Chapter 44 (Patreon)

“There has been a change of government on Ryloth,” the pretty young woman read from the news report. “Today, during a session of the Republic Senate, Senator Orn Free Taa of the Twi’lek homeworld announced that a month ago, the traditional rule of Ryloth’s five most influential families came to an end, giving way to a single elected leader. The first to hold that office is former exile Kh’aris Fenn. It has since emerged that all accusations against the Twi’lek were fabricated in order to remove a promising young politician whose presence on Ryloth had become inconvenient for the previous Five. In response to the surprise and confusion of his fellow senators, the honorable senator presented the results of his world’s popular vote, along with statements from the current ruling council of five, whose respected members declared that no violence or coercion had been used against them. The planet’s former leaders nobly accepted the will of the people, who, in the words of one of them, Lon Secura, ‘had long been waiting and preparing to take the step from moss-covered tradition toward civilization and enlightened democracy.’ The former rulers stepped down with remarkable ease, without having to depart for the Bright Lands in the process. In response to doubts raised by several members of the Senate regarding the legality of the changes, Orn Free Taa asked representatives of the Jedi Order and the Supreme Chancellor to initiate an independent investigation.”

“My homeland has nothing to hide. These changes have been necessary for a long time, and what happened is merely the inevitable arrival of the future,” the corpulent Twi’lek said gravely in the hologram. Admittedly, the weight of his words was somewhat undermined by the sheer number of chins, but even so, he looked imposing and serious. “I know... No, we know who has the least interest in seeing a united and strong Ryloth. Drug traffickers, and those who have exploited our kin without restraint under long-term contracts. The new government has no intention of carrying out reprisals against the families engaged in what, let us be frank, amounts almost to slave trading. For thousands of years, Ryloth...”

A theatrical pause followed. Pain and remorse flickered in the Twi’lek’s eyes. Anyone who did not know the man well might easily have believed the feelings he was displaying so openly.

But not the viewer sitting behind his desk.

The senator, who dearly loved to eat and absolutely loathed physical exertion, might indeed have been upset—but if so, the reason was the mountain of compromising material in the possession of the silent gray-skinned Twi’lek behind the desk. As Orn Free Taa’s monologue continued, the man’s exhausted face slowly blossomed into a vicious but deeply satisfied smile.

“Raised its own children for sale,” the corpulent senator continued with a heavy sigh, as though confessing his own sins. “Harsh climatic conditions, a shortage of living space, a lack of food—all of it forced my ancestors onto a low and shameful... but, at the time, necessary path. But now we are ready to change ourselves and our world. We have found another road, and Kh’aris Fenn will lead my people down it! I—we—” the man gestured toward the two attractive Twi’lek women standing behind him. “All Twi’leks long for a truly free Ryloth! Free of illegal ryll miners, free of criminal cartels, free of selling our own children!”

Kh’aris Fenn leaned back in his chair and, adjusting the lekku draped over his shoulder, switched off the recording. The thought crossed his mind that there could hardly be another sentient in the galaxy more exhausted than he was. For almost three months now, he had been sleeping three or four hours a night. Even with the team of Twi’leks he had brought with him—people who shared his goals, loyal men and women raised and trained specifically to help carry out his plan—the work remained unimaginably difficult. His local kin were hidebound, frozen in time, bound hand and foot by tradition, and they fought him every step of the way. Yes, every last one of them dreamed of a better life, yet they clung tooth and nail to privileges “sanctified by centuries.”

“Even if those privileges are nothing but lilek shit. Still shit left behind by the most dangerous predator our ancestors ever faced,” the gray-skinned Twi’lek muttered, massaging his tired eyes.

“Boss?” asked his bodyguard from his post by the office door, having failed to catch what he’d said.

Kh’aris merely waved him off. To’gur had always been with him, ever since before the young son of Ro Fenn was exiled. He had followed the “young Boss” off Ryloth, helped him, protected him. The Twi’lek bodyguard had personally talked his own father into sending him along with Kh’aris “to keep an eye on him.”

