The New Jedi Order: A Vision of Confluence

X: Speak Softly

Under the light of Pirve’s star - Eboracum’s, if you asked the current owners - three hardworn warships formed up expectantly, thrusters idling at station keeping where a hyperspace nav buoy once graced the quiet dark. Samothrace led the pack, flanked by Opolor’s Vow and Numinus. The battle barge, washed in deep ocean blue and gilt with gold led the two grand cruisers as seconds ticked down. A new experience, this one, having a set timetable to rely upon, down to the moment. Unheard of in the means of interstellar travel those aboard the warships knew best, but something to acclimate to in this new galaxy.

Precisely on time a white and violet arrowhead flickered into existence, seeming as if to decelerate from incredible velocities to gently coast toward the Imperial squadron. Immediately after three more flickers announced the arrival of the much smaller cousins of the centerpiece, each the same white-and-violet as their much older sister. Opolor’s Vow and Numinus were of the Avenger and Vengeance class, respectively, but the flagship that Viqi Shesh claimed overmatched both in both length and bulk as it fell in with the Imperials. The warships of the XIIIth split, allowing Samothrace and the new arrival, Malaghi Shesh, to come abeam of each other as the combined squadrons fell inward to the sun and Eboracum.

Malaghi Shesh had begun life as a Mandator Star Dreadnought, sold to the Ixtlar sector similarly to the sale of her sisters to other Core holdings. There she had been bastardized, humbled, the proud dreadnought plastered with advertising, her very name sold off to the highest bidder. Ixtlar Defender became the Serve-O-Droid Defender and then in a fresh humiliation, Arcon Multinode Defender as rights were traded. Vast holograms adorned her flanks and she had become nearly a floating mall as much as a dreadnought. Tourists walked her decks to gawk at gaudy displays and purchase overpriced trinkets. The Mandator had been, in Viqi’s opinion, a fairly neat encapsulation of everything wrong with Kuat.

A marvel of design, the result of a thousand thousand and more diligent, hardworking sons and daughters of Kuat dedicating their craft and expertise to its creation, and it had been sold off and forgotten. Ixtlar had little need of it and it languished, moldering away, for generations. In much the same way that Kuat had become the appendage of the Empire, and then of the New Republic after. What was Kuat known for, now? Star Destroyers. Star Destroyers. Forty years of Star Destroyers. Forty years of resting on their laurels, churning out by the hundreds, thousands, the same vessels again and again and again.

When the Empire fell, forty thousand Star Destroyers were abroad across the Galaxy. Most remained, reverted to sector and local authorities, handfuls here and there incorporated into New Republic Navy squadrons. KDY was synonymous with the Star Destroyer.

But Dac was on the ascendant. Bothawui surprised everyone with the innovation of their Assault Cruisers. Even the guilds of Fondor were making moves to establish cutting-edge designs of their own. What would Kuat do? Make more Star Destroyers. Until the heat death of the universe.

Because they were effective. They were known. They were easy.

Like Malaghi Shesh, when it had been Ixtal Defender, it was profitable and it was business to sell it off to the highest bidder.

Well, her family had bought it back ten years ago at firesale prices. Out had been ripped the corruption, the holograms were snuffed out, the hull ablated and blasted clean, repainted in the elegant whorls and emblems of the Shesh family and a venerable name lettered in on her proud prow. Malaghi Shesh, one of the most famous matriarchs of the family. A better name for a better future. Further work had been done as well, replacing and overhauling much of the aging dreadnought, bringing it up to par with the younger sisters of the Mandator line, effectively bringing Malaghi Shesh on par with the Mandator IIs.

Viqi stood on the bridge itself, paneled in dark stained hourl wood from Kuat, each console and station edged in polished brass with slake-marble facings.

Prying Malaghi Shesh from the clawed fingers of her great great aunt, the current matriarch of the family, had been humiliating and exhausting, but looking at the grand warships escorting the New Republic cadre, it all proved worth it.

