Beyond the Blind Eternities

[Kal Strife]

Deep within the swirling madness of Wild Space, far beyond the borders and boundaries of the expansionist empires of the Galactic Core, in the realms where only the most desperate or foolhardy of explorers dared venture, a dying world revolved slowly around a dying star.

This star, a baleful eye of swollen, smoldering firestorms, had once been named Karis, and the arid, radiation blasted world that withered beneath its unrelenting gaze had borne the name Cepehlon. Once, when even Coruscant, Tython, and Moraband had been young, when their infant civilisations had still lingered in the cradles of their birthplaces, Cephelon had been the heart of an empire that had spanned countless systems. Its population had numbered in the billions, its riches had been innumerable, and its power apparently beyond question. Few had dreamed it would ever fall. Yet the relentless march of time had brought the Cepheloni empire low, as it did all such hubristic dynasties, and the vast empire had collapsed in on itself, the vaunted accomplishments of their great race crumbling into dust.

Now, millennia later, the Cepheloni were forgotten, their empire afforded not even the scantest footnote in the most comprehensive of textbooks.

Vast fields of debris, the shattered hulks of mighty battleships and gargantuan space stations littered the system. Most were ancient, millennia-old reminders of an empire's death throes. But one, a smaller cloud of wreckage which hung in orbit of Cephelon itself, high above the sprawling, crumbling necropolis that had once been the throne world's mighty capital, was more recent, marking a battle that had occurred only four millennia previously. Much of this field was comprised of smaller craft, of the twisted remnants of starfighters and light freighters, or peculiar, asteroid-like objects which would surely have stirred dark memories in those who had lived through the events of four thousand years prior. But at the heart of the wreckage, in the shadow of one of the larger chunks of rocky debris, a single vessel remained. Its hull was blackened and blistered, and vast sections of plating had been peeled away by the twin ravages of war and time, leaving entire compartments exposed to the predations of the void. The bridge, located toward the fore of this ancient craft, had suffered much, yet had somehow been spared the destruction that had been visited upon the vast engines at the rear of the craft. Still, the name had been scoured clean from the hull entirely on one side, and on the other it was just barely visible beneath the blast scoring and pockmarking of the weapons that had been turned upon it.

Eisenstein.

This was the craft that had borne the Unforgiven into the darkness, the craft that had been both home and headquarters for many a year. And now? Now it was a grave marker. But the Eisenstein had not died in the dance of void warfare. No, there had been no such glorious final stand for the vessel which had withstood the wrath of both Empire and Republic. Instead, it had been slain from within, boarded and desecrated by creatures so foul that even the Force itself had averted its eyes from them. Like ants, they had swarmed through the corridors and accessways, slaughtering and butchering. The decks had been awash with blood, the walls painted with gore, and though the crew had fought with the skill they were known for, their leader had not been there to stand with them, and so the outcome had never been in question.

Such had been the fate of those who had trusted Kal Strife.

Now, in the darkness of the bridge, that same man sat. His legs crossed, his eyes closed, he breathed shallowly of the stale, stagnant air. The helm of his envirosuit rested on the decking beside him, already lightly encrusted with the dust of ages. The dust that had, perhaps, once been part of his crew. Or of the foul aliens who had slain them with such bestial fury. Cephelon was just visible through the forward viewport, its shape outlined by the angry glare of Karis. And beyond that, darkness. Deep, impenetrable darkness. The unceasing void. The very edges of the galaxy.

The next stop in Kal Strife's long delayed journey.

Yet it was clear that the Eisenstein would not be carrying him toward his destination. In truth, the Corellian had known this when he returned to this forsaken place, having discovered the state of his flagship when he first emerged from his cursed state of stasis on the world below. But still duty had drawn him back to this place, to this depository of memories he would sooner have forgotten, for the thought of his vessel and crew hanging eternally in the void had haunted his waking moments as surely as visions of coming darkness poisoned those in which he slumbered.

Abruptly, a flash of cyan, the merest flicker of a starburst, brought light to the darkness of the void. Though Kal's eyes were closed, the flash brought the slightest quirk to his lips, the merest trace of a smile, and his eyes snapped open, stormcloud grey orbs flicking up to the viewport to gaze at the familiar, daggerlike shape which had just appeared in the distance. Its appearance seemed hardly to surprise him, a fact which might perhaps have been explained by the peculiar bond he shared with the sole living figure he could sense aboard the vessel. Even the paralysis of stasis hadn't sufficed to sever that, and compared to those eons of nonexistence the entropic boundaries of hyperspace had posed little obstacle. "Right on time," he whispered softly, his cold voice muted and echoing oddly in the cold, lifeless air of the hulk. Rising, catching up his helm even as he did, Strife stretched, shaking outs the kinks long hours of meditation had allowed to settle into his muscles, before stepping across to the helm.

