Ascendancy

[Al-Maisan]

My name is Al-Maisan. I am a Jedi.

A faint hiss of air heralded the boarding ramp's slow descent, the pressure inside the shuttle equalising with the hangar deck beyond. As it folded it's way from barrier to path, it revealed the ever-calm and faintly smiling face of Na'ir al Saif - a Jedi Padawan, and Al-Maisan's losest friend. Al-Maisan didn't need the ramp's absense to percieve his friend however: his Miralukan senses had peered through the durasteel and warned him of what lay beyond.

It was a blessing: for while Al-Maisan had never seen a sunrise - at least, not the way that others see them - his vision revealed what was hidden, and made it so that he was seldom caught unawares.

My entire race lacks the ability to see; and yet in all my life I have never before felt as blind as I did today.

"Greetings, friend!"

Na'ir's voice was as pleasant and enthusiastic as ever: a gentle roar that could sound like a fearsome beast when directed to his enemies, but became the passive purr of a tamed pet when he spoke to his friends. His aura shimmered, and while it did not shine with the same pristine brightness that Maisan had witnessed during his meeting with the Jedi Council, there was no doubt in his mind that the man before him was a good man.

Or perhaps just one doubt.

There was a snap and a hiss as - pulled from nowhere in a motion of subtlety and grace - Al-Maisan's lightsaber sprung to life, the reflection of it's emerald blade utterly lost in the vastness of the Ascendant's hangar. There was the slightest shift in Na'ir's aura as a new emotion rose to the surface - not fear, or anger, or hate as the Council had forewarned him to expect; but sadness. Al-Maisan summoned his resolve. He would not let the ruse decieve him again.

"Na'ir al Saif."

Compared to the other Jedi, Maisan sounded flat and empty. But even without Na'ir's presence of voice, the content of his words was enough to drench them both with a somber mood.

"You have indulged in the passions of the dark side, and studied the forbidden teachings of the one known as Revan. By order of the Jedi Council, you will surrender your weapons, and your self to my custody, and return with me to Tython."

Maisan felt the weight of reality slump Na'ir's shoulders.

"I knew this day would come." A faint laugh escaped him, summoned forth by the irony of it all. "But I did not think they would be so heartless as to send you."

Silence fell. There was no need for words: the two knew each other well enough for those to be unnecessary.

"I will not fight you." Na'ir chose his words carefully. "But I cannot return with you. I will not allow the Council's fear to condemn me for what I know in my heart is right."

The Miraluka felt his fingers tighten around the hilt of his humming 'saber. "Then I have no other choice."

Na'ir bowed his head, and clasped his gently before him. His gaze rose to Maisan's blindfolded eyes for one brief second, a grim and tight-lipped smile tugging briefly at his features.

"There is always a choice, Maisan."

A faint sigh escaped him.

"You have simply chosen to let others decide."

[Na'ir al Saif]

Two Days Earlier

Laughter echoed down the corridors of the Republic Command Ship Ascendant as Padawan Na'ir al Saif strode along in perfect pace with her commander. Around them, the ship was alive with activity: while the Great Galactic War was officially over, a mix of paranoia and common sense kept the Republic fleet on high alert; and on this ship in particular, the battle drills only seemed to end when the Captain was unconscious and unable to observe them.

Though Na'ir didn't feel particularly lucky about it, he was currently exempt from the time trial scampering from cabin to cabin. His presense was part of his training, arranged by his Master so that he could experience every fascet of the Republic military just in case the Jedi were called upon to lead yet another war. His official role aboard was as an observer and advisor; the Captain had decided to interpret the Jedi's battle station as: "Wherever the hell I am - just so I can be sure you aren't cutting holes in things."

The duo had just left the engineering decks, having observed a record-time demonstration of how the engine crew could lock down the main reactor in the event of an overload. Na'ir had urged the Captain to let him participate, arguing that he might one day need to know how to perform the process himself. The Captain had wisely countered that, if Na'ir ever found facing a reactor overload without anyone else around to attend to it, he'd probably be a little busy fighting whatever had incapacitated the engine crew in the first place.