Their style wasn’t exactly to her tastes - a modern, sleek aesthetic appealed to her palate. If things had to be done richly, in luxury, it should be streamlined and minimalist, highlighting the finery. Excess meant that you didn’t have the good sense to recognize style. The Imperial ships were piles upon piles of ornamentation and gaudy excess, but all the same, Viqi couldn’t deny the sheer passion they exuded. When someone emblazoned a screaming avian in bas-relief across hundreds of meters of warship, they clearly had something to say. Malaghi Shesh, to Viqi’s sensibilities, proudly murmured greatness to the universe, confident enough to never need raise her voice. These Imperial ships shouted it to the heavens above, yet did not seem to come from insecurity. Rather, maybe a boisterous sort of overabundant energy.

One that Kuat could well do to sample. Energy, even giddy, undirected energy, was better than slow senescence.

The other escorts alongside Malaghi Shesh were Temerous, Alacrity and Boastful, all Imperial-I Star Destroyers, also of Shesh, on loan to the New Republic in a gracious display of unity in such turbulent times. They would be permanently New Republic ships after this, if Viqi had her way, a gift to the New Republic alongside the results of this summit. Malaghi would remain at Coruscant, symbolizing Kuat’s support of the Senate and the New Republic Navy and as Viqi’s own personal craft, should need arise.

Unless she failed utterly here, in which not only would Malagi return to the yards over Kuat, owned by her family, but she would follow soon enough too, no doubt stripped of her Senatorship with one of her other distaff cousins or nieces ready to step in place. Or, perish the thought, a scion of one of the other families.

It was not an exaggeration to say that Viqi Shesh had bet her entire hand before the shifter and now waited, fingernails tapping, for the draw of the cards to come.

Coming then into orbit over the provisional ‘capital’ of this Imperium of Man, Samothrace pulled ahead, leading Malaghi Shesh while the three Star Destroyers and two grand cruisers split off, taking up pre-determined stations to retrograde and in a higher orbit. The battle barge and Mandator settled into synchronous orbit over Eboracum, engines cooling down as station-keeping thrusters came alight. Patrols of thick-bodied Imperial starfighters coasted by at respectful distances, each waggling their wings as they passed.

There had been debate about where to speak, face to face. Viqi had offered sumptuous suites and conference halls aboard Malaghi, newly refurbished and afforded the finest amenities hundreds of millions of credits could offer. The Imperium seemed loathe to meet aboard any of their own vessels, so soon enough the decision was made to instead stand on the surface of Eboracum, in the open air and sky.

Viqi Shesh joined with Tresk Im’nel, Anakin Solo, Mei Taral, Kyp Durron, her own staff chief Victor Pomt and two dozen aides and advisors from her office and selected from the Diplomatic Corps. Two shuttles were paired up in the primary hangar of Malaghi, ready to ferry them all down on the short hop to the planet’s surface. The youngest among them, Anakin Solo, kept looking everywhere at once as the delegation prepared to split up to their shuttles.

“Are you nervous, Jedi Solo?” Viqi asked, not unkindly. He started, flicking his eyes to meet hers, then down again as he flushed.

“No - I was just, um - this is the kind of thing my Uncle does.”

Master Durron smirked, clapping the Knight on his shoulder.

“Being the diplomat? That’s Master Skywalker, alright.”

“There’s noting to worry about. I’ll be leading, Jedi Solo, and Master Durron I’m sure is ready to speak for the Jedi.”

“Or not speak,” Durron said with a shrug. “It depends on what I’m seeing down there.” The only female Jedi there, with Harlan Ysanna having backed out, kept her arms folded. The frown that had worked its way onto the woman’s face shortly before they had departed Coruscant a week previous had not faded any. Done up in her rather barbaric looking armor, Taral was a stark contrast to the robed Solo and Durron. Though Im’nel was a Jedi as well, he was there on behalf of his actual job and wore the same tunic ensembles as the others of the diplomatic corps.