Most of the terminals were dark. Indeed, where first he had arrived, each and every one of them had been, and the jumble of cables, components and portable power supplies were testament to the juryrigging the Corellian had employed in order to get even that one terminal active. But that was fine. The terminal wasn't important. It was what it was connected to. With one gloved hand, he reached out, slowly, carefully tapping out a single command. Sparks coruscated off the exposed cabling as he did, yet he spared them not a moment's head, his eyes fixed intently upon the screen as it flickered, data fading in and out of sight almost too quickly to be read.

Would it work?

Like some ancient leviathan rousing from its slumber, the Eisenstein shudder. Its hull creaked, and fresh clouds of debris spiraled outwards from the great, gaping rents in its plating, torn free by the fresh stresses, yet the proud craft held together as its engines began to glow. Some stayed dark, of course. This was inevitable, given the punishment they had taken and the time that had elapsed, but enough flared into life to push the craft out of its long established orbit. But even as the Eisenstein began to glide insidiously forward through the darkness, the console on the bridge exploded in a spray of sparks and transparisteel, and the thrum of life that had began to resonate through the decking faded once more as the last traces of life fled from the ancient craft. But the moments of power had been enough; the Corvette was drifting out of orbit.

Drifting toward Cephelon.

Pausing a moment to glance one last time through the familiar viewport at the world that had once been his prison, Kal Strife murmured a few quick words - a half forgotten prayer for those taking the final jump - before turning on his heel and striding briskly toward the gaping hatch that led toward the bowels of the ship. There, his ship awaited.

There, his path toward the future would begin.

 

[Salem Norongachi]

It was only a matter of time.

Was it trust that spurned that thought the day Kal Strife had left him to face the might of the Omega Protectorate? Or was it simply that he knew the man that had called out to him from across the stars? Norongachi knew that he'd receive this summons and it would either bring with it a way forward or ruin to everything they knew. The enemy was out there, waiting, watching. Even now he could feel that alien presence, like something just outside his field of vision that he could never catch sight of.

The ship, his Hand of Fate, was always prepared. Always stocked and ready to go at a moments notice. No one questioned why he would retire to his ship instead of remaining on Roon. It was common and these days the Authority ran with little oversight from the Lord Marshall. Despite the recent set backs, the government structure was in place to handle whatever catastrophe these petty land grabs could unleash.

They perhaps weren't expecting the ebon Star Destroyer, a common sight above the capital, to jump away the moment he was on board. Without question, Emah had scrambled their com-channels and effectively placed them off the grid. Whatever lay at journeys end was not for them, for the worrisome admirals or curious captain who might attempt to follow their Leader into the darkness. They weren't ready and if the feeling of foreboding he felt in his bones was any indication, nor was he.

"Sir.."

The flames danced. A pyre unlike any in the universe. Impossible in its magnitude. A darkness lingered behind its intensity, like the serpents of reds, oranges and yellows were a veil for something far worse than the heat, than the crushing gravity that he could not escape as it drew him in from across the great expanse and as hard he struggled, as much as he fought, he could not escape this fate. It wasn't a voice, no tongue of a mortal could make manifest this terror with words. It simply was but the message was clear as he felt his skin blacken and bubble, as it turned to ash upon his bones and his very soul was ripped apart and consumed.

You will fail...

Salem's eyes snapped open and he found, for the first time since all this had started, he wasn't afraid. It wasn't a dream, it was a communication between himself and them. One that, after avoiding it for so long, he had entered into willingly. They made the one mistake no one should ever make around him, they had let him know that he had no hope of success.

Emah stood by his bed, the holographic avatar showed a mixture of concern and impatience, as he swung his legs off the bed and onto the floor. A hand ran through the dark locks that hung in disarray, sweeping them back from his face and then he stood.

"We've arrived." She said looking him up and down, as if something might have changed in his physical appearance. This was the first time since her commander had awoken from stasis that he had let himself succumb to sleep. Whatever it was he was looking for his face showed no signs if he had been successful or not.

"Ships?" He asked as he strode onto the bridge that his quarters were adjoined to.

"See for yourself." The A.I spoke nodding toward the transparasteel. There were ships, hundreds of them, all dead. It was a graveyard, a fitting place to meet Kal Strife he mused. He set himself down in the command chair and slipped one leg over the other. All they had to do was wait.

