A Lesson in Regret

[Lúka Jibral]

The world was a different place if you stood still, and silent. A single moment became its own universe, facets and details perceived that would otherwise be lost, not merely unnoticed but utterly invisible to a mind and a body that was in motion. The mind filtered away sights that it didn't deem important; filtered out the sounds that hid behind other sounds, so persistent and irrelevant that there was no need to be heard. The smell and taste of recycled air was forgotten; the texture of fabric against skin went unfelt. The beating of the heart in your chest; the pounding of the blood in your ears. It was a miraculous talent the body had, to ignore almost anything if it chose to - even the essential processes that allowed it to survive.

Yet, the talent was not born out of evolutionary advantage. It was a necessity, a side effect of a brain that was too overtaxed to cope with everything it was expected to deal with. There were times, such as the body grew tired, that conscious thought could interfere with essential processes like breathing; hence a yawn, to wrench essential oxygen into the lungs. Under certain circumstances, the body could even be fooled into doing itself harm. It was an overtaxed system, stressed, and stretched far beyond its limits.

The Force helped with that. It was always there, always in everyone, but those sensitive enough, and well enough trained in its practice, could draw upon it, letting the energies and vibrations of the universe seep into their being like nutrients through roots. That infusion of tranquility suffused Lúka's body, a gentle supplement to that which his body otherwise spent such resources on sustaining. It allowed his focus to shift, to drift, to acknowledge that which his mind otherwise filtered away. It reached out, capturing stray conversations between officers at the edge of the bridge, feeling temperature variations in the air, shifts in motion as molecules and particles cascaded back and forth, disturbed by the movement of everything within this confined space. He heard the constant hum of power moving through overhead conduits; concentrated until the constant tone separated into the individual frequency peaks of the alternating current.

He felt them shift; twitch; felt the current alter direction as magnets wrenched the two sheets of durasteel behind him apart. He didn't need to shift to know who was entering the bridge of the Deliverance. He waited as the footsteps drew closer, turning back towards his forward view as the Cadet came alongside. A slow belief was released, shoulders sagging ever so slightly under the weight of his hands clasped behind his back. His mouth opened as if to speak, but he stopped himself, head twitching ever so slightly in his protégé's direction.

"It shouldn't be long now," he stated simply, in response to the unspoken desire for an update on their status. "Captain Akasha is making good time."

[Jensen Par'Vizal]

It was an irksome thing, to have answers to questions spoken before the query was fully formed. Yet it was something that had become typical, a natural occurrence, so much so that it barely registered except to cause the every so slight twinge in the side of the Cadet's neck that made him stretch towards the other side, eager to alleviate the supposed stressed tendon. A slight move, but a tell all the same, one he was working on to prevent his mentor from observing; alas, something to work on another time as Jensen knew that since he was already aware, so was his superior counterpart.

"Not good enough," he half replied, half complained, and whatever remaining minute percentage was left became defiance against what he had been told.

They were on a schedule, and while on-time may work for some, it barely counted as doing your damned job to the Cadet. Still, he was not in charge here, not in the slightest, and as the least experienced Knight aboard the Deliverance, he was ever subject to the ideals of others. It felt wrong in a way, but it was an ever present battle that the Cadet had learned to deal with; especially when he was literally among his betters.

As his footsteps came to a halt and his arms folded across his chest, the black clad Cadet cast a sidelong glance towards his Mentor.

"Is everyone else ready?" A challenge and a query at the same time.

There was utmost confidence in the Knights aboard the ship - himself, his Commander, and the General - but it was the others Jensen lacked trust in. Those who were not keen to the insights of The Force. Such simple minded individuals. Would they ever be truly ready?

[Lúka Jibral]

When the Jedi spoke of the Dark Side, they talked about it as a path, a steady progression from one state to the next, with darkness at the ultimate destination. Fear led to Anger, and in turn, Anger led to Hate. Over the years, Lúka had come to understand that this was a fallacy. From a certain point of view, perhaps one could argue that such emotions were an escallation, each one promising more power and deeper darkness than the one before; but they were not a progression, and they did not seemlessly melt from one to the next. Each one was discrete, each one carrying with it advantages and disadvantages, subtle differences from the norm.