There was, of course, another potential reason for the young Solo’s mild embarrassment, Viqi mused, as each party took to their own shuttle. The Jedi would take one, along with a few of her Senatorial aides. Viqi and Tresk would take another, with her three closest staff, then the rest split between the remaining two. Each shuttle was an elegant but simple affair, never meant for more than the briefest hop between ships or worlds, never to travel between stars. She needn’t even take a seat as the shuttles debarked without even a hint of motion. Transparisteel panelling gave a spectacular vista as Malaghi’s warm hangar dropped away, leaving them in the stark, bright light of space. Her reflection caught her eye and Viqi cocked her head, carefully sliding a few stray strands of hair back behind her ear.

Where others were dressed as Jedi or in their capacity as Senate staff or officials of the Diplomatic Corps, she had allowed her household to dress her in only the finest a scion of Shesh could claim.

For herself, of course, she had spent hours in deliberation in her many closets. A fine-boned corset in cream and satin slimmed her waist, where several broad golden belts draped carefully over her hips. Violet trousers stitched in whorls of gold and black were tightly fit, tucked into high black boots. Over it all she wore a classically Kuati robe of semitransparent silks and gauze, itself embroidered with swirls that matched her trousers. Layered skirts rustled about her legs and long, flowing sleeves ended in gold embroidered cuffs. Jewels in settings of gold and silver wove into her black hair, itself left loose to brush over her shoulders and décolletage. Viqi was quite aware of the effect she had on men and not a few women, as all weapons were considered in high politics of family and governance. Hopefully the poor Solo boy wasn’t too overwhelmed.

The shuttles broke through a layer of wispy cloud and Viqi exhaled a breath of surprise at what was revealed beneath. Pirve had been a quiet, out of the way world, one unknown to everyone but those that lived there or happened to drop by. She was sure that even those at the sector capital would’ve had to look it up. According to briefs, the world had only a few small cities, nearly villages, and a generally sleepy air.

Below her now, though, was something quite different.

A fortress spread out below. What had been a mountain valley was transformed, massive minarets and towers clawing up into the sky, seeming to reach for the shuttles as they descended. Enormous zones were planed flat and paved, creating tiered landing zones emblazoned with lights and complicated paint markings. Gun turrets that would be at home on a battlecruiser sat atop squat towers and fortifications, peeking from under armored cupolas.

Yet despite these Imperials only having claimed ownership of this world months ago, there was no sign of slapdash or rushed efforts. To her critical eye, Viqi could immediately make out the measured grid-structure of the fortification. She could see the gaps where the construction was incomplete and understood what would fill in the voids. There was care in the work too, with buttressed arches and carven pillars, high vaulted windows and the same symbols she had seen on the warships repeated here. The largest landing pad, which the shuttles now cut toward, had a vast twin-headed avian set against the crisp U emblem painted onto the tarmac, hundreds of meters wide.

Victor Pomt, her staff chief, stepping next to her, whistled.

“These people don’t waste time,” he observed.

Viqi smiled, peering down at the vast platform as the shuttles descended, watching as shapes of rows upon rows of soldiery came into view, formed up into six square blocks, surrounding a main cleared section. Viqi’s shuttle was the first set down, as befit her position as a Senator - and a Shesh. Tresk Im’nel and Victor Pomt joined her, both standing a step behind as they waited for the go-ahead signal and opening of the ramp. She had not lived under the Empire, at least not as she remembered, being too young for it to have mattered much, but vividly she recalled holos of the pomp and circumstance of Imperial delegations and her pulse quickened.

This was how things should be, not the dull rote procedure of the New Republic. Cultures should be celebrated and championed, filled with pride in their worlds and their people. The New Republic should send their representatives in pageantry and splendor to treat with their allies and to shame their foes, not sent wordlessly in drab diplomatic cruisers only to kick their heels in unadorned offices.

As Viqi awaited the signal that the other shuttle had set down, she adjusted her skirts and sleeves, checking the drape and layering and gently running a finger along the hem of her corset. There was something to be said for the day-to-day comfort of simple tunics and robes when in her Senate offices, but she felt powerful here and now. Radiant. Only now she realized how little she’d indulged in traditional dress since taking office on Coruscant and resolved to rectify this in the future.