 

[Kal Strife]

Silence lay heavily over the ruined interior of the Eisenstein as Strife made his way back through the corridors toward the solitary docking bay. His footprints - the first footprints that had marred the think layers of dust in countless years - marked his path clearly, yet even without them the Corellian would easily have found his way, for this was a path he had trod a thousand times before.

Once, he stumbled, forced to throw out a hand to steady himself against the hull as the ship lurched, its tortured hull shrieking as it ground against another craft, but for the most part his journey was a simple one, and before but a handful of minutes passed he was stepping into the docking umbilical that connected his borrowed transport to the Eisenstein. The idea of using the umbilical to board had concerned him; his plan had ever been to set his ancient flagship into motion one final time, and the risk of debris severing the umbilical had been one he hadn't quite been able to eliminate. That, of course, was why he'd chosen to wear a full survival suit, yet despite the wasted precaution he was pleased to see that the Force had deigned to offer him a moment's respite.

Not that he believed there was any real altruism in such a kindness; no, if the Force was sparing him suffering now, that simply meant it was saving it up to thrust upon him at a later date. That, after all, was how the galaxy worked.

Still, for the moment Strife was willing to put aside such cynical thoughts and seize the moment, and so he launched himself down the umbilical, slapping his gloved hand hard against the hatch controls as he crashed into the transport's airlock at the other side. He'd left the outer lock open, of course, for not a soul had been alive aboard the Eisenstein in millennia, and he'd known the precious seconds such a risk afforded could well have been the difference between life and death had things turned sour. As it was, the risk had been negligible, and the Corellian was able to haul himself to his feet as the airlock cycled shut, before stepping out into the transport as the inner door spiraled open. A droid, an astromech unit that Strife hadn't bothered learn the designation of, trilled a greeting as he strode up toward the cockpit, and the Corellian slowed just enough to offer it a nod and a word of thanks as he threw himself into the pilot's chair. It had done well to keep the transport stable against the Eisenstein, after all.

Flicking the umbilical release, Kal broke the connection with the Eisenstein, before engaging the thrusters with another curt gesture and beginning to guide the blocky little transport back through the debris field toward the jagged form of the Hand of Fate, and its master [member="Salem Norongachi"]. Yet even as he did, the Corellian's eyes remained fixed upon the Eisenstein, watching intently as it plowed through the debris and thrust itself toward the heart of Cephelon. "Let the past burn," Strife whispered, watching the last remnant of his old life drive toward his prison of four millennia, "And we shall see what the future offers."

 

[Salem Norongachi]

"I'm picking up movement in the debris field." Emahs disembodied voiced informed, immediately a holographic screen flickered to life in front of his chair and Norongachi watched as the battered wreck of an old, ancient, corvette moved toward the dead world. A click of a button zoomed the image in and then again until it were almost as if he were floating a dozen meters from its desecrated hull.

"Disengage the blast doors on the docking bay." Salem ordered quietly as he watched the ship enter the planets atmosphere, its hull flaking and burning upon entry, sheets of plating ripping free from the damaged frame of the vessel and flaming into ash as the planet embraced the ship before it was gone from the Star Destroyers view.

"Blast doors open, transport ship on approach." He nodded, the holoscreen before him showing the profile of the old Corvette frozen in time. His eyes examined what remained of its structure, noting the heavier plating on the port and starboard sides of the ship. There was only one government he knew that reinforced for broadsides almost exclusively and it used to be his...

 

[Kal Strife]

Whilst the Eisenstein made its final voyage, spearing toward the heart of the world that had been so undeniably complicity in the slaughter of its crew, Strife looked on in silence. His cold, grey eyes flickered across the receeding form of the hull, noting how the hull began to glow crimson as, denuded of its shields, the friction of rentry began to sear the armoured plating, whilst his mind worked frantically to summon up a litany of names, a gallery of pictures. His crew. His comrades. He had long seared their names into the flesh of his heart, and their visages ever haunted his already disturbed sleep, yet now he felt the need to invoke them anew, almost as though it was necessary to show them how he lashed out in their memory. And perhaps it was, for though the gesture was a small one in the grand scheme of things, it marked a beginning to the journey that would prove that not a one of them had died in vain.

And once that was done.... well, perhaps then their shades would cease their haunting. Perhaps.

Soon, the Eisenstein became nigh on impossible to distinguish in the heart of its burning corona, and Kal turned his attention back to the matter in hand. His craft had cleared the debris field in the time in which his thoughts had been ensnared by the spectres of the past, and now the brutal form of the Hand of Fate loomed large. A signal, a brief blurt of machine code, burst through the aether, and a glance at the control terminal revealed that a bay had been opened aboard the mighty warship. Emah's doing, no doubt. She'd ever been the practical one. Much like her namesake, the Corellian mused idly, reaching across to run his hands across the controls, deftly activating the slave circuitry that would pass control of the transport to the artificial intelligence. It was a risky gesture, of course; Emah's 'master' had reason enough to want him dead, and never had he been afforded a better opportunity, yet the offering of trust was necessary now, for the time was rapidly approaching for them to stand together against a darkness that had long been foretold.

