The New Jedi Order: A Vision of Confluence

PART IV: TO ORDER ALL SPACE

XI: Seen Stranger

Noskaur called for a recess after the formal introductions - a bit premature, she thought, but he was the host. As he put it, as they chatted while their respective parties rose from the table and began the dance of ice-breaking, long experience in these sorts of careful first-contact situations proved to him that breaking molds of formality and stuffy speeches lent the best results.

“You’ve done this before?” She asked, sensing a thread to tug along.

“Many a time, Senator. The Imperium has been in the business of reuniting a galaxy, you see. Diplomacy is first and foremost in our goals. Our brave sons in the Legiones? Well. There are always times when an open hand is met by a closed fist, and it’s anyone’s right to protect themselves.” It sounded laudable, but she could scarce imagine the situations when an entire battlefleet and army was needed for simple ‘self defense’.

“I’m sure the rest of my colleagues will be happy to hear the Imperium prefers peace.”

Noskaur looked her over as Admiral Vaul, to his right, leaned over and whispered something in his ear.

“We prefer safety, Senator.” He promised to speak with her again and encouraged her to sample ‘dishes from the true home of mankind’ before being pulled away by the stern Admiral. White-tunic clad servants in from concealed doors, wheeling tables draped with rich bunting. Most left thereafter, leaving but a handful waiting dutifully to serve. It all seemed terribly rich to Viqi - and the Galaxy’s - sensibilities. Human waitstaff was quite uncommon, given the ubiquity and economy of droids.

Refreshments were varied and strange. Viqi had eaten dishes from a dozen cultures and ten times that many worlds, but this was particularly unique. A variety of light wines and champagnes were on offer, with Victor giving it a sample, but she always shied away from any alcohol, no matter how minor, when truly working. Her mind was her sharpest and ablest tool and there was a reason you plied diplomats and politicians with sweet wines easy to sip.

Little hors d'oeuvres lay about on silver platters - all bearing that ubiquitous ‘U’ in some manner, tentatively picked at by the New Republic group and more comfortably enjoyed by the Imperials.

Drawing nearer to one of the rigidly erect, poised servants, she realized something else was afoot. Their entire lower face was covered by a carven mask, done in matching skin-tone, covering from just below the eyes to the neckline of their high-collared tunic. Not a mask - the metal edges blended into and under skin, reddened by contact. And their hands - far too many fingers sprouted within silk gloves. The eyes, though. The eyes were human, but blank and staring. Viqi recoiled slightly, bumping into Master Durron.

“They’re people,” he muttered lowly. “I can sense their life through the Force, but their minds…”

Six similar to the one nearest Viqi were scattered around the room, pouring wine or other refreshments, plating bite-sized offerings to hold out with a particular stiffness.

“Unsettling,” Viqi decided the best word was. “But it’s their prerogative, I suppose.”

“To lobotomize people into droids?”

“Perhaps these people volunteered. Or it’s a temporary thing. That’s sort of the thing with diplomacy, Master Durron, you don’t make assumptions.” If the New Republic could tolerate the Hutts, she wasn’t about to be shown up because of unpleasant cultural differences. The Jedi gave her a dark look and turned away, moving back toward an overwhelmed looking Solo and the Jensaarai.

She accepted a small plate from the human-droid, eyeing critically what looked like pastry and crisped tips of some sort of meat. Conversation murmured around her as the age-old social lubrication of pleased tastebuds did its universal magic. Noskaur may have had a point. The Imperial Colonel, Lurense, spoke with tight hand gestures to two of Viqi’s staff while Tresk and Noskaur were nodding over long crystal flutes of some amber liquid that both held. Clearly the Iterator had pried himself away from the Admiral, as the latter appeared to have left the chamber entirely.

Light dimmed around her and Viqi started to find that the ‘Lieutenant of the Thirteenth Legiones Astartes’ loomed just beside and behind her.

“Ah, Lieutenant Thiel.” She smiled up at him, covering her surprise that someone quite so large could be so quiet. Now he was unhelmeted, revealing a surprisingly youthful face, though one that sat just on the uncanny side to her mind. A handful of scars criss-crossed his skin and short cropped hair kept up the rigidly martial appearance. To her surprise, in his massive gauntlets, he also carried a delicate flute with deep red wine.

