but NRI had already released an initial report to CSI. Blowing up a moon. They did nothing by halves.

It was a small moon, but no one would care about that part.

She hummed to herself, under her breath, not even noticing the tune as she skimmed through dense, tangled agreements forwarded by the Exile's diplomatic cadre. It was a convoluted legalese that took several readings to keep straight, along with constant advice from her best attorneys, but so far everything seemed quite in order. Expected restrictions were in place - protecting both Imperial and Kuati patents, outlining inspection requirements, establishing delivery schedules, locking in partnership expectations.

Shesh family engineers and shipwrights were eager to meet with their counterparts in the 'Mechanicum of Mars'. Viqi was eager to see results.

By the time Roboute Guilliman arrived to Coruscant, she would have everything signed, signified and sealed. Ready for presentation and hand-off. Then would come handling the Senate - which would be a task all its own, but one she had begun months ago - and after that -

"It won't work."

-after that, assuming the initial timeframes worked out, then-

"You should have given them a chance."

-her great-aunt would have to step down. There was nothing else for it and she'd have the influence of her other aunts, uncles, cousins, nephews. Nothing ever said she couldn't be both Chief of State and Shesh of Shesh-

"I'm sorry."

She shook the thoughts aside. She had not noticed herself replacing 'Senator' with 'Chief of State'. Catching the last few words of whoever was intruding, Viqi flicked her fingers in dismissal.

"Yes, yes, sorry. Go tell someone who cares how you screwed up, and when you can expect to be fired."

In her private office, with the door left open for the day's tumultuous activity, the soft chak of a blaster's safety flicking off focused her thoughts instantly.

Slowly, she pulled her attention from the array of holos before her. The bore of the blaster, dark as the void, pulled her eyes in. It took up the whole world. Her fingers clenched white, fisted on her desk. Her panic button, underneath, was lightyears too far away. Quiet servomotors shifted.

"Refreshments?" In the corner, 4F came to attention, straightening up from where it had been sorting through documents.

"Not right now," she grit out, between clenched teeth. The blaster barrel didn't even waver. The bastard didn't even have nerves. By force of will, she tore her gaze from the business end of the gun, fixing her best and Sheshest glare on the bearer.

Viqi Shesh was not going out like this. The galaxy was in reach.

"Don't be an idiot."

"You should have given them a chance."

"Don't be an idiot."

Servomotors whined again. In her peripheral, 4F raised his canted, silver arms.

"Oh my," the protocol droid despaired.

The crack of the laser was quiet, all things considered.

Zalthis looked up and down the line of his brothers, each firmly at attention, stock-steady, immovable as adamantium. He paced before them, back and forth, helmet off and in the crook of his arm. Not one of them tracked him with their eyes, each staring fixed forward. Ideals of Ultramarian discipline. Ultramarines. Their armor was light, scorched and dusty and ashen. Speckles and sprays of dried blood showed here, there, staining plate and darkening cloth. A few injuries were livid and red, but healing. Zalthis kept his expression neutral, composed, just as Solidian who waited in the wings. In one hand, Sol rattled a loose bolt shell casing, the muffled clatter of metal on ceramite the only noise besides Zalthis' deceptively light tread.

As he passed each of his brothers again, Zalthis nodded slightly, as if seeing something they could not. Each a moment of judgment.

'I have been given leave by our Lieutenant,' Zalthis spoke, projecting his voice enough to echo in the embarkation deck. It was one of the smaller aboard Opolor's Vow, currently hosting a dirtied Thunderhawk and two Storm Eagles. Deckhands worked to service the transports and a few low-ranked Mechanicum savants ran diagnostics on thick-cabled dataslates.

'I am humbled by the honor our Lieutenant and our Captain have bestowed on me. By the decree of the Primarch, countersigned by Captain Argant and confirmed by Captain Thiel, I am authorized to inform each and every one of you this: you are Neophytes no longer. Take one step forward, as battle-brothers of the Thirteenth Legiones Astartes Ultramarines."

His facade broke. Solidian whooped. Zalthis' grin split his face, almost hurting his cheeks. Qario did not step forward but leapt, with both feet, a short hop that slammed ceramite boots to steel decking in a clatter. Lyros and Altraedar, on either side of Petran, grabbed their brother under the arms and bodily lifted the struggling neophyte up, feet kicking fruitlessly, laughing as they joined Qario. Evidur shoved Sydaris forward, the latter looking shocked, agape. Isidiran grabbed Tolon in a headlock just moments after they stepped forward as well, digging armored digits into his brother's scalp.