The tall, powerfully built Twi’lek did not consider his patron a bastard, even though by every standard of law and morality the man was a criminal. Nor had he called him Master in a very long time, having been granted his freedom when he followed Kh’aris into exile. He was one of the few who knew why Kh’aris had betrayed and killed, why he had gotten involved in the drug trade.

“If there’s no easy road, then I’ll wade through every last pile of shit in the universe to reach my goal,” the exiled Fenn used to say.

And he did.

He grew rich, built up capital, acquired useful friends and a long list of people who owed him favors. He endured defeats, hardship, contempt, but never gave up. “Dirty bastard Fenn,” stained to the very tips of his lekku with blood and filth, walked over corpses and shattered lives...

Home.

To’gur respected his Boss. More than that, he agreed with him: if you wanted to build something beautiful, sometimes you had to get your hands dirty.

But the people the Boss was working with now...

They made the bodyguard uneasy.

Kh’aris knew it. Knew it, and wasn’t exactly thrilled with them himself.

Count Dooku and those standing behind him knew far too much about the former exile of House Fenn. In effect, Kh’aris had become their pawn—and their property—because if all the dirt his so-called friends had collected on his past life and the methods he had used to seize power ever came to light... nothing could save him.

Kh’aris harbored no illusions about the Count of Serenno’s nobility. Dooku was pursuing his own goal as well, and if achieving it required publicly destroying Fenn or blackmailing him with everything they had gathered, he would do it without a moment’s hesitation.

And that was another reason the Twi’lek was working himself to exhaustion. There was no telling how much time remained before... something began. A decade? Years? Months? But he was certain some kind of major catastrophe was coming. Too many signs pointed that way.

He had to accomplish as much as possible before it did. Enough that his people would have no way back. Enough that they would see another path and experience another way of life.

Contracts to supply ryll to pharmaceutical companies had already been signed. Kh’aris poured money freely into creating local spice-mining companies and paid mercenaries generously to purge his world of the gangs that had flocked there from offworld. He was burning through his dirty money as fast as he could, because if they ever decided to take him down, he would have no further use for it, and whatever remained would either be seized or stolen. Kh’aris had no qualms about hitting Hutt proxies where it hurt, wiping out criminal outfits wholesale, or taking bites out of the bastards from the Syndicate. Who better than him to know where and how every kind of scum hid? Takes one to know one. Was he afraid? Oh, yes. But not so much of the death he knew would eventually come as of failing to finish what mattered most before it did.

After a remote—and rather expensive—consultation with Siith’khara’Dziha, Fenn hired five ritual mages on Jabiim. Their job was to create the necessary biomes inside large caverns that had recently been sealed off from the outside world. In the near future, those caverns would be turned into mushroom farms on an unprecedented scale.

The schools for “contract workers” were being reorganized at breakneck speed, along with the contracts themselves. From now on, his people would actually work under contract, receiving real credits for their labor, while Ryloth would earn its share through a normal, civilized income tax.

Of course, it would be impossible to completely shut down either the drug flow or the export of slaves. Conditions on the planet were too dire, and there was simply too much work to do. Kh’aris would do everything he could, but if he failed to finish the job...

Then his work would be carried on by the gray-skinned Twi’lek’s new “enemy”—Cham of House Syndulla.

Cham was a young Twi’lek who was beginning to gain popularity among the people. Fenn had had to work damn hard to support him discreetly—with money, political backing, and careful reputation-building; to help him deliver a couple of suitably convincing speeches denouncing Kh’aris; and to quietly arrange introductions to genuinely respectable Twi’leks who had kept their hands clean and were regarded as wealthy, influential patriots of their homeworld. In short, Fenn had worn himself out making sure the young man could stand alongside serious political figures instead of looking like some piece of controlled opposition.

Kh’aris liked Cham. He was a patriot with an open mind, treated women with a fair degree of respect, and opposed the old habit of viewing them as possessions. Under different circumstances, they might even have become friends. But right now, Fenn could not afford to compromise Syndulla simply by associating with him.

Cham was clean. Untainted. A little too idealistic, perhaps, but time would cure him of that.