“Senator Shesh. I see you have noticed the servitors.”

“Excuse me?”

He gestured carelessly with hands entirely too large, large enough to hold her whole head, at the man-droid-creature blankly staring at the both of them. Surely Master Durron and she had been subdued in their whispered exchange? He hadn’t been anywhere nearby, she was sure of it.

“How astute. Your people’s distaste for droids was clearly conveyed, so forgive us for our curiosity about this…equivalent.”

Thiel sipped at his wine, peering down at her. Though at least a meter separated them, enough that even outstretched her fingertips might not brush his oceanic blue armor, the Astartes loomed dreadfully. No doubt a designed side-effect of the design of their exosuits, to be as intimidating and menacing as possible. Ignoring how the skin of her neck puckered, Viqi stepped closer, posing hipshot, forcing him to look even more directly down toward her and by connection, the rest of her.

“They are similar in purpose, though not in design. Droids are unliving intelligence, driven by cold computation. Servitors are vat-grown and driven by the ingenuity of man, Senator.”

“Vat-grown, you say?”

“In Ultramar. The good Magos could explain it better.” The Astartes kept the same level tone, seeming almost bored. Not rising in the slightest to Viqi’s posturing. She adjusted the fit of her corset.

“How strange. I’m sure our ways must seem just as alien.”

Thiel shrugged, surprisingly smoothly given his massive armor.

“I have seen stranger. The universe is wide, Senator.” He strode away, leaving the scent of heated metal behind.

“I don’t want to be gauche, Iterator, but we’ve discussed mostly the needs of the Imperium. What you might ask of the New Republic. All very reasonable, of course. Astrocartographical charts, access to libraries and records, nominal amounts of material goods. I’m sure that I needn’t remind you that there are two parties to every agreement.”

Noskaur nodded, sincerity and attention writ across his face.

“Of course, Senator Shesh. The Imperium prides itself on fair dealing. If you will allow me a momentary aside, I think it will be illuminating in what we offer.”

Viqi waved a hand imperiously, bidding the man continue.

“I introduced Terra, the Throneworld, as the ancestral homeworld and origin of all Mankind. I understand that this is trivia to you, but to us, it is as essential to who we are as breathing. We are the inheritors and curators of Man’s destiny. I claimed this not as braggadocio or to impress, but to convey the reality that the Imperium is built upon. We come from Terra. We bring the light of Humanity with us. As such, we, as in the Imperium Exsilius, are willing to open our doors to human refugees. Those fleeing the advance of the most pernicious Yuuzhan Vong, every man, woman and child, are welcome. Eboracum stands ready. We have been preparing. This is but one thing we might offer, but it is no small thing for us.”

Victor caught Viqi’s eye, raising his eyebrow in interest. SELCORE and its struggles were becoming a veritable albatross around the neck of the Senate and the problems would only exponentially compound the longer the war went on. A refugee crisis was one nearly unprecedented in the Galaxy, at least on this scale. If the Imperium was willing to take a chunk of the refugees - only human ones, unfortunately but expectedly - then that might give at least a little breathing room. She was sure military assistance was also on the table, but the fact that this was the first offer made it the one the Imperium was clearly the most interested in.

“How many, Iterator? Any aid to the displaced is gratefully received, but as you know of course, I can’t make any deals directly. SELCORE is not my responsibility and I will need to convey some estimate.”

“How many?” Noskaur raised his chin and for the first time so far, Viqi felt she saw unfiltered, untrained emotion on his face. “Dear Senator, we will take as many as you can send to us. Thousands, millions, billions if need be.”

For all their training, there was a ripple of murmurs, gasps, exhalations of surprise from Viqi’s entourage. Master Durron’s chair snapped back to all four feet with a thud and she imagined that if she had the touch of the Force, the Jedi’s surprise might have bowled her over. Noskaur did not smile, did not ingratiate, did not adopt the usual mask of charming sincerity. His eyes hard, his lips a firm line, he seemed unsurprised by the reaction.

“This is why I spoke of Terra. To open our arms and our doors to the displaced of Mankind, even here, far beyond the bounds of our own galaxy, is not a diplomatic consideration, Senator Shesh. It is an imperative. A moral imperative. We are the Imperium of Man and we do not take that name in vain. Rich or poor, sickly or healthy, brilliant or foolish - give us your downtrodden men and women, send us your hungry children; we receive them all.”