Around the embarkation deck, activity paused at the commotion and a cheer went up from the mortal crew around. A few hats were flung upward, tossed with exuberance. Whistles and a few hoots punctuated the cacophony.

It took a long moment to bring himself back to formal severity.

'Ultramarines!' he barked. His brothers, all of them, all of them, who survived Fondor, who fought alongside him and alongside other brothers, who had all proven themselves, who had all lived, tussled and hassled each other and then pulled together, stiffening and straightening again, though this time not a one could keep broad grins from their stretched, boyish faces.

'Our orders are received. Opolor's Vow is to remain at Fondor. Sorpenton will escort Touch of the Motive Force to the Republican world of Kuat, before carrying onward to return to Eboracum. We will be transferred to Sorpenton, along with the Iax Tertius and First Eboracum.'

He looked each brother in the eye. Excitement. Pride. A bit of worry.

He knew the feeling. Not that long ago. Not long ago at all, and yet - he felt older than them all, somehow. He was sure the feeling would fade.

'And then you will receive your Black Carapace and your assignments.'

Isidiran was nearly vibrating in place. In the corner of his eye, Zal could see Solidian silently chuckling.

'Dismis-'

He didn't finish the order. They mobbed him. As far as he knew, none of them were likely to be assigned to Captain Thiel's company. Zalthis let himself have this moment. Sol, too, when they pulled him in. They'd thought they would face the ork together. Break the Ghaslakh xenohold with the might of two Legions and the honor of warring alongside two Primarchs. Zalthis of a year previous could never have imagined this, here. Earning his Black Carapace on a daring infiltration mission with foreign witch-warriors. His other cadre brothers earning their own defending a world of aliens and automatons that was not even Imperial.

The galaxy had gone mad. Truly mad - but he would not trade this moment. Not for all the stars.

Malik Carr prostrated himself before the enshrined villip. It was outsized, large as a rakamat's egg, a full stride in height and the biot's leathery skin shone like oil. It was a grand creation, bound to one partner and one partner only. Each and every commander bore one, sealed away in blessed stasis for just this moment. Harrar himself had overseen its removal and consecration.

Body posture was not conveyed by the whisper-bulbs, but deference before his superior and the Gods demanded no less. Malik Carr pressed forehead to the deck. Tak tak tak tapped his claw.

Wetly, the villip everted, outer surface rolling back to reveal its jelly-like interior. It was the last of the grand array of villips to waken; all others already everted and attuned, bearing myriad faces, all with eyes downcast. From the central villip and as near as mortally conceivable, the face of Yun-Yammka glowered down at Malik Carr and he felt a tingle of religious dread pucker his neck.

"Attend me," rumbled the noseless, scarified visage. Slowly, he dared meet the simulacrum eyes of the Warmaster. Great Lah was poised on the precipice of nirvanic ascension and thus was his spiritual prowess and martial authority reflected in the shape of his face. Villips were imperfect repeaters - perfection was the domain of the Gods alone - but even through flesh and across tied-atomite distances, the Warmaster quietened the pounding of Malik Carr's blood. A hunter recognized the apex predator.

"My Warmaster," began Nas Choka, speaking from one of the lieutenant villips nearest to the master.

"Ah, my trusted right hand," the Warmaster sighed and even this tone was received by the villip and repeated by tympanum implanted in the walls until Carr's diaphragm vibrated and stole away his breath. "I anticipate good news. Fondor lies green beneath the hand of the Shaperate? The infidels flee Coreward, chastened and cowed?"

Malik Carr smothered a grin, maintaining his carefully neutral and respectful mien.

"The shipyards of Fondor are but a memory, o Warmaster. Much of the northern continent lies in ruins-"

"Ruins that shall sprout fields of yorik and let our Worldeaters feast greatly on the shame of the unfaithful?"

"O Warmaster…"

"Or do the Worldeaters I have gifted you from these hands lie rotting beneath a hostile star? Do your ships burn and retreat in the void?" The Warmaster's eyes gleamed and Malik Carr felt the brush of death's cloak over him. Unbidden, he shivered.

"These delays dismay me, my treasured implements. I ask for victory, in the name of the Gods, the Rainbow Eyed, and my own, in such order. I give freely the strength of the Chosen People, whose sinew'd arm has trained in long years of pilgrimage and I am terribly troubled to learn of delays."

Nas Choka's face, on lesser villip, paled. The acuity of the creatures to relay the finest of expressions heaped honor on the Shapers.