‘We’re ready, madame,’ Pomt whispered. She flicked her hand and the ramp slid open. Chill mountain air swept into the climate controlled comfort of the shuttle, rustling her skirts and sleeves and she breathed it in, deep, and stepped forward. From the other shuttle came the rest of her staff that she’d brought as well as Master Durron leading the Jedi contingent, all in brown and tan robes save the Jensaarai woman, who was wrapped up in her garish armor.

The sight before them was arresting and Viqi nearly slowed in her step.

They had all seen the man in the baroque armor in the initial communique from the Imperium - here now were hundreds. All appearing nearly identical, all massive, all utterly and completely still, shoulder to shoulder, arranged in formal parade formation. Red lenses burned from frowning helms and had she not seen the face of a man within that armor, Viqi knew she’d assume them to be wardroids. Flanking the main blocks of these warriors were more recognizable soldiery - humans, both men and women, in ornate uniforms in the same blues, creams and golds, each with long and thin rifles resting on their shoulders. Officers wore peaked caps and bore low-slung swords. Then behind the massive warriors and formations of simpler soldiery sat thick-bodied and brutally designed tanks of various types, Viqi’s trained eye noting varieties of barrel and armaments.

Set against the backdrop of the sharp peaked mountains in the far distance and the white-washed fortress in the middle distance all around, it was a ferociously martial sight, one that might have otherwise been intimidating.

For Viqi, it was delightful.

The effort to draw up all these men and women, to organize them, outfit them, to spit-and-polish their uniforms and weapons and draw out the tanks and armored vehicles, all to assemble this? Oh, how much it told her about the mindset of the Imperium. How much it told her they valued this meeting, how deeply they needed to impress the New Republic.

Here is our strength, they were shouting. Here is what we can offer.

Viqi, coming to a halt before five individuals of vastly different shape and mien each, was smiling so widely her cheeks had nearly begun to hurt.

If this was what all they had to offer, then, well, she would quite gladly take it all.

For Anakin Solo, in the shadow of Kyp Durron, the experience couldn’t be more different. He could feel growing unease in Master Durron, the older Jedi’s jaw clenching tighter, muscles bunching and twitching as he looked out over the landing plaza and assembled soldiery. Next to Anakin, Mei was still frowning, almost scowling, but she seemed to keep her reaction in check. Both the Jedi were twice or more Anakin’s age and their tension was unsettling. The Force whispered no hints of danger and he was relieved that he could feel the warmth and life from all of the Imperials here, none of the eerie nothingness of the vong, but everything just felt so off.

It felt like a story about the Empire from his dad.

Not the Remnant, who had their own problems but were lightyears better than the Empire, but the Empire Empire. The one under Palpatine. The one that -

Anakin swallowed. His palm itched for the comforting coolness and weight of his ‘saber. He looked around, again, feeling like the glowing lenses of the massive soldiers were tracking him, and him alone. Master Durron and Knight Taral had him on edge, but it was the feeling he was getting from Senator Shesh that was making it all the worse. The woman was ecstatic. Like a girl on her lifeday, and the contrast was making his head ache.

A voice in his head that sounded far too much like Tahiri asked just what in the Force he’d gotten himself into this time. He really did not have an answer.

Viqi had not met them, but she knew them. Colonel Surezia Lurense, Magos Corria Nalt, Lieutenant Aeonid Thiel, Admiral Katryna Vaul and Iterator Sorvenos Tamirit Noskaur. All had been named in communications as proposed representatives of the Imperium, each to speak for a particular branch of the organization. She was less clear on precisely what that meant, or who they spoke for, but such was the way of diplomacy. That would be hashed out well enough in the time to come, but first it was pleasant to match faces to names and cursory descriptions.