Viqi listened as if from the bottom of a well. Her smile was quite fixed as she nodded along, as inside she was reeling. Billions. She’d heard Ralltir turned away five thousand refugees. Five thousand. Planets were begging off numbers that would scarce fill a starliner, let alone make a blip in a planet’s population on all manner of grounds. Political, economic, social. Cultural. She’d been torn on the subject - on the one hand, she’d utterly support Kuat denying any camps to be set up on the surface, the precious garden that is was, but as a Senator and as she liked to think of herself, a decent person, these were also people that needed a place to stay.

Current estimates out of SELCORE put the displaced peoples at around sixty to seventy million in total, scattered across the entire front of the Yuuzhan Vong advance. But the invaders had been skipping sectors and striking at only critical worlds and junctions, which so far served to minimize the overall footprint of their occupation. There were little doubts in CSI that the Yuuzhan Vong would consolidate their gains and soon. When that happened, the tepid faucet of displaced beings would become a torrent. Ralltir turning down five thousand would become five million banging on the door. And if they couldn’t stymie the vong’s campaign and they broke into the Colonies in force as well as spreading more comprehensively south into the Inner Rim and Expansion Region, billions might not just be a number that defied belief.

Even Senator Organa-Solo couldn’t turn down this offer, species chauvinism be damned. As if reading her mind, Noskaur lifted her next thoughts directly.

“I may be misled, but I am given to believe humans make up a significant percentage of the population of this galaxy. Even should some choose not to accept our invitation, I believe we may yet make a sizable dent in your ‘refugee problem’, would we not?”

Entirely, indisputably true. Humans were not and would never be a majority of the galaxy by any means, but there was no argument that humans had the greatest population of any known, non-hiving being. Taking thirty to forty, perhaps, percent bite out of any group of refugees would not be a dent, it would be a coup. Taking a breath, Viqi ordered her thoughts.

“This offer is very generous, Iterator. Very generous. I daresay it will shame many in the Senate.” Probably not, not with the species restrictions. She could imagine it already, Borsk’s scoff about ingrained human prejudices among rustling and holier-than-thou posturing of other Senators. It’s not as if she agreed with the Imperium’s position, but could Bothawui or any other planet claim to have thrown open their own doors for their people? Not at all. Viqi smirked and tapped her nails against the desk's surface. “I do recall you saying that this is ‘but one’ of the offers the Imperium is willing to make…” It felt deliciously gluttonous to ask for more, but well, he had offered…

Everyone wrote a brief on their thoughts for the day. Victor compiled them all and sent them to her on a datacube for security reasons. Viqi lounged in her private chambers aboard Malaghi Shesh, silken bathrobe belted around her waist, skimming it all on a datapad. Noskaur had offered rooms down in the fortress, but she’d declined. It was a quick skip back up to orbit and far more comfortable environs. Sure, her chambers had a square footage in the thousands, but it wasn’t really that part which mattered. It was more having an entire Mandator wrapped around her, regardless of the politeness of the Imperials, that made her own couches and bed that much more comfortable.

Most of the short write-ups aligned with her own observations of the first day. It was useful to get other opinions on the five main Imperial representatives, especially as Viqi had not had the opportunity to speak much with the Colonel, Magos, or Admiral. Tresk reported the Admiral was curt and dismissive. He opined it was likely due to his kind - he’d sensed her disgust when speaking with him. Sensed her disgust toward the comparatively small amount of non-humans in the New Republic cadre. Kyp Durron agreed, reporting to her on behalf of all three Jedi. Though all the Imperials hid it with varying degrees of success, they all could sense a broad range of generally negative emotions toward Tresk and others. Ranging from disquiet to mistrust, then all the way to disgust, it was clear that the Imperium had rather undersold its ‘focus’ on humans. Of course, this all relied on the accuracy of the Jedi’s senses, but while Skywalker’s Jedi were naive and probably handled far too gently, she wasn’t an idiot as to just discount the Force out of hand.

Take it as personal observations, with maybe a little more weight. Everyone is fallible, after all. Victor talked with the Colonel and reported she seemed overwhelmed, but animated when discussing technical topics. He’d managed to get a bit of a read on what the Imperium might be interested in acquiring through trade - mostly simple raw materials that they didn’t have in ready supply on Eboracum, as well as potentially samples of domesticated livestock. That all would be laid out more expressly later, she was sure, but it was good to have forewarning.