Instead, Na'ir was being regaled with an assortment of tales of the sorded and mischevious antics that went on behind the Republic military's uniformed facade. Na'ir had always had a talent for setting those around him at ease, but the Captain in particular seemed particularly greatful at having someone other than his crew aboard; military protocol presumably made it difficult to socialise too much with his officers, particularly given the senior ranks now held by certain characters in the Captain's stories.

"I'll be sure to subtly remind the Senator of that if I'm ever on Coruscant," Na'ir replied with a chuckle. "With the way things currently are between the Jedi and the Senate, I'm sure the extra leverage will be most helpful."

The Captain let out a grunt. "Just don't encourage her to demonstrate. Seeing that isn't something I'd wish upon even the Sith Emperor."

Na'ir offered a shrug, his face deadpan. "You never know: the Emperor might have a fondness for tentacles."

If the Captain had tried to keep a straight face, he certainly didn't succeed; it was only a mix of long-practiced composure and the timely chirp of his comlink that kept his reaction moderately restrained.

"Go ahead," he commanded after plucking the device from his belt, and taken a moment to restore his gruff exterior.

Na'ir recognised the voice that emerged from the comlink - a young Ensign he'd met on the bridge a few hours ago, though he couldn't quite recall the name; good natured chap, with a healthy head of hair and a persistantly helpful attitude.

"Distress call, sir."

Those three words instantly sombered the mood.

"Transponder codes indicate a civilian freighter; they report that they are being pursued by Sith fighters."

A brief look exchanged between the Captain and the Jedi was all it took; within an instant they had both surged off with broad strides along the corridor that would lead them to the bridge. "Understood, Ensign," the Captain called into his comlink as they almost but not quite ran. "Sound General Quarters and launch the alert fighters; I am on my way."

He paused for a brief moment. "Make sure everyone knows that this isn't a drill."

"Aye-aye, sir," the Ensign replied.

Na'ir frowned as the Captain placed the comlink back in his belt; an expression that the Captain quickly picked up on. "Problem?" he asked, clipped and to the point.

"You shouldn't have told them it wasn't a drill," Na'ir answered, straight-faced as ever. "They'd probably try harder to impress you if they thought it was."

Another grunt escaped from the Captain. "Tell me, Padawan. Have you ever considered a career in naval command? You seem perfectly suited."

"I hear the pay is lousy," Na'ir quipped.

"So says the monk with the laser sword," the Captain muttered back.

[Avis Satyra]

An explosion ripped open a coolant duct, spraying a fine mist of noxious white gas into the corridor that led to the bridge. Snatching a glance over her shoulder, Captain Satyra unleashed a string of expletives that she'd picked up from a Corellian ex-lover back on Nar Shaddaa.

"Bacca," she barked, her attention already back on the flight controls as she addressed her resident Wookiee. "Lock off that leak before the shorter ones of us start running out of breathable air."

Barbacca responded with a string of whining growls. "I don't care how matted it's going to make your fur," Satyra snarled back through clenched teeth. "Do it now, or Force help me I will shave you."

It was probably a good thing that the Captain wasn't fluent enough in Wookiee to understand exactly what Barbacca had said, but she got the gist of it; fortunately, the hulking great oaf seemed to have decided to multitask his complaining with doing what he was damned told, and had stomped off to find a repair kit. Though she'd picked the Wookiee for the task purely because she didn't trust the cockpit's other occupant to be within ten parsecs of her ship with a hypospanner in hand, it proved to be an accidentally wise choice; at least with his ridiculously overlength limbs, Barbacca was doing a much better job of navigating the constantly shaking deck than anyone else would have.