"Heed my words well: these are but delays. Nas Choka, my brother, you have broken a great shipwomb of the infidel. This is good. But you did not conclude the killing. Warleader Malik Carr, who is newly anointed. You broke the moon of the fledgling Impeerium, you soured the starways of their world and you humbled their pride, but you did not cause their dead-ships to fall from the skies."

The Warmaster tsk'd, closing heavily-lidded eyes and the villip squirmed, suiting its subject's motions.

"Delays. I hold you blameless, Warleader Malik Carr. The Impeerium is a worthy and fierce foe, whose might strikes echoes of the dread Cremlevian. Your flotilla is not fit to war against a battle-fleet of the infidels, yet you achieved much. This is to be commended. Supreme Commander Nas Choka, though Fondor remains held by the Reepublic, it is a tarnished treasure.

"I would be wroth if you brought me failures, but that is not what is laid at my feet. You proceed, my hands, but you do not proceed apace. The Rainbow Eyed comes. I will not suffer humiliation to demand that He come to roost on any world but the crownworld. Only one prize will suffice, only one offering will pleasure His glory."

"Coruscant," Malik Carr breathed, barely a sound. The Warmaster, of course, heard.

"Coryouscant," The Warmaster confirmed. "The wretched axle of this heathen wheel. When He comes, all will be prepared. Worldeaters devour the blasphemy that was Nar Shayday, where they might grow fat and mighty in strength. The shipwomb of Sernpeedal is replete. The suan'kot hok-strohna grows. Our worldships groan beneath the weight of warriors eager to shed blood. Delay we may no longer. Duro is mine. Supreme Commander-?"

Nas Choka, with color regained in his face, blinked and his villip wobbled as he no doubt inclined his head.

"No, not you, my trusted brother. Supreme Command Malik Carr-"

Air fled the grotto. Heat swept from his very toes to his forehead and back again. He saw the shock in the expressions of others attendant, even the widening of Nas Choka's eyes.

"From Commander to Warleader to Supreme Commander in so brief a span," the Warmaster mused. "This is fitting. This wheel will test us and we will break it or be broken upon it. There is little time for the mewing of Intendants or the scribblings of administrators. This is a war we make by the grace of Yun-Yammka, who rewards ever the bloody-handed. Ascension for the worthy, Shame for the failures. Supreme Commander Malik Carr, you will be my left hand, as Supreme Commander Nas Choka is my right. Together, you will organize the two great waves of this war, and you will muster them well. The northern wheel is yours, Malik Carr. The southern wheel you command, Nas Choka. I brook no more delays. We prepare for Battle Plan Coryouscant."

Depthless black eyes surveyed them all.

"Doro-ik vong pratte," the Warmaster intoned. Malik Carr's throat burned as he shouted in response, joining the howled chorus as the Warmaster's villip calmed, smoothed, and was quiescent.

Then Supreme Command Malik Carr rose, and went out to his warriors.

Tsavong Lah released the breath he held, grimacing as he returned weight to his crippled leg. Blood still wept down it, beneath his vonduun plate, tacky and slick. His back ached, bruises and lacerations spreading from hip to neck. A lesser being might be humbled by the pain, but it only buoyed him. The Gods graced him with this trial and he would not Shame them nor himself by shying away. Intendants shuffled away the master villip, returning it to its rest in a clamshell container.

Before him, the toxic, roiling fogs of Duro were held at bay. Biots whose name he did not know waved thick and flexible trunks, breathing deep the poisoned atmosphere with relish. Their flatulence was cleansed and pleasant air, nourishing to the body and each beast expanded this bubble of purification on the wasted world.

Even still, he could taste acrid chemicals on his tongue and the soft linings of his sinuses burned. The world would need far more than a few cadres of filter-beasts. It would need grand scale shaping of the kind that only Masters and many, many months could enact, but this was to be a symbol. The hill upon which he stood, which overlooked the broken and shattered domes under which craven and filthy infidels once hid, made like an island in the muck and murk. Clear skies shone overhead. The muddy ground blossomed with fast-growth lichens and mosses, young ferns already poking up fiddleheads.

Arrayed about the hill, in careful symmetry and shapes, were bodies of many Duro. Rank and position did not matter. Somewhere, the bothersome 'Vice-Director' lay as ignoble and lifeless as a lowly servant-cleaner. Blood encouraged the sweet growth of life. Green spread, overtaking mucky brown and burgundy.