Surezia Lurense, who introduced herself with a skittish look on her face like a prey animal ready to bolt, was a plain looking woman, perhaps middle aged, who wore her hair straight and plain beneath a starched cap. Her uniform was similar to that of those soldiers formed up around them, but featuring more decoration whose meaning was alien.

By contrast, Katryna Vaul was a woman after Viqi’s own heart. The Admiral nearly sneered down her nose, at least half a head taller than even Viqi, who herself was tall for a human woman, and Vaul’s impressive and rakishly cut uniform was not only perfectly tailored, but flattering and imposing. A woman of intent and ferocity, Viqi could tell, who wouldn’t be out of place in the dagger-edged games of the Ten Families.

Sorvenos Noskaur shook her hand with both of his, beaming a bright white smile, exuding good cheer and excitement enough to nearly eclipse his companions.

“Such a pleasure, Senator, such a pleasure! And to you, Master Jedi, welcome to Eboracum, be welcome with the warmest greetings of the Imperium of Man.”

His perfect form of address to a Jedi clearly caught Durron off guard, Viqi noted, the import of both she filed away as Noskaur greeted the Solo boy with the same enthusiasm and sincerity as he greeted everyone else.

Corria Nalt kept his - she knew him to be him from briefs - hands tucked up his own robes and only dipped his head a fraction of a degree after hissing his own name and rank from a grilled mask that covered most of his face.

And the Lieutenant? Not even a word, just looming over them all, armor thrumming with contained power.

“Viqi Shesh,” she offered, extending her hand, palm down. “Senator of the Kuat Sector, New Republic. Of the Shesh Family.” As expected, this ‘Lieutenant Thiel’ did not take and kiss her hand (a ridiculous notion, but one she was amused to entertain) and she turned the gesture into a sweep as she bowed her head. For a long moment she feared he would not even reply, leaving her overextended and awkward, but from his stern helmet came harsh words, distorted by transmission.

“Lieutenant Aeonid Thiel, Thirteenth Legiones Astartes.”

“A pleasure,” she smirked and turned to her true counterpart, Noskaur. He had just finished complimenting the workmanship of Taral’s armor, leaving the Jensaarai flatfooted, and he seemed to be perfectly in sync with Viqi.

“Shall we retire inside? Refreshments are prepared and we shall be much more comfortable.”

“That would be excellent, Iterator. Your hospitality is both noted and appreciated.”

Noskaur offered her his arm, like an escort at some ball. Pomt cleared his throat but she accepted, linking her arm with his and together they led the group off of the tarmac, toward broad stairs that swept up toward a building that looked perhaps municipal, if the ornate colonnade that encircled it was any indicator.

A walk and talk, for the moment, letting Viqi and the rest take in the sights of the active fortress. A squadron of starfighters roared overhead on thick contrails, likely much lower than they normally would. Behind them, the formations broke up and dispersed with much shouting and ado in a language Viqi did not know, but surely was being recorded and cataloged by sensors on the shuttles. At the request of the Imperium, no protocol droids or even droids of any kind were with them. A peculiar request, but one easily agreed to for the moment. It would come up and she would learn the reasoning soon enough, but in the meantime they had plenty of cutting-edge recording devices both visual and audio and in the electromagnetic besides on loan from the Intelligence Service.

Spying on each other was a time-honored tradition of diplomacy and most importantly first-contacts. It was just what one did.

Noskaur told her about the fortress as they left the tarmac behind. The ‘Pharisan Redoubt’, he called it, mentioning that the overseer himself might be inclined to provide a tour, should she voice interest. One ‘Erriod Paston’, who was the mastermind behind the design. Clearly a formidable mind, to draft the plans for a fortress in such short order, though Viqi suspected a great deal of exaggeration afoot.

Noskaur named things that they had seen: Shadowsword and Banesword, Stormlord and Rhino, Landraider and Fire Raptor, Thunderhawk and Stormbird. It was enough to make her head spin - the New Republic, like the Empire before it and Republic before that, had never invested overmuch in an army of sorts. Indeed, the Clone Wars had only demonstrated how much of a mistake that was in some ways. To see such a vast and varied variety of tanks and gunships, armored vehicles and more was impressive. A martial culture indeed and how perfect they appear now, and here, and this time. A wonderfully aggressive and military culture, open and ready to make alliance.