The Imperials were an interesting lot, all told. She thumbed off her datapad, setting it aside on a low table, tugging her bathrobe a bit tighter and sinking deeper into the thick and soft cushioning of a lounge chair taken straight from the palace she’d spent her childhood in. On the one hand, the name itself wasn’t the only reason to draw immediate parallels to the other human-supremacist Empire in recent memory. They seemed to share a similar rigid hierarchy, built around their military. The same militaristic, sharply stratified culture. The same casual sort of arrogance - to declare they were from the human homeworld! And while knowing they couldn’t even hope to prove it. The same disdain for nonhumans.

But there similarities seemed surface level. Viqi was too young to remember the Empire before its twilight years, but from stories she couldn’t imagine Palpatine’s Empire being so gracious a host or so willing to open dialogues with the New Republic as a peer. In fact, that Tresk and the other Jedi reported sensing the Imperial’s feelings toward aliens spoke even more to the difference between Imperium and Empire. They were attempting to curtail or at least hide their feelings. Out of necessity? Courtesy? The reason didn’t matter, the result did, which was that the Imperium was more than willing to meet the New Republic halfway. It said a lot.

Today had been mostly formalities of greetings, and initial, broad discussions about interests. The issue of Task Force Mousetrap’s survivors came up, which Noskaur stated they were being organized to be brought to Malaghi Shesh or whichever vessels Viqi desired. That captain, Faranni, would be one to talk to. He and his crew had been ‘guests’ here for several weeks. Their impressions would be invaluable.

On that thought, in fact, she frowned. The Imperium had been very careful to bring them straight down to the fortress, which was populated with only their own people. So far, no access to anywhere else had been allowed, such as the pre-existing cities. What she’d give to interview someone who’d been native to Pirve and now lived under the, what had Noskaur called it? Under the new ‘compliance’ of the Imperium Exsilius.

Now that would be a far better barometer of these people. If it weren’t for how terribly overprotective these Imperials were, she’d be tempted to sneak a few people down to the surface. She’d ordered Malaghi and the other ships to try raising anyone down below, but the Imperium had locked it all down tight. Not even a whiff of a connection from the settlements. It would be concerning if it wasn’t obvious the people were all still down there, going about their lives, visible with just a simple telescope. The blackened smear in the center of the largest settlement was a concern, one Viqi was holding onto in her back pocket.

No matter how polite they’d been, this Imperium Exsilius had still made its first act in the known Galaxy to conquer a peaceful, if independent, planet. Actions always spoke louder than words.

“So d’you think they’re full of it?”

Anakin frowned, eying his datapad and a half-written note to Tahiri. It’s not that he was ignoring her or Sannah. It’s just that when he tried to write, everything came out wrong. Sure he could’ve called on the holocomm but…well, they’d written him, so it seemed like the right thing to do was write back, right? It was ridiculous he couldn’t put down what he wanted to say. He could imagine it, say it out loud, but when he tapped it into his datapad and read it over, it felt like someone else wrote it. This was Tahiri! His best friend. He’d seen her only a few months ago - for a short time, sure, during Uncle Luke’s summit at Yavin, but it wasn’t that long ago.

He wiped the message and thumbed off the pad. Mei was laying on a couch, fingers interlaced on her chest with her head hanging off the edge, looking over at Kyp Durron from upside down.

“Full of what?” the Master asked her, eyes still closed in meditation.

“You know. Poodoo. Druk. Shit.”

“About what?”

“Them being from the ‘homeworld’ of humans.”

Kyp sighed, rubbing his eyes between thumb and forefinger. These Imperials seemed particularly proud to share this revelation with them, even though it didn’t really make any sense. Senator Shesh didn’t seem phased and Anakin hadn’t sensed any real surprise or interest from her either. As for his own thoughts - well, what did it matter? Most people, if they ever bothered to think about it at all, figured Coruscant was probably where humans came from. Some Corellians thought it was Corellia and so on, but honestly, it wasn’t anything Anakin had ever considered until just then.

“I don’t think it matters, Mei.” Kyp said, unfolding his legs to stand, stretching.

“It doesn’t matter if they’re full of it?”