"Bring the oggzil," Tsavong Lah commanded. Seef bore a pale-white, moist-skinned villip forward in both arms. Larval white, the villip bore a strange and metallic spine that threaded into the flesh of the creature, spreading filaments out like braided tendrils until forming a long, dangling tail that nearly touched the ground. Seef did not dishonor the biot, holding it just high enough to prevent muddy insult. She gently placed her burden on a tall, narrow stalk of coral. Of its own accord the villip squirmed and settled, more mobile than others of its breed.

Wordless, Tsavong extended one bare, claw-fingered hand. With head bowed, a servant delivered his trophy.

"Waken it."

Seef stroked the oversized oggzil villip, using both hands, until it trembled and rippled back, revealing larval pale jelly. No face formed, for the oggzil was not meant to relay in return, but record and broadcast, across the cold and unliving networks the heathens relied upon. His message was to be spread far and wide and he ensured the wretched Republic had no choice.

Carefully, he positioned himself, settling his weight equally on both feet, ignoring lancing jabs of agony from knee and ankle. He was Warmaster. He was the hand of Yun'Yammka. All must see.

"Citizens of the New Republic," he spoke slowly, clearly. In his ear, the tizowyrm squirmed and he would not mispronounce a single word. "I speak from the surface of Duro. This was a world slain by your forebears. Look!" The stalk that supported the oggzil slowly revolved, allowing the villip to survey the toxin-laden clouds that lapped at the edges of the hill, held back by wafting gusts of the filter-beasts.

"Look!" he repeated. "Like your souls, you have poisoned this world. In your hunger, you have upended life. You curse the Chosen People. You say that we worship death. Look!" Again the oggzil rotated atop its stalk, and this time, it canted slightly, such that the spreading mosses and ferns were clearly seen.

"Duro lives again. Months your 'scientists'" the word was poison in his mouth and he withheld the urge to spit "have toiled to restore this world. They have failed. In hours, my Shapers have life in bloom." Tsavong scowled, his eyes flashing red and white. He waved his empty hand, encompassing the horizon. "You have wondered. You have begged. You have pleaded. 'Why do you come?' 'What do you desire?' Today I will tell you. I am Tsavong of Lah. I am Warmaster. We will…cease. Here at Duro. With the claiming of this world, I suspend hostilities. My Warleaders, my Commanders - they will take not one step forward. No more worlds will be embattled.

I have but one condition."

Tsavong raised his other hand, his right hand, which bore a single object. Silver, with black fittings. It was tubular, suited to both a single and hand-and-a-half grip. A dish-shaped emitter sprouted from one end. The other was capped by a durable pommel. It was an icon all in the galaxy would know.

"Among you live ones who mock all Gods. They make themselves as little godlings and unto them you heap worship, you heap praise, you heap idolatry that is not earned. You abase before them, and they lord over you."

Held aloft, the lightsaber caught the light of Duro's star and glinted. To depress the activation stud sickened him, but the priests told that the Gods would overlook this minor blasphemy in understanding of the greater moment. Emerald light crackled from one end, a bright, shining bar. A lie.

"Jedi. Liars of life. Worshippers of the zhaik'tan they call 'the Force'. Deceivers. False prophets. Deliver them to me, your Jeedai, one and all. Give them to me, all without exception. All species, all ages. A babe at the breast or hunched crone, I care not. Give me your Jedi and Duro is where this just war ends. Honor the Gods, and by the Gods be honored."

He lowered the lightsaber, gripping it in both hands, held before him.

"Disobey me at your peril. Hide your Jedi and see how your worlds will suffer. Deliver them and be justly and truly rewarded. The hands of the Chosen People will give great boons for each and every Jedi who is given up to be purified. Do not waste on them your regard. Among you they breed and from your misguided belief they feed."

He flexed his arms. His biceps bulged, tendons stood out at wrist, elbow, neck. Metal groaned, then built into a shriek. With a twisting motion, a grunted exhale, the lightsaber snapped in two. The light cut out with an asthmatic cough. He cared little for the brief burst of snapping electricity that bit at his fingers.

"Know this. All Jedi must be surrendered. But the one who delivers the Jedi I desire most, I will reward personally - with special gifts." He tossed one half of the lightsaber aside and dug claws into the ruin of the other. From within, he plucked a fiery gem which seemed to swirl and seethe with an inner furnace. Between two fingers he held out the gleaming corusca gem, casting aside the rest of the lightsaber.

"Bring me Jacen Solo. Alive. That way I might tear from him his soul and feed it to the gods.

Screaming."