"Norongachi," he whispered, activating his comlink with a gesture, "Do you hear me? Of course you do. And you know why I have summoned you, don't you?"

He paused, eyes seeking out the shape of the Star Destroyer's bridge in the heartbeat before Emah's guidance drew his craft beneath the hull, blocking it from view with tons of armoured durasteel, before finishing simply,

"It's time."

 

[Salem Norongachi]

"Strife's ship has docked." Emah said, watching Salem's face as he turned over the words Kal had spoken. They knew this day was coming, closer than they would have liked. It had always been the way of things in this Galaxy. The great powers that be with their warships and their armies did not save creation, it was usually one man. A man and his X-Wing, a man and his Wookiee, A Solo trained by a Mandalorian. In every instance where the very fate of the billions hung in the balance, it fell to the few, the unlucky ones who had to stand defiance.

Would they be as lucky to return?

"I know." Was all he said in a dual response to Emah and Kal. He didn't bother moving, there was little point in heading down to the bay to welcome Strife aboard. He knew the route to the bridge where they would inevitably hold a conversation neither of them would relish.

"I'll show him up." No scorn in her words, none of the usual barbs that accompanied their dialogues. Emah knew what was about to happen, she'd known everything. It was, in part, the reason she had chosen to stand by the cold and callous creation of the Empire all these years. She used to question him in the past, when his decisions ground against her own sense of morals. Why did he commit acts of war? Why did he sacrifice whole worlds? Was it defiance? Cruelty? Did he simply not value life?

Many times, in those early years, she considered severing their union...permanently.

Then he had told her, told her everything. What hunted him, what was coming. Told her that war made the governments, who would be the last line of defense if they failed, stronger. One would build a better ship, the other would build something to equal it or superior. On and on and on until if that day ever came where he couldn't stop what was out there, they would have the technology, the experience and, most importantly, the stomach, to do what had to be done.

She knew now and when those shipyards had fallen over Druckenwell, she hadn't batted an eye.

As Strife's ship settled in on the durasteel floor of the hangar the great blast doors behind it ground back into place and by the grace of the holo-projectors located all across the ship the A.I appeared before him, ready to guide the Corellian to Norongachi. She had never met the man, personally, but there were extensive files on him. As best a history as Norongachi could find and then what she could glean from the holonet. Formidable, was not the word but...when your body was 1.6 miles in length, you didn't scare easily. So she stood there, hands clasped behind her back, and waited.

 

[Kal Strife]

Clouds of venting vapour billowed through the bay as the transport touched down upon the blast-scored decking, yet even whilst the bay's ventilation systems surged into life to replace the contaminated atmosphere, the landing ramp of the the transport began to descend. As it did, Kal was revealed, his figure silhouetted in the hatchway even as the displaced air swept up about him and twisted the ends of his black and crimson longcoat aside to reveal the armour that clung to his body beneath.

"Emah," he noted by way of greeting, his eyes fixed upon the flickering hologram even as he strode down the ramp, "You look like her." She did, in a way. Strange, given that the AI was apparently related to the original Emah only by the quirks of a galaxy with a twisted sense of humour, but the Corellian had encountered far stranger things in his travels. Still, the resemblance was mostly about the eyes. There was something about the set of them that spoke of determination.

It was, in a way, reassuring.

"He's on the bridge." It wasn't a question; Kal spoke the words as polite statement, not even waiting for the ship's avatar to respond before he moved toward the bay's exit. He knew the way, of course; the Hand, though extensively modified, was of a class he was intimately familiar with, and he had availed himself of the opportunity to study the schematics of the Hand itself in the days following the massacre at Druckenwell. So he moved swiftly, confidence evident in his every motion as he moved through corridors that were simultaneously, paradoxically, both familiar and alien to him. "Are you monitoring the Eisenstein?" he inquired as he walked, sparing a moment to glance over his shoulder at the trailing AI.

"Of course," came the reply, a trace of disdain barely evident in the inflection. Why? For the Eisenstein itself? For the fact that it had been defeated? Or simply because he had felt the need to ask so self-evident a question? It was impossible to say and, in truth, Strife didn't much care.

"How long do you estimate?" was his next question, and this time he didn't pause to ask it.