Fear was the most seductive of them. Fear came in many thoughts, from the faintest nagging doubts to the most paralysing terror. Just as with biological functions, that fear could provoke a response. A practitioner of the Force fuelled by fear acted through a form of fight or flight reflex, twisting the Force out of panic and desperation, or focused necessity. It was a source of darkness that offered itself readily. In combat, it was the edge that helped keep you alive. In danger, it was the seductive whisper that offered an easier path than your principles might permit. But it was also fragile, and limited. It was a double-bladed lightsaber, and with it you risked carving yourself in two if you became overly reckless, or were not cautious enough in its application.

Anger was different. Anger was a wellspring, a seething, broiling cauldron of potential. Anger was easy to provoke, and it could spread like a fire, raging and escallating into an inferno if you provided it with enough fuel. It inspired recklessness, perhaps, but unlike fear it did not abandon you if you became overextented. A true berzerker could be unstoppable, drawing on the endless resources of anger and pain that their life provided. It could be petty, and jealous, but it could also be righteous. There were stories that when Master Windu - once one of the leaders of the Jedi Order - fought, he allowed himself to tap into such righteous fury, wielding it alongside the light to become one of the Jedi's most formidable warriors. Anger was a resource that Cadet Par'Vizal embraced fully, and it was one he had reached without needing to wander through the valley of fear first. It changed and mutated, depending on his mood: right now, it seethed as the faintly glowing embers of contempt, but Lúka knew that it would take little more than a breath to stoke those embers back into flames.

Lúka preferred Hate. While anger was hot, and raging, and urgent, hate could be cool and calculating. Hate was ruthless, premeditated, strategic in its vicious manipulation. History recorded the Sith as angry conquerers, but it was the patient hatred of those like Darth Sidious that were responsible for the Sith's truest victories. That hate had, through the manipulation of lesser vices, provoked an entire galaxy into fear and anger, tearing itself apart so that he could forge the shattered fragments into his Empire; and it was hatred, of non-humans, dissentors, and those who were different that had become that Empire's core strength. Yet, for all its potential, hate was not unstoppable. It was the fear of the Rebel Alliance, and their righteous anger towards the Empire that led to Palpatine's downfall. His folly was believing that his power was unlimited, and his strength unstoppable. He, like so many, failed to realise that the very nature of light was to drive away darkness, just as the nature of darkness was to encroach upon wherever light was absent. Too many held a totalitarian view, that one must embrace one or the other, but the truest power came from understanding the balance. It came not from the choice of one or the other, but from the interplay between the two, like an electrical current generated between two nodes of opposing charge.

Perhaps one day, he might succeed in coaxing his protégé into understanding that notion. For now however, Jensen Par'Vizal was a slave to his anger and his petty irritations and frustrations. Lúka waited just long enough for his extended silence to challenge the Cadet's patience.

"Oh ye of little faith," Lúka replied, with the faintest note of amusement gracing his words.

A breath swelled and bolstered his chest, and as he exhaled, the Force that he had drawn into himself during his reverie was slowly allowed to seep away, returned to the cosmos from which it had been borrowed. He shifted, feet remaining planted, but head and shoulders twisting to regard the Cadet beside him. His voice was low and calm, but carried with it a stern edge of cool steel.

"This arrogance of yours, this disdain for our Imperial brothers and sisters, is not strength: it is weakness. You spit venom, but all it does is poison and compromise. They may not have the gifts or talents that we do, but their devotion is just as true, and the risks they face are just as dire. If they give their lives for the Empire today, it will be no less noble an end than if we do."

[Jensen Par'Vizal]

Always with the lessons. On one hand the Cadet appreciated each and every one, to ignore them was folly, something even the most stubborn portions of his psyche couldn't refuse. At the same time however, they were minute pinpricks that outlined each and every point for improvement, of the constant reminders in ways he was far from the perfections expected of him.