And if Fenn started to sink—or rather, when his patrons decided it was time to play the Kh’aris card and then discard it, or when the criminal underworld finally paid enough to hire someone like Fett or Bane—Cham would be able to take over the process the planet’s current leader had begun.

No matter what happened, RYLOTH WOULD BE FREE!!!

The necessary contingencies were already in place. Once he was gone, Syndulla would receive documents containing all of Fenn’s plans: contacts for every sentient he might need, mountains of compromising material on influential families and the current senator, Orn Free Taa; account numbers and passwords for the funds Kh’aris had set aside; recorded confessions and explanations.

The gray-skinned man had no desire to whitewash himself or make excuses. But Cham had to know why Fenn had cast aside his honor and dignity.

He wanted no forgiveness.

All Kh’aris wanted was for Cham to understand—and to accept a dead man’s help despite all the filth that came with it.

Sooner or later, fathers here would stop selling the mothers of their own children simply because, “I’m tired of this woman.” Sooner or later—perhaps when he was already dead—little boys would no longer cry because the only person who had ever loved them was now gods knew where, decorating some Hutt’s court or stripping in a brothel. They would no longer look back with aching hearts on sisters who had been given away as gifts to curry favor with someone powerful.

The gray-skinned Twi’lek ground his teeth in anger. It was a shame his father was already dead and he could no longer kill the bastard with his own hands. Such a damn shame that fat piece of filth had died without Kh’aris having anything to do with it.

With a heavy sigh, he turned his gaze back to the holographic display above his desk. New reports had come in.

Break was over.

Time to get back to work.

Lord Tyranus ended the transmission with his Master. Another successful step in their larger plan was gratifying, as was the steady progress of his protégé on Ryloth. Some time ago, Dooku had realized with surprise that he was thinking less and less about the reasons that had set him on this path in the first place, becoming wholly absorbed in the road toward the greater Goal.

And the realization that, for all the filthy methods involved, he had still helped make an entire world a little better stirred a small but distinctly pleasant sense of pride in the former Jedi.

Walking unhurriedly through the empty corridors of the vast estate, the Count gave a faint smirk. Ironic, really. The “dirty drug dealer” had set about putting his homeland in order with a degree of determination no “honest” Twi’lek ruler had ever shown. Their ancient rule of five had long since degenerated into a mutual-protection racket for wealthy families.

Another spit in the face of the convictions Dooku had cast aside.

Scum, plain and simple—despised by everyone who knew the truth, and at the same time a genuine patriot.

A mockery of every ideal the Republic claimed to uphold.

Surrealism made real.

The Count of Serenno had come to know Kh’aris fairly well, but even so, he had expected less of him. He certainly had not expected the gray-skinned Twi’lek to throw himself into the work with such intensity, burning through the fortune he had built on the drug trade.

Fenn was no fool. He knew he was being used, understood it perfectly well, and was racing to do as much as he could for Ryloth while he still had the chance. Dooku had no intention of getting in his way. If anything, he would even shield him from the criminal organizations whose most sensitive interests Ryloth’s new leader had been trampling with enthusiasm.

Fenn would not have enough time to become too powerful, nor would his world. And the agreements and contracts being put in place would bind Ryloth to the Siths’ plans far more tightly than any oath of friendship ever could.

Even young Syndulla, if he ever managed to bring Fenn down, would not be able to ignore Dooku and the new order that would soon come into being. The money paid for ryll by pharmaceutical companies under the Count’s influence would mean prosperity. The new contracts for Twi’lek workers—contracts other worlds might try to boycott—would be readily accepted by Dooku’s allies.

And by the Hutts, for that matter.

The slugs knew how to appreciate high-status, well-trained Rylothians and were unlikely to be particularly upset by the changes. Quite the opposite, in fact: higher prices meant higher status.

Cheap labor, after all, could always be found somewhere in Hutt Space.

Dooku stepped out into the garden and looked around with quiet pleasure. He had a little time to spare, so the Count intended to take a walk beneath the rustling leaves, enjoying the warm sunlight and the soft fragrance of flowers.

A couple dozen minutes of peace and quiet—that was exactly what he needed right now. Glancing toward the yacht resting on the elevated landing platform, he let out a short sigh. Not now. There was far too much to do to indulge in minor personal pleasures.