"Before impact with the planet?" queried Emah, and then, as she determined that was almost certainly the unspoken question, "Four point six three two minutes. Assuming she wasn't sufficiently damaged to break up during the descent."

Ignoring the last part - the Eisenstein would make it, she was a tough old girl - Kal simply nodded. Four and a half minutes was plenty of time for him to reach the bridge, and he wanted to be in a position to watch the impact. He owed it to the people who'd died there.

"Thank you."

Simple words, but ones which had rarely slipped between the Corellian's lips over the long years, and he spoke them brusquely, as though forcing them out. Even as he did, he didn't glance at Emah. Better she didn't see the grimace upon his features.

 

[Salem Norongachi]

"He wants to see.." Emah said to Salem, even as her holographic avatar walked side by side with Strife on their way to the bridge. Norongachi looked out at the debris field ahead of them, the slowly drifting wrecks and chunks of metal that formed the vast resting place of ships and their crews. He knew what the man must be feeling, watching the ship that had served him faithfully take its final voyage. What had befallen the Eisenstien, he didn't know nor would he ever ask. Some things were too raw, wounds that would never heal. If anything were to happen to Emah or the Hand of Fate...

"Do it." The ship began to move, its great bulk slipping forward closer to the planet, occasionally a point defense cannon would sound as a stray chunk of twisted slag came too close. They were as close as they could be, the image of the Corvette emblazoned on the bridges holo-display that hung just in front of the panoramic view the transparasteel provided.

As the turbolift door opened at the far end of the bridge Emah transitioned herself to the projector the room provided. Standing beside Norongachi who rose, finally, to greet the Corellian with a nod and little else. Words would come, that was a certainty but they could wait until the ritual was complete.

 

[Kal Strife]

There was no greeting for Salem, no mere no nod nor simple word. Instead, Kal strode right past him, his measured steps taking him across to the transparisteel viewscreen that dominated a large portion of the bridge - a design failing, he had always felt, though for the moment the Corellian was glad of it. A glance was enough to reveal that the Hand had drawn closer to the planet, perhaps in response to his questioning of Emah. He appreciated that, though he spoke no words to put voice to that gratitude. Instead he remained still, his eyes drawn inexorably toward the searing spear that blazed through Cephelon's atmosphere, driving down toward the planet's heart. Enshrouded in an aura of superheated debris, the Eisenstein thrust down toward the surface, its brief surge of motion coupling with the planet's own gravity to drawn it down toward its inevitable destruction.

And soon, even as Kal watched, that destruction came; the Corvette ploughed into the surface of the planet, the impact alone releasing more force than any single weapon in the armouries of the coreward empires. Clouds of dust and debris hurtled into the atmosphere, momentarily obscuring the crash site from even the Hand's impressive optics, before a searing blast tore through the dust as something - the Eisenstein's reactors, perhaps, or some ancient piece of technology in the necropolis, detonated beneath the force of the planetary impact. Other explosions followed, rippling outward from the point of impact as the ancient starship drew the still older world down into its damnation. Soon, the explosions became enough to ignite even the atmosphere itself, and storms of flame began to swirl across the planet, engulfing the prison that had kept Strife from his crew as they were slaughtered by the monstrous aliens that had beset them.

"So," he whispered, to himself, and to the ghosts that waited on the other side of the final jump, "It is done,"

Closing his eyes, Strife let the scene he had just witnessed imprint itself on his mind. Another planet dead in his wake, but this one had been necessary; it was a mark of transition, the sign that he had closed off the debts of the past and could turn his gaze toward the darkness of the future.

"Salem," he noted, turning even as he opened those cold, mercurial orbs once more, "Are you ready?"

 

[Salem Norongachi]

Salem didn't watch the final moments of the Eisenstein, nor devastation that gripped Cephelon in its wake. He instead focused his gaze upon Strife himself. Watching what little expression he could see from where he stood just behind and to the side of the Corellian. As his eyes closed, when the moment was over, Norongachi turned his gaze away. A pang of guilt sounded quietly in the pit of his stomach, that even now, after all that had happened, he looked upon the man who was his only ally in what was to come with a mind to find weakness.

The question, as their eyes met, required little thought and now, on the cusp of darkness, he felt little need for anything except honesty. "No," He replied, his face a mask that hid the trepidation in his heart. "But it needs to be done." That had always been their way, taking that step forward when death, loss and pain was certain. It wasn't heroics that made men like Kal Strife and Salem Norongachi do it, it was the certainty that no one else would -could- do what was required.

"Are you?" A silly question but this was the point of no-return, there would be no place for regret where they were headed.