Set them amongst the vong, she mused, and the Galaxy could take a breather.

Uniformed footmen opened broad double doors for the procession and Noskaur led them into the interior of the building. Inside was airy and high-ceilinged, lit with hissing lumes set into the walls. Carpets were set on smoothly planed stone floors and banners fluttered from walls over carefully arranged and set furniture, but she saw through it all. Not quite a facade, but a forceful arrangement. A thousand Republic credits said that were they to dip inside any of the other, more martial buildings, they would see bare floors, walls, and utilitarian furnishings.

Again, they were making the effort. The Imperium was trying to impress. They were making a home-away-from-home, a way to say ‘See, look at us. We are cultured, we are great, we are worthy. We are equals.’ That they cared at all put a spring in her step.

Noskaur led them down a short corridor and into a broad chamber, dominated by a single table, shaped in an arc, made of blond lacquered wood. Seating was arranged along the table and along the walls, each marked by a pinned scrap of parchment, names penned upon them. This entire meeting had been planned to minutia, with Viqi required to pass along names and minor dossiers of each intended attendant, from not only herself but even as far as her aides who handled stenography. Viqi and Noskaur were seated at the very center of the table, with the rest fanning out toward the ends. Little microphones - or at least she assumed they were microphones - projected from the surface, ready to project their words to all present. She saw no emitters around, but figured them likely craftily hidden in the table itself, or some of the decorative desks and statuary scattered around.

Strangely, a small flock of hovering drones clustered in one corner, each appearing, at least from a distance, to be shaped like a human skull sprouting machinery. More than a few of the emblems among the Imperials, either worked into gold or painted, were skulls. Macabre, but who was she to judge?

Tresk sat next to Viqi, then Master Durron, then Mei Taral, Anakin Solo, Pomt, and then onward down the ranks of less importance. To Noskaur’s side was Admiral Vaul, then Colonel Lurense, then the ‘Magos’ Nalt. A few other Imperials had joined them, nameless, likely the same sort of archivists and aides as those in Viqi’s party. Lieutenant Thiel did not claim a seat, instead positioning himself within the arc of the table, arms folded across his massive chest.

She really did wonder if the man inside the armor was quite so large, or if much of the size was enhanced by the exoskeleton itself.

As everyone settled, quiet murmurings and mutterings filling the chamber, white-tunic clad servants entered in from hidden doorways, carrying frosted, thin-necked decanters of what appeared to be water, along with fragile glass goblets that they placed precisely along the table. Then they bowed and fled as throats were cleared, clothes adjusted and wooden feet rasped as chairs shifted.

Noskaur stood, straightening his robe and silence finally fell. He began to speak and Viqi let the words wash over her, paying less attention to what was said but rather how. The specifics rarely mattered in speeches such as this, no doubt prepared and agonized over, revised and reviewed to the nth degree. Noskaur spoke about ‘momentous occasions’ and ‘unepxected joys’ and ‘lost cousins’ and all the usual pat phrases expected. He was a handsome man, in a sort of generalized way. She couldn’t read his age, his salt-and-pepper hair and close cropped beard evoking sort of a memory of your father - ageless and merely ‘older than you’.

He gesticulated with purpose, enunciated exactingly and his title of ‘Iterator’ was well earned indeed. He pointed and swept his hand, singling out and encompassing all, making sure everyone, even the aides against the walls, felt included. A very good orator, all in all, one who might not be out of place-

“-thus do we, the Imperium of Man, gladly greet you all in the name of the Emperor, Beloved by All, and the Throne of Terra, which is of course, the homeworld and ancestral origin of all mankind.”

And Noskaur sat down, beaming his great smile, leaving Viqi to decide that, in fact, sometimes the exact words were important at times like this.