“They can’t prove it, even if it was true. You have to think about it like an Imperial.”

Anakin smiled. “Like an Imperial Imperial, or an imperial Imperial?”

Kyp shrugged. “Either or. Think about it this way. It doesn’t matter if they’re lying or not or if they can prove it. It’s more of a statement. They’re saying that since they’re from the ‘homeworld’ of all humans, then all humans belong to them.”

Mei laughed out loud, rolling over to prop her chin in her hands.

“Please. Nobody thinks like that.”

“It’s not about everyone else, it’s about them.” Kyp glanced between the Jensaarai and Anakin. Through the force, his disquiet was palpable, a weight in the air. “They’ve spent all day telling us exactly who they are and I don’t think Viqi Shesh is paying attention.”

The New Republic shuttles set into the darkening sky smoothly and quietly. With his enhanced senses, Thiel noted shrouded turrets tracking the two shuttles as they ascended. He watched them go until they ripped past the sound barrier, became points of light in the velvet sky, and then passed beyond even his sight. Unhelmeted, he breathed deep the evening wind, coming down from the high mountains to the west. Crisp and cold, and reminded him of Macragge.

Footfalls rang across the tarmac behind him and the growl of another reactor joined his own. The rest of Thiel’s ‘office’ were already gone, having departed only moments after the ramps of the New Republic shuttles closed. Noskaur mentioned needing to prepare for the morrow, Vaul muttered in irritation about actual responsibilities.

An Ultramarine in heavy, augmented plate drew alongside Thiel, momentarily looking up into the sky as well.

“Captain Paston,” Thiel said.

“Lieutenant. Congratulations on your elevation. It was well deserved.”

“My thanks.”

Erriod Paston, Master of the Redoubt, folded arms over his chest and peered around his creation. Seconded to Lord Dorn for decades, Paston was lauded for his aptitude at entrenchment and fortification, honed by years among the redoubtable Fists. The Pharisan Redoubt was his keep and his design, planned with expedience at the request of their genefather.

“Aliens within my own keep,” Paston muttered. “Wonders never cease.”

“I broke bread with them, Captain,” Thiel replied, amused by how irritated the other Ultramarine appeared. “I’m afraid I’ve rather surpassed you.”

“You’ve an uncommon patience, Aeonid. I am not sure if I pity you or am impressed.”

Thiel considered. Yes, it was unnerving to see how easily the humans of the New Republic sat side-by-side with aliens. The bite was lessened, having been down on the surface of this world before and seeing it first hand. Still, the Senator held authority over them and it was with her they treated in truth.

“It is simple enough. They may be humans, Captain, but this…is not our place. We are so very far from Terra and Macragge. It is to there that I look, and where I keep my mind. I see them as a means to an end. A tool, perhaps.”

Paston nodded.

“I can see the logic. It sits ill with me still. Even if Sol does not burn in the sky, did not the Emperor command us that all mankind must be brought into the light of the Imperial Truth?”

A Space Marine snarled at Thiel. His head was bare, exposing weathered, tanned flesh. Eyes like ebony chips glared from beneath a heavy brow and he struck with the swiftness only transhuman musculature could manage. Thiel felt the thump and rattle of each impact through his gauntlets as he strained, catching each hissing strike on the gleaming edge of an exotic, elecromagnetic longsword. Guilliman was near him, bellowing in anger, gore steaming from his gauntlets. An opening, a fraction of a moment appeared, and Thiel sticks his blade through it. The Space Marine stumbled back, face sliding off, but the hatred, the rage, the contempt remains, even on half his features.

Thiel shook away the memory.

“And where has the Imperial Truth delivered us? Beyond the shores of the galaxy, beyond the bonds of brotherhood?” Thiel could feel Paston’s gaze boring into him, but could not bear to look at the Captain as he spoke. “The universe has proven not to spin at the righteousness of our purpose, Captain.”

“You’re young, Lieutenant. It never did. Mankind bit and clawed out of Old Night. We are Astartes. You know this. The universe is cold and harsh and it is by our will that we make it otherwise. Never forget that.”

“I do not. Nor will I forget that others have.” Thiel turned, facing Paston finally. The older Astartes, scarred and weathered, bore his perpetual frown. “I do not say the Emperor is wrong, Captain. I…” He trailed off, unable to grasp nor shape the words that cluttered his mind. The Primarch Lorgar, traitor. The Word Bearers, once the most devoted of the servants of the Throne, turned to cavorting with extradimensional - daemons, his mind substituted - xenos. Aeonid was in Guilliman’s trust. He’d heard the words spoken by Lorgar, before the Primarch became something other. The words that dripped in the blood of loyal brothers and the betrayal of others once beloved.

Paston grasped Thiel’s pauldron, the one that bore the still-fresh colors of his new rank.

“The Truth is the truth, Aeonid. Never forget that. If we hold true, everything will be as it should be.”

“I will. Thank you for your candor, Captain Paston.” He watched the Master of the Redoubt as he strode away, command cape swirling behind him. Once more, Thiel looked up to the stars. Every world he had set foot on bore alien patterns. He understood the physics of it, the math. Stellar formations broke apart even at the shortest distances of mere lightyears. What constellations and patterns he knew from Macragge, ones he knew by heart, from before the dissociative fog of his ascension through to gazing up at them as a neophyte, a Scout, were seen only from that world. He knew this.

The stars he looked upon were alien in ways he had never seen.

Everyone reclaimed their seats the next morning in good order. Noskaur was speaking with Thiel, the larger man this time going without his helmet entirely, though still in his enormous armor. Viqi was starting to wonder if he could even take it off or if the man might not be some sort of strange cyborg. Given the ‘servitors’ she and Kyp had noticed the previous day and the look of the ‘Magos’, cybernetics were commonplace for this Imperium. The Magos in particular bothered her sense of propriety, once she realized he was not, in fact, wearing a mask. It appeared that like the servitor, that mask was his face. Just in the same way that the extra arms that occasionally emerged from his red robe must surely be grafted onto his body.

Cybernetic limbs and other replacements were common enough, but most had the decency to make them look natural. Synthflesh was easy to match, no matter the type of being you might be. Exposed wiring, metal plating, a sharp green light stitched into an eye socket? Uncouth. You could do all those things but still look presentable.

“Good to see you again, Senator,” Noskaur offered his hand, Viqi briefly shaking it before they took their central seats.

“And you, Iterator. Sleep well?”

“Beautifully. Filled with dreams of the future.”

Viqi painted on her best ingratiating smile. “Then let’s begin to make those dreams reality.”

Today she would lead, alternating from Noskaur’s initiative on the first day. All games of balance, of course. As the host, he had the privilege to initiate the conference, but as the guest and, to be sure, the party with the most to offer, Viqi would never be content to simply let him set the agenda and timetable. The chamber quieted as she skimmed over her notes one final time, tapping off her datapad thereafter and leaning forward slightly to speak into a comm. Like yesterday, one of the little floating skull-drones bobbed out of the corner of the room to the Imperium’s side, facing additional aides and robed officials who, like Viqi’s own staff, were there to provide notes, take minutes and all the other mundane tasks expected.

“I would like to again thank the Imperium for offering this space for the day…”

He cleared his throat, organizing his thoughts and ignoring the thinly veiled sneers coming from not a few of the Imperium’s group. Tresk was no stranger to racial biases, given his background, and a few backwards humans in a corner of the galaxy meant less than nothing. It wasn’t his way before he had spent time among Master Skywalker’s new Order and it especially wasn’t his way afterward.

“Let’s get down to duranium tacks, shall we? You’ve asked for aid, you’ve offered aid. Let’s talk about what we can really offer.” Tresk glanced at Viqi, who was leaning back in her chair with her trademark little grin. “The first order of business is your interest in maps. We’re curious as to what exactly you mean - given the METOSP, the Message to Spacers, that you filed to warn travelers away from Pirve - apologies, Eboracum - we assumed you would have access to all standard navigational records. Is this incorrect?”

Noskaur looked to Captain Vaul, then the Magos Nalt. The Iterator leaned over a moment, exchanging some brief whispers in their native language, then straightened up.

“You’re quite right, Ambassador. As part of our compliance operations, the former magistrate of Eboracum was forthcoming with sharing access to this data. However, our own needs…differ. I believe Shipmistress Vaul-” the woman shot a betrayed look at the Iterator - “can explain best.”

“Thank you, Sorvenos.” Katryna Vaul tugged on the front of her uniform, clattering medals. “The navigational maps for your ‘hyperdrives’ are useful for simple galactic orientation, but our Navigators require maps of the empyrean. We understand the delicate nature of knowledge of the immaterium. It’s likely that knowledge of it is suppressed, for the greater public good. Nevertheless, without at least general maps of the immaterium, our Navigators face challenges in translating our ships. Your interest in military aid is clear, Senator Shesh. If you truly desire it, then you will provide these maps. Chief Navigator Likentrix’s handmaidens can assist in defining their exact needs, if you need that to release privileged information.”

Tresk found himself momentarily unsure of how to even reply. ‘Empyrean’ and ‘immaterium’, he assumed, were best-translation words chosen by the Shipmistress. Of the Imperial delegation, she, Noskaur, and the Magos had the best grasp of Basic, with all three sounding almost conversational. But there had been strange translations before that had to be clarified and this might be another.

“I’m sorry Shipmistress, there might be something lost in translation,” the Bothan offered. “Can you better explain ‘empyrean’?”

The Imperials glanced at one another.

“The Warp, Ambassador. The immaterium, empyrean, a dozen other names. It is a dimension beside realspace, deadly and inimical to life. A tremendous danger, but one that allows for supraluminal travel. Surely you know of this?”

Tresk went to speak, but Viqi Shesh cut him off.

“Another dimension? Is that not just hyperspace? I admit I’m not an expert on the matter, but…”

“The Mechanicum has investigated the phenomena termed ‘hyperspace’. A higher dimension of physics, coterminous with realspace. Hyperspace appears to be of and part of the materium. The Empyrean is not. Shipmistress Vaul misspoke. The Empyrean is a correlative branching universe, placed as a brane within and around the materium. Warp drives function by splitting a traversable rift between the immaterium and materium. This is unknown to the technologists of the New Republic?”

Magos Nalt’s voice was flat and electronic, leaving out all inflection, but Tresk sensed disbelief from not just the cyborg but rippling across the Imperial delegation as the floating skull-drone translated for the rest. He shook his head, looking to Viqi, then Master Durron, Pomt, and the others. Confusion reigned in contrast to the Imperial’s swell of shock in the Force.

“I’ve never heard of such a thing. You say this warp is dangerous?” Viqi asked, resting her chin on folded hands. Tresk sat back, mind abuzz. Hyperspace was…as universal as repulsorlifts. As the wheel. Indeed, no one had even once ventured the possibility the Imperium used any other form of faster-than-light technology. The assumption, given the Imperium’s statements to having ‘unexpectedly arrived’ or whatever phrasing they used, was that they had traversed a hyperspace wormhole, or some other rare but not unknown phenomenon.

“Is that how you came to Pirve?” he asked, unable to not voice his thoughts.

“It is,” Noskaur confirmed. “We had not thought this would be so strange. When our fleet translated into the warp, there was a significant event in the immaterium that cast us adrift. That is how we found ourselves on your shores. This…” for once, the Iterator looked at a loss for words. He leaned back over to Shipmistress Vaul, the two conversing again in their native tongue, the Magos contributing a few harsh, burring words. Lieutenant Thiel still stood like a rock, inscrutable, but Tresk could see past the facade, feel the same turmoil of thought behind the otherwise stoic face.

“I’m sorry we can’t immediately offer anything of use, Iterator, Shipmistress.” Tresk caught Viqi’s eye and mouthed nothing? but the Kuati just gave him a slightly panicked look.

“I sit on the Council on Security and Intelligence, so there are few things that are beyond my clearance. I will send a priority request to Coruscant today after we recess for any information that can be dug up. Maybe…maybe this warp is something that was filed away in a library somewhere, as a curiosity instead of anything useful.”

Thiel spoke, again in the language of the Imperium. Noskaur looked surprised, but nodded.

“I think a short recess now is in order, if you agree, Senator. This…is a complication I would like to manage immediately.”

Viqi agreed and the meeting broke for thirty minutes.

“Get me Bel-dar-Nolek,” Tresk overheard Viqi hiss to Victor, who nodded vigorously.

Those enormous star dreadnoughts in orbit, the army forces the Imperium had drawn up to show off, everything that Shesh clearly was salivating over. Tresk couldn’t help but feel a sort of amusement. All would be completely useless if these Imperials were becalmed in this dead-end star system. What a comedy that would be.