He gave another soft sound, somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle. Who would have thought that, this late in life, he would still discover something new capable of giving him such delight?

A remarkable invention, created by remarkable sentients.

It was somewhat embarrassing to remember that a Count, a former Jedi, and now a Sith Lord had spent his time racing his yacht around an empty star system like an overexcited boy. As Romri Tano, who had taught him the finer points of using the new interface, had warned him, the hardest part of the first flight was stopping.

He had ended that first flight on schedule, exactly as agreed. A trained mind and strong will had kept him from getting too carried away in front of outsiders.

But on the journey home, Dooku had truly cut loose.

So thoroughly, in fact, that the inertial compensators screamed and the backup thrusters howled under the strain of sustained afterburner.

To become a massive, armored, powerful, sentient creature of the void was an indescribable sensation. To feel the steady pulse of a reactor instead of the beat of a heart; to see through sensors across a vast array of spectra; to perceive space not as an endless emptiness dotted with rare celestial bodies, but as a billion possible paths, any one of which you could choose—like a bird that had finally taken wing.

Dooku, while hardly obsessive about it, was genuinely fond of his yacht. Its exclusivity gave a pleasant little boost to the ego he had allowed off the leash ever since leaving the Order. So when his agents dug up information on the “Void Hide,” the Sith Lord decided to combine business with pleasure. Establishing personal contact with Dziha and Stratus was necessary for larger matters; having the yacht upgraded merely provided the excuse—and a very enjoyable bonus.

To be completely honest, before flying to Jabiim the Count had resented the time he would have to spend there. For all the growing popularity of its spellcasters, the rain-soaked world inspired neither confidence nor admiration, and its importance in the events to come would be minimal. There were simply too few Force-users of this new kind to have any serious impact on what lay ahead.

The Sith regarded the world more as a promising asset—one that would begin providing real value only after the main events had played out... or as an inevitable loss, should the spellcasters ever begin seriously interfering with the designs of the Lord and his Master.

Later, once everything was over—assuming things ended favorably for the JMG—the spellcasters would receive generous funding and be integrated into the system. Their abilities would be recognized as useful to the newborn state that would rise from the ugly, malignant construct of the Republic. The child he and his Master would cleanse of parasites and corruption would have plenty of use for specialists in all manner of fields, whose work would either offer a profitable alternative to existing methods or provide something entirely new, opening up additional possibilities.

So, what had looked like a waste of time turned into an interesting experience and a whole range of unusual impressions, from pleasant to downright unsettling. The Jabiim sorcerer was slightly mad, quick-witted, fascinating, deeply absorbed in his work... and almost completely indifferent to anything beyond his world’s atmosphere unless it fell under the category of “interesting to study.” His patron—though “partner” was probably the better word—Alto Stratus turned out to be much like Dziha, except that unlike the sorcerer, he was far more focused on his homeworld and watched the growing separatist crisis with wary concern.

A few years ago, he could have been won over easily enough, but Jabiim was now enjoying a surge of growth in several areas, and most of the forces driving that growth were tied to the opposing camp. In any case, he and his Master had decided not to disturb such a fat bantha without good reason. Better instead to make Stratus indebted not only to the Supreme Chancellor, but to Dooku as well.

Which meant Jabiim would receive several profitable contracts with Serenno—and a successful raid on Lythia. The Count would provide Alto with military support, while Palpatine would add another debt to the tally by shielding the raid from the Republic’s justiciars.

Passing a flowerbed, Dooku frowned slightly. One of the stones arranged to border the flowers had shifted out of place, spoiling the composition. A few seconds of concentration, and an aura tendril carefully nudged it back where it belonged.

Dooku exhaled in satisfaction.

The aura techniques available to an initiated sorcerer opened entirely new possibilities to the Count of Serenno. And the very idea...

A sorcerer. Imagine that.

As Siith had put it, “You, Count, are the first doubly gifted one I have encountered. Sorcerer and Jedi. Consider studying sorcery, do you, hmm?”

Dooku had nearly laughed then. The red-eyed man’s phrasing had sounded so unexpectedly like his former Master.