 

[Kal Strife]

Salem's words elicited the faintest of smiles from the Corellian, and he half-turned to glance back at the flame shrouded world. "I am now," he offered simply, and it was the full, unadulterated truth. He was ready, now that the shades of his past failures had been dispatched to the grave.

Returning his attention to Salem, Strife moved across to one of the many terminals arrayed around the bridge, motioning for the other man to join him even as he did. "Emah," he remarked, "Can you give me a map of the Crispin system, on the easternmost fringes of Wild Space? You should be able to find one in either Remnant or Republic database, circa the Praetorite invasion." What he asked would have been nigh on impossible for any other AI - the data he requested he been largely forgotten during the fall of civilisation - yet Emah, he knew, had access to databases which, like those aboard his own vessel, predated the devastation. So it was that he betrayed not a flicker of surprise when, after but a heartbeat's pause, a holographic representation of the distant system shimmered into existence.

"This is the Crispin system," he explained for Norongachi's benefit, "Outmost system in all of Wild Space. This asteroid belt" - jabbing a gloved finger at the display, he indicated the belt which lay on the edge of the system - "lies just within the energy field that envelops our galaxy. This much you can - or rather, could - discover in any good encyclopedia. What the encyclopedias did not mention was that, four thousand years before the Battle of Yavin, the Mandalorian clans encountered a Praetoriate vessel here." Pausing, the Corellian let those words sink in. Would Salem see the importance of them? Perhaps, but it could hardly hurt to ensure that he did, so after but a moment Strife continued, "Almost five thousand years ago, Salem. Over four millennia before the damned things were supposed to have arrived. Which suggests..."

Trailing off, he raised his gaze to meet Salem's, knowing that the other man would see the truth written there.

 

[Salem Norongachi]

Norongachi shook his head and let out a quiet 'heh' as Kal spoke to the ships A.I. He knew where this was going, he'd considered the possibility that they might have to meet their enemy on its own ground after Strife had dropped his bombshell all those months ago. Wild Space was known in their time to be a point where the galactic barrier could be breached, it was one of few such places. The Mandalorians had encountered what was rumored to be a Vong ship there, this Norongachi also knew.

"Emah..." He began, almost as if ignoring Strife's test. "Bring up our flight plan." The monitor shifted and the galactic map, or at least the section that encompassed Wild Space, was on display with a series of plotted jump points from where they were to the Crispin System.

"We both knew this day was coming," Norongachi said coldly. "Did you think you were alone in your preparations?"

"You weren't exactly alone either.." The A.I spoke with mild annoyance, she had followed the trail when their mission had been revealed. Sifting through the dense amount of information from their original time and the current to locate the most logical point of departure for their journey. "There are others, but given the proximity to friendly territory and its remoteness I deemed this to be the best choice."

 

[Kal Strife]

A wry chuckle marked the Corellian's amusement at both [member="Salem Norongachi"]'s pride and Emah's petulance, though he shook his head gently to take the sting from his laughter. "It seems these last few years have thought you well," he mused softly, thinking back to days long gone by, days when they had found themselves on opposite sides of the battlefield just as frequently as they had stood together. Would the Salem of those ancient times have had the foresight to see the path ahead of them? Somehow, Strife doubted it; no, clearly it was these last years, these months spent leading the broken forces of the Confederacy of Independent Systems - or the Abrion Systems Authority as it was now - in the dark times of the post-plague galaxy that had forced Norongachi to become the warrior that Strife had always known he could be.

"Well then," he noted, the amusement vanishing from his face in the moment it took to deactivate the terminal, "If we all know where we are going, then why do we waste time? Have we not already been rude enough in keeping whatever it is that awaits us waiting these past eight centuries?"

Turning just slightly, he focused his attention on Emah, "When we arrive at the Crispin system, you will need to get us to within a kilometre of the energy barrier and hold steady. It will be difficult - I'm given to understand the solar winds are strong there, and the energy barrier puts out tremendous interference - but I'm sure you're more than capable." Returning his attention to Norongachi, he drew a datapad from his belt and tossed it onto the blank terminal between them, noting, "In the meantime, I suggest you read that. It's C'Baoth's writings on how he intended to utilise the Force to break through the energy barrier. Untested, of course, but the Emperor seemed to think it was possible he'd succeed, so it's worth using as a starting point."

With those words, he turned on his heel and strode away, intending to return to his freighter. The journey ahead would be long and hard, and a few hours meditation might be beneficial. Yet even as he moved toward the door, another thought struck him and he paused. "Norongachi," he called, without turning back, "If your hand hasn't become too accustomed to holding a stylus instead of a lightsaber, I would be pleased to get some exercise."

And with that, he was gone, striding through the doors and out into the corridor beyond.

 

[Salem Norongachi]

"No, they haven't," He couldn't help but think as the years turned back in his mind. Wave after wave of crimson, he should have drowned in it but here he stood. "If they had, I'd still be dreaming right now.."

A hand plucked the pad from its resting place as he watched [member="Kal Strife"] depart the bridge. Eyes of emerald drank in the text, the brief interjections by C'Baoth's own hand as he had hastily tapped in a note or thought to the document detailing the process he hoped to use to escape the cage the Galaxy found itself in. How far the rabbit hole went, from the now to before he or Kal Stife had ever been born. Moment upon moment, manipulated and twisted as one side sought to outdo the other. Palpatine, The Alliance, The Vong...puppets. Just like they were.

It was an all too common theme that was drastically approaching a cliche.

"The last time you learned a new Force Power, farm boys were saving the galaxy..." The A.I quipped, drawing him from his musings. A brow rose and a dry look crossed his features as he looked up at her.

"Indeed," He responded. He couldn't deny it. He'd only ever learned what he needed to get the job done and even then what he already knew was usually sufficient. It would be just their luck to die in the maelstrom that encompassed their stars before they ever met the enemy that had swayed the course of their lives for so very long. "How long before we arrive?"

"I can get us there in two days. I already have a full compliment of supplies on board, we have ample weapons for a variety of situations and more than enough battle droids to supplement us should we come across any hostiles while we're out there." She paused and her avatar looked out at the dying world beyond. "He's right about that, there's nothing keeping us here anymore. We're as ready as we can be."

"Aye," He gave a slight nod and yet he felt a cold hand grip his heart, felt it squeeze, as thoughts of leaving those he had grown to know, those he loved, behind. It was all for them, he counselled, it had always been for them but more than that, its for the ones you don't know, those you will never meet. "Get us underway and fire up the training room." He placed down the datapad and strode away, following in the wake of Strife.

"Any particular skill level?" She called out after him.

"What have you got?" Norongachi yelled over his shoulder as he stepped into the turbolift.

 

[Kal Strife]

Striding along the bare, spartan corridors of the Star Destroyer, Strife found his thoughts turning, as they always did, to the darkness that lurked beyond the Crispin Belt. What awaited in that starless void? Nothing good, of that the Corellian was certain. But, then again, Strife was far from convinced that anything good survived in this fetid universe.

But then, this wasn't about saving the galaxy anymore. It hadn't been for many a year, since long before he awoke on that arid prison of a world, alone and forgotten. After all, what was the point in fighting to save a galaxy without Aida and Raine?

No, now it was simply a matter of teaching a lesson, of showing the universe that Kal Strife was no mere marionette.

It was a lesson that would be taught with a saber's blazing edge.

"Emah," he murmured, slowing his pace not a whit, "There's a transitory cargo bay adjacent to the hanger bay my ship is berthed in. Is it vacant?"

"Yes," the disembodied voice of the ship answered immediately, "I assume you wish to use it?"

"Indeed," the Corellian remarked, detaching his lightsaber from its place upon his belt with a well practised motion. It was a simple example of such a weapon, far from the embossed and embellished examples of extravagance some of his contemporaries wielded, yet perhaps that was appropriate. Besides, each component of it bore connection with its wielder, having been stripped out from the wreckage of a downed Cyclone starfighter - a craft that Kal himself had helped design - following a skirmish in the skies of Ruusan that had begun on the Corellian's orders. Now it was a part of him, an extension of his own body, and he wielded it as such, with all the deadly fluidity of a true master of the blade.

Still, with what might await in the void beyond the halo, a little extra practice couldn't hurt.

"And tell Norongachi where I'll be."

 

[Salem Norongachi]

"He chose the easy option..." The voice, disembodied as it was in the confines of the turbolift, came across the coms system therein. Norongachi could hear the pouting disappointment as Emah spoke. "He's off the main hangar. He doesn't want to play. I'm hurt. I devised beautiful series of rapid moving blaster fire, fluctuating gravity with a hint of sudden and surprising decompression..."

"I'm sorry we'll miss it..." Salem responded with more than a touch of sarcasm.

An icy silence filled the next second.

"No one understands my art." Salem didn't know if it were possible to transmute storming off in a huff from closing a line of communication but somehow he felt that the jilted A.I had achieved it.

The doors slid open, the walk a brief one and with the rabbit warren of corridors, access ways and rooms even on the hangar level, it would have been easy to loose your way. Truth be told Norongachi had barely walked 20% of the Star Destroyers decks. Like most things in his life he used what was needed, in this case the bridge, training room, hangar bay and his quarters. Little else. If it weren't for the flaring presence of [member="Kal Strife"] in his minds eye he could very well have missed him.

He stood in the doorway of the long, although narrow, compared to the vast hangar behind him, room. Like the rest of the ship even these unused sections of the Hand of Fate had been given a flesh lick of paint when she was repaired. It seemed rather redundant, he thought, these bays were mostly used for the storage and the moving of fighters, which the Fate had never housed. Still, despite the recent goings on with Baktoid, they didn't cut any corners in their work.

"Thinking back," The Force Master spoke as he stepped into the room proper, taking in the surroundings, mentally sizing it up for what was to come. Old habits died hard, after all. "I don't recall ever crossing lightsabers with you. We usually ended up in a brawl for the most part." A hand went to his belt and the saber hilt that hung there. The bronzium finish was scuffed, its surface dented and nicked where he had pieced it back together after Rodia.

 

[Kal Strife]

With the merest hint of a smile playing across his features, Kal inclined his head fractionally. "Indeed," he murmured, stepping forward, his inactive lightsaber held almost nonchalantly at his hip though his finger rested upon the activation stud, "And did you ever wonder why?"

In truth, he had always been careful to avoid crossing blades with Norongachi simply because such an encounter would assuredly have resulted in one or the other of them suffering a grievous wound, for such was the only possible outcome when two masters of the art crossed blades. And that couldn't be allowed, not when he needed Norongachi for the mission that lay ahead of them. No, better by far to restrict their encounters to less dangerous weapons, to fists and stun gauntlets where conflict was necessary, and to redirect the other man's aggression to a more appropriate target where it was not.

Could it truly be that [member="Salem Norongachi"] had not realised this?

"The times in which we lived were perilous," he offered by way of explanation, "Our fate, and that of those more important than either of us, rested on a razor's edge. Invasion was - is - inevitable, and the only way to temper the forces of the galaxy was in the crucible of war. Sometimes that necessitated a slight... involvement. Other times..." hesitating, Strife eyed Salem speculatively, before the cynical smile darkening his features deepened and he noted, "Other times a less gentle touch was required."

 

[Salem Norongachi]

"Is there someone else in here with us?" Norongachi spoke and looked around himself, a tad dramatically he would admit but he felt the point had to be made. He was there, through it all. The very real difference between them and the cartoon villains -usually clad in black and wielding red- that paraded themselves across the Galaxy back then, and in the present, was that while they may kill a world; it was for a very real and a very sound reason. There were very few, if any, acts of psychotic bloodshed for kicks between them. [member="Kal Strife"] was the most rational and level headed person he had ever met and while Norongachi may have been prone to a more instinctive level of barbarism in his youth, he never relished taking a life.

"The time for lectures is over, those are for the guys we were back then." He thumbed the activation switch of his blade and a brilliant viridian light filled the gloom. "We've walked this path too long to presume to educate the other."

 

[Kal Strife]

Inclining his head in silent acquiescence, Kal forestalled his next words. In truth, there was little need of them, for the truth of the situation was ingrained in their very bones. Yet, even as Norongachi activated his lightsaber and the blade of emerald energy speared through the air, the Corellian made not a move to activate his own, and nor did he fall into the traditional guard stance of the familiar forms of lightsaber combat.

"As you wish," he murmured softly, "Let's begin. I'll even offer you the first move, since you've been so kind as to host." Salem would know that was a trap, of course; Kal wasn't even trying to hide the smirk that played across his features, and Norongachi was more than familiar with Strife's preferred style of lightsaber combat. But that wouldn't stop him, not if he was still the same [member="Salem Norongachi"] that Kal remembered from those days long departed, for the man's pride was every bit as deadly as the blazing blade he held clasped in his hand.

Besides, he would see that it was the quickest method of ending this verbal sparring, and it seemed likely enough that he would be glad of the option. Witty repartee had, after all, never been numbered amongst his strengths.

 

[Salem Norongachi]

What was it the Sith called it? Dun Moch? The ability to aggravate or demoralize an adversary to the point where they made a mistake or, more potent still, lost all will to fight. It was a skill, one of many, that Norongachi never found the inclination to learn but for [member="Kal Strife"] it was as natural as the beating of his cold heart. Even now he sought to goad him, to have him dance and move to his rhythm. From the outset he wished to control the tempo.

"Considerate, as always." Calm footfalls took him toward the waiting Corellian, four steps, three, two- The blade came up, quick, certainly, travelling from right hip to left shoulder but it lacked the ferocity Kal was usually given when they clashed. A gesture, nothing more, to show that he knew this game, that like a sword forged with fire the man he was, had been tempered into something more.