"As you say," Jensen replied with the appropriate amount of acquiescence he could tolerate; a far cry from any sort of childish rebelling against what his Mentor had said, but not an entire admission of agreement, either.

Truth was, he knew their compatriots within the Empire weren't utterly useless. Clearly they had gotten to this place in the Empress' service on skill and accomplished goals. He even had a bit of a begrudging respect for those of the military and navy that had proven their worth and risen in the ranks. It was the civilian specialist that his largest qualms stemmed with. Brilliant and Gifted had been tutted about as praise for the individual, and their loyalty to the Empire was apparently without question, but still. Loyalty would only get one so far.

[Lúka Jibral]

It was a familiar feeling as Lúka sensed Jensen back down. Subside, but don't surrender. So many of his attempts to educate the Cadet ended in this way. It was why he had chosen the boy for additional attention, bringing him here on assignments with purpose and direction, rather than leaving him to languish in the lecture rooms and study halls of the Temple. Lúka had hoped that with greater exposure, and with a clear path ahead of them, he could focus Jensen, take the raw energy of his ire and irritation and channel it like a beam through a kyber crystal. He had no doubts that Cadet Par'Vizal had all the potential to become one of the Empire's most formidable Knights: but he was rough, like an uncut gemstone, and despite his best efforts Lúka felt only a continuing sense of failure at the lathargic progress towards that end that Par'Vizal managed to make.

That failure was his, of course. Foolishly, he had believed that his own past, his own similarly untamed attitude when he had been the boy's age, would make him better equipped than any other to guide the Cadet's training. He knew everything that had frustrated him about his own Master, so he would avoid those things; be better; be smarter. Sadly, it was not that simple. Perhaps students such as he and Par'Vizal were just inherently flawed, a burden for their unfortunate Masters that would - one hoped - all work out in the end.

Lúka let a sigh escape him. Perhaps the kinder thing would have been to bury and disguise his frustration; but when it came to Par'Vizal, there was little to be gained by being kind. He let his frustration show, just the tiniest glimpse, coated in a faint sheen of disappointment. It would do more than words ever could: a subtle surrender, a resignment to the futility of even trying. Par'Vizal's opinions would remain as they were until they didn't, and any continued input from Lúka would likely be about as effective in bringing about change as a spring shower had of changing a mountain.

Silence fell, and as the passing moments turned into minutes, Lúka almost found himself giving in to the urge to break it. Fortunately, the motion of one of the figured on the bridge ahead of them drew his focus. Lúka turned, ever so slightly, acknowledging his approach.

"Yes, Captain?"

[Ouran Akasha]

A subtle expression swept across Ouran Akasha's features, his muscles long ago trained to obfuscate any stray thoughts that might seek to display themselves as involuntary expression. In this instance, all that displayed outwardly was a subtle pinch at the corner of his eyes as his vision shifted from the Knight to his Cadet. They were like a vision from history, a master and apprentice standing like Jedi overlords on the bridge of a warship. Akasha had been a Lieutenant in the Republic's halcyon days, and remembered such sights with conflicted feelings. The Jedi Generals had been shrewd and capable commanders in the Republic military, until suddenly they weren't: and while Ouran was too wise to simply accept the Empire's stated reasons for that - history was always written by the victors, after all - there was no denying that the Jedi's leadership had not worked out all that well in the end.

Supposedly, these Knights were different. But different how? What set them apart from Vader and his Inquisitors, whom Ouran had the singular misfortune of encountering on more than one occasion? Was the sworn fealty of the Imperial Knights to Empire and Empress enough of a safeguard to prevent history from repeating itself? And, if the worst did come to pass, where was the millions-strong army of loyally-bred Clone Troopers, hatched with the innate programming to exact the Knights' execution if they strayed?

Truth told, Captain Akasha was less than comfortable at the prospect of the Imperial Knights coopting the use of the Deliverance; but orders were orders, and Ouran had no inclination to disobey.

"Current projections put us at around an hour out from our destination, sir."

Aboard the Deliverance, an estimated time of arrival was no simple thing. Numerous experimental tweaks and quirks complicated the simple mathematics of such things, and as yet the crew had not fully constructed the proper equations to calculate such things without at least a modest margin of error.

"If you intend to act the moment we arrive, now would be the time to begin preparations."

He hesitated for a moment; it was a common thing among Imperial officers serving alongside Imperial Knights - an uncomfortable lack of familiarity with how protocols and hierarchies were expected to work.

"Should I have that information passed along to the General and the Governor?"

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka indulged in a brief moment of satisfaction at the Captain's uncertainty. There was something freeing about the peace that certainty gave you, something that Lúka could no longer imagine himself without. That was not to say that he believed he knew everything - far from it - but rather that as a Knight, your status afforded you a certain freedom in dictating certain facts and subtleties, to serve whatever your needs happened to be at the time. Lúka knew, with certainty, exactly what his role was to be in any given situation; and it gave him a certain perverse joy to watch as others fumbled their way into falling in line with that. Here, for example, Lúka knew that his authority ended where the General's began: but he left it to everyone else to realise on their own terms and in their own time that they would all be best served by following along with whatever Lúka deemed best.

"No, Captain. We have that covered, thank you."

He turned, dismissing the Captain without a word or a gesture, but rather with a simple shift of his attention to his Cadet.

"Report to the Moff's quarters," he instructed, firm enough so as not to leave room for any kind of protest from Par'Vizal. With any luck, the weight of a Moff's status and authority within the Empire would be enough to weigh down Jensen's ire and insolence; or at least, slow it down until the Deliverance could live up to its nomenclature, and deliver them to their destination. "Retrieve Governor Rübezahl, politely, and bring them to the General."

Another small sigh escaped from Lúka, though this time he could not quite discern it's source or meaning.

"I will retrieve the Doctor you are so fond of, and meet you there."

[Anastasia Xivelle]

"Okay, okay. I promise, as soon as we get back to Coruscant I will look in to getting some time off."

"Ana..."

"You have my word."

The voice on the other end laughed, the small holoprojection on her desk just every so slightly off from the sound. Even systems away, however, Parrus Dal never failed to bring a smile to her lips. The sheer ridiculousness of their conversation wasn't lost on her, either. They'd spoken just before she had left on this assignment, he had been there to see her off.

"I just want to be able to give my parents a firm 'yes' or 'no' on if we can make it," He began, the tone verging on chiding that Anastasia couldn't help but be amused by.

"I can't bring my research, Par. It's Classified. You know what that means. Not to mention my patients..."

"Ana."

"Yes?"

"You've earned this. Take a damn vacation for a change."

The over dramatic way she rolled her eyes wouldn't be properly translated through the communications, but it couldn't be helped, the man brought out the worst in her; but the best as well. The Doctor's eyes strayed from the projection to the ring on her finger, the other digits working to subtly twist the small piece of jewelry just a bit, never enough to obscure the stone from her sight, though.

"I'll see what I can do."

"You better."

The quick retort brought another small laugh before she could contain it.

"I will."

It could have continued on, but the chime at her door caught her attention and brought a halt to the play that could have repeated for far too long.

"That's my cue."

The nuanced expression shifts that her fiance was making were bound to be lost, yet Anastasia knew they were still there. The slight distaste, the concern, the strength to not verbally point it all out.

"Ana, be careful, alright?"

She nodded her head, waited the appropriate time for the gesture to transmit and then sighed.

"I will be."

"I love you, you know that?"

A coy smile played across her face, one she made sure held long enough so that Parrus was sure to see it and then the communication was abruptly terminated.

Doctor Xivelle rose from the desk in the room she'd been assigned, grateful that the Empire had allowed her the grace of the terminal to make calls back home. No doubt her transmissions were being monitored, but if they wanted to hear two people plan a getaway that was their prerogative.

The time for fun was over, sadly; as the door opening proved.

"Ah, Commander. I was wondering when you would come to fetch me."

[Lúka Jibral]

There was something about this Doctor Xivelle, something that Lúka couldn't quite identify. It was something familiar, and yet something not. He had searched her record and his own, but there was no correlation between her past and his, beyond the passing encounters he could actively recall.

Perhaps it was something akin to the sense of familiarity one felt with an author: Lúka was certainly familiar with her work, as every Knight should be with the writings of one of the Empire's foremost experts on the medical science behind the Force and Sensitives. Her work, and it's aspirations, to gift the Force and to cure it, if needed, had the potential to usher in a new age for the galaxy. The Knights and the military saw the applications for war and security, enhancing Imperial troops and neutralising dangerous threats, but in their conversations on the subject, Lúka and the General had imagined more. How might society be different if every member of it understood, to some small degree, the way in which they were connected to each other? How could crime, injustice, and prejudice continue if people could feel the impact their actions had on others? To feel the Force was a gift, but with nature in control, it was a gift selfishly given. If they could take control of how that gift was granted, they could literally change worlds.

But no, that wasn't it. It wasn't familiarity with her words or writing, with her face or voice from holos and recordings, or even the feeling that they were kindred spirits somehow, sharing common values or beliefs. It was something else, something amorphous but there, and it left Lúka feeling unsettled.

He smiled as he saw her, but it was a stolen smile, one inherited from the emotions that seeped from Doctor Xivelle's aura. She had been speaking with home, with a loved one, as Lúka had walked down the corridor. The notion sparked a strange flicker of misplaced envy, but had also slowed his pace, delaying his interruption as long as he could. Perhaps the Deliverance issued more scrutiny that that, but Lúka had chosen not to probe further: a gesture of respect, even if it was one she would never be aware of. Even so, it was impossible to miss the effect of the conversation on her, and as her emotions bumped into Lúka's like pedestrians in a crowded hall, he tried not to smile too much.

"I thought it best to come and get you myself. I'm afraid my young ward doesn't quite grasp your value to us, and frankly -"

He trailed off into a faint breath of laughter.

"Frankly, both of us are probably better off without an unnecessary extra five minutes of his company."

He stepped back, inviting Doctor Xivelle out into the corridor with a gesture.

"I hope I am not tearing you away from anything important."

[Anastasia Xivelle]

"Nothing of importance that cannot be picked up later, I can assure you."

The Commander was an interesting fellow, as was the General. Relics, in a way, yet enlightened and re-purposed. The fact they were unafraid of her research had earned her respect, the fact they were so utterly human had solidified it. Some found the Knights to be unnerving individuals, but Anastasia had turned intrigue into camaraderie, all for service of the Empire. It was perhaps naive in a way, and the Commander's protege certainly had a way of making her see just how dangerous and troublesome the Jedi of old may have been. But the General and the Commander? They had a way of setting her concerns at ease, and she was quite certain she had taken the necessary steps required to ensure it was not mere trickery that was causing her to feel as such.

There was an understanding in what Commander Jibral was facing, however. When not actively involved in her research or seeing patients of a more troubling nature, Doctor Xivelle found herself at the mercy of interns of the Fobosi District Medcenter. Children with egos and chips on their shoulders who had yet to learn how to harness the true power of their intellect. So much squandered for years at a time. True, her part time students were older and closer to passing that stage than the Cadet, but she knew well how frustrating it could be to watch them battle themselves and their potential.

"Your..." Anastasia kept herself from using the term Apprentice. The Knights didn't work with such terms, no matter how ingrained into history the word wanted to present itself. "Pupil will learn. Give it time. He is still young, so long as he has a willingness to learn..."

She left the rest unspoken. Understanding or not, the boy still gave her room to pause. There was just something about the Cadet. So unlike the Commander and General. Something