Perhaps, once everything he and Sidious had planned finally came to pass, the Count of Serenno would take a few lessons. But for now, tempting as these new paths to power and strength might be, he simply did not have the time.

The sensation of Force energy reshaped through sorcery was genuinely beautiful and astonishing, as were the colors of the magical constructs woven from it. During a brief tour of the Academy, Dooku had asked the sorcerer about the kaleidoscope surrounding the students as they worked their spells—and discovered that he himself was a sorcerer, just like Siith and his daughter.

The Count stopped and focused on the weave the head of the JMG had shown him.

“The very basics are drawing,” the red-eyed man had said with an unpleasant little chuckle, demonstrating the patterns shaped by his aura. “You need to develop the tool you use to interact with the world. Even if you have no intention of studying magic, an alternative to telekinesis will never be a bad thing.”

The multicolored “picture,” visible to him alone, hovered in the air before him, gradually dissolving back into the surrounding Force.

He chuckled quietly. Good thing no one except sorcerers could see that mess. The aura tendril was still difficult to control properly, and using several at once was completely out of the question, so the pattern looked like the scribbles of a one-year-old.

But there was one thing Tyranus was in no hurry to tell his Master about. He even tried not to speak of it aloud. At the moment of his initiation, Dooku had felt someone’s attention settle upon him. Something ancient and immensely powerful was watching him from behind. He sensed neither threat nor benevolence from it, only the faintest trace of curiosity, but the sheer power of the unknown presence was overwhelming. And then it was as though someone embraced him. In an instant, a burden weighing thousands of tons seemed to lift from his soul. His shoulders straightened without conscious thought, and he drew a deep, easy breath. For several moments Dooku could not understand what had changed within him—until he realized that the Abyss had vanished from the edge of his perception. Hungry. Greedy. Brimming with rage and madness.

The Sith had always walked along the edge of the Abyss. For any Force-sensitive who had refused to fear the dangers of the Dark Side, there was always the possibility of falling.

The Fallen were little more than mad beasts. Dooku had seen enough of them to know. A Sith trained to walk that razor-thin line and juggle his passions with precision remained wary, forever skirting the lip of the Abyss and always ready to stop himself before one careless step sent him over.

The Jedi, though...

Ironically, it was the adherents of the Light who, when they fell, plunged so deep into the Abyss that they often lost even the ability to speak coherently, becoming knots of animal cunning, rage, and Force.

Mad. Cruel. Powerful.

Stupid.

Beasts whose entire intellect had been reduced to a single directive:

Destroy.

The shock Lord Tyranus felt when he realized the danger was gone was almost impossible to describe. All the strength of anger, all the power of rage, all the advantages of the Dark Side remained his—without the risk of losing himself to it.

The ruler of Serenno had to summon an enormous amount of self-control to keep from throwing himself at Siith. And the Count did not even know what he wanted to do to him.

Strangle him with the Force?

Crush him in a grateful embrace?

Kill him? Torture him? Thank him?

What had THAT been—and what would IT demand in return?

The former Jedi, who had spent decades forging his will into durasteel, held himself back from any rash action and began asking careful questions. What he learned was that there existed some kind of “madness of magic with amber eyes,” and that Hecate, patron goddess of sorcerers, protected them from it with her blessing.

And also a pair of very thick books that he kept meaning to read.

It was only a couple of days later that he began to realize the disappearance of the Abyss was not the only change. Dooku could now look back on dozens of past decisions and see them for what they were: deeply questionable. Needlessly cruel. Unnecessarily harmful to others. He could have acted differently and achieved the same result, if not a better one. Worst of all were the emotions those decisions had stirred in him—subtly alien, somehow his and not his at the same time. When he finally understood that the Abyss had been influencing him, infecting him with a hunger to destroy, to cause pain, to revel in the suffering of others without his even noticing it, a wave of gooseflesh ran down the old man’s spine.

Was his Master affected by it too?

Remembering those events stirred that faint unease in him again. Questions Dooku had never had the time to think through properly began circling in his mind once more.

Now that there was no longer any danger of falling...