The immediate internal danger being dealt with, Satyra turned her attention back to external problems; like the Sith ships chasing them, and the fact that the shields protecting them from certain death were perilously close to failing. She jammed an elbow into the intercom, hands not straying from the nav controls. "I have an angry red light on my shield indicator pannel, Dux," she grunted to her engineer. "Might wanna look to that if you fancy living long enough to collect your next pay cheque."

"I'm sorry," the mechanic's voice chimed back, "Dxun Kira is a little too busy stopping the engines from exploding to come to the comm right now. Please leave a message after the tone, and I'll get back to you as soon as I can."

"Screw the engines!" Satyra snapped back. "If you don't fix the shields, the engines are going to be the only part of the ship left."

"I have about thirty seconds to stop the engines exploding, and about seventy before the shields give out. You can either quit yakking at me and let me fix your ship in the order that will save our firm and shapely asses, or you can keep on talking and I finally get the day off you've been screwing me out of for the last five months. Decision is yours, boss."

More expletives tumbled out of Satyra's mouth - Weequay ones this time - as she killed the comm. Another impact rocked the ship; with her vice-like grip wrapped around the controls, Satyra almost tore the yoke from the console as she tried to keep the Hakudo Maru on course for the hulking great Republic Warship few dozen klicks ahead.

"You know," Alhena chimed in, her pink-skinned Zeltron features as annoyingly pleasant as ever. "You might find that the crew would perform better if you were a little less hostile in situations like this."

A killer glare was all that Satyra offered in reply.

Alhena shrunk a little in her seat. "Or not."

At the edge of her vision, Satyra kept a fragment of her attention on he proximity sensors. As one of their pursuers came a little too close to getting a firing solution on their hindquarters, she wrenched the controls and threw the ship into a roll, the Sith Fighter left behind as the Maru spiralled away. A few fractions of a second later the ship shuddered again, but this time it was accompanied by the tell-tale hum of the laser capacitors discharging. A few hill-vibrating moments later, one of the targets on her sensors blinked out of existance.

"About time you blew something up, rather than all the missing you've been doing," she offered - the closest thing to a compliment that any of her crew was likely to get at the moment, all things considered.

"It would have come sooner had you been able to provide a more stable gunning platform. The frequent unannounced acrobatics made it particularly difficult to keep anything in my sights."

Satyra rolled her eyes. "They're called evasive manoeuvres, Azrin."

"Funny," came the Mandalorian's musing reply. "Where I'm from, it's usually called 'flying like a drunken Mynock'."

Despite the vast arsenal of irritating traits that her crew posessed, it was Azrin Koine who had the most success at getting under her skin: probably because his deadpan delivery made it seem like he wasn't even trying.

"How about you hold off on the smugness until you've taken care of those other two fighters?" she suggested.

Alhena's hesitant voice interrupted. "I'm not sure he'll need to."

The Zeltron was right: within seconds, Satyra's forward display lit up with more than a dozen new contacts, all proudly broadcasting Republic IFF codes. The Captain haulled on the controls, her ship swooping out of the path of the inbound formation. Far more interested in the abundance of new Republic targets than in one lowly smuggler ship, the Sith Fighters ploughed eagerly into the Republic lines.

They didn't last long.

As the hostile targets vanished from the sensors - though admittedly Republic ships weren't exactly "friendlies", given her line of work - Satyra finally let herself relax ever so slightly.

"Pass along my thanks to the Republic commander, and then start running the jump calculations to get us the hell out of here."

The fact that Alhena didn't reply straight away was usually a bad sign; it suggested that something was distracting her from being painfully polite and helpful all the time. "The fighters are requesting that we accompany them back to their ship, for repairs and debriefing," she explained.

"Like that is going to happen," Avis snorted.

Alhena's face seemed grim however, and as Satyra risked a glance at her sensors, she could understand why: the dozen plus Republic fighters had moved into a standard escort formation around their ship. Satyra's mood sank, and she was reminded of an old proverb about frying pans and fires.

"I don't think it's optional," Alhena countered, stating the obvious as per normal.

"Yeah," the Captain muttered grimly. "I think you may be right."