Was he still a Sith?

Not a Jedi. Not a Sith.

Then what was he?

“Sorcedi, Dad!”

“Sorry, what?” I gave Karray a puzzled sideways glance as she walked me to the Rung’s boarding ramp.

“Well, remember how you were wondering what to call someone who’s both a sorcerer and a Jedi? There you go: Sorcedi. Short, neat, and tells you exactly what it is!”

“Uhhh... It doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, kiddo,” I said with a snort. At the sight of my daughter’s offended little face, I ruffled her hair, earning an indignant squeak. “All right, Karray, I’m off. Behave yourself, don’t torment our Jedi, and if anything comes up—”

“For anything Academy-related, go to Suti. For anything serious, Aunt Cordelia. For anything really serious, Uncle Alto. Don’t eat too many sweets, don’t ride Pancake into the city again, and don’t call Wookiees animals!”

“Don’t call anyone names at all!” I said, raising an instructive finger.

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” the girl protested. “I thought someone had let a new animal out of the enclosure and dressed it up as a joke! You’re the one who’s always saying, ‘Animals back in the pen!’ I apologized, by the way, and I even gave him a cake! Rratchuuk forgave me, actually! I’ll be a very good girl!

“And Dad... will you bring me back a female terentatek from Korriban?”

I stared at the little fidget in surprise as she did her best to disguise herself as an innocent angel. Only those shameless red eyes gave away our Dziha nature, even while she tried to make them look sad and guileless.

“Why?”

“Well... Pancake gets lonely?” the girl said, batting her eyelashes innocently.

“Now listen here, young lady. We are not crossbreeding a rancor with a terentatek! You can’t handle a project like that on your own, and I don’t have the time for it!”

“But Daaad, they’re distantly related!” The little brat dropped the innocent act in an instant, becoming focused and businesslike. “It shouldn’t be that complicated! You’d only need to check my work before I start the experiment, and that’s it!”

“Presumably distantly related, Karray. Presumably! No serious research has ever been done! According to another theory, those monsters came from Tython; according to a third, the Sith created them through alchemy...” I shook my head, wondering where one might find a Sith alchemist—and what it would take to bribe one. “Besides, their reputation is downright atrocious. Compared to them, your Pancake is a sweet little house pet.”

“He already is sweet and totally domesticated!” my daughter protested, stamping her foot.

“This is all very fascinating, of course, but could you maybe finally get the hell out of here and go on your vacation?” Cordelia, standing a couple of steps away from us, finally snapped.

“All right, all right, I’m going!” I grinned at her, earning a viciously envious glare in return. “Don’t overfeed Karray...”

“With sweets. I remember,” the head of the Security Service nodded, a dreamy expression spreading across her face. I immediately understood: by the time I got home, my daughter would have been fattened up into a perfect little ball.

“And don’t bring back any witches from Dathomir!” she shouted after me. “We’ve got enough of our own!”

I merely rolled my eyes without turning around. Sorceresses were one thing. Witches from Dathomir were something else entirely!

Hell, I’d bring back a Sith too if I found one.

What’s the most important thing in a necromancer’s line of work?

That’s right.

A shovel and the right grave!

Author’s Note:

I know, I know. Not everyone likes the thinky bits. Still, I consider this chapter pretty important. The MC has done a serious amount of stomping on butterflies, and as a result, some people’s fates have changed. In my opinion, not showing that now would be a bad choice. Spreading it throughout the story wouldn’t work either: some of it would get lost among other events, and some of it would inevitably be misunderstood.

I’ve already cut the events of the “wider world” down to the bare minimum, so I fully expect an incoming wave of grumbling. I understand that some people “only wanna read about the MC,” but Star Wars has always been a space opera with a large cast, no matter what certain odd individuals may say while demanding a single-character story from me and amusingly trying to disguise themselves as an entire “audience.”

(And no, I’m not going to make some crude joke about certain people having trouble following more than one plotline. I won’t. I’m above that! Besides, it’s ultimately a matter of taste. And most of those scenes are more like fanservice interludes anyway, meant to show the everyday lives, personalities, and studies of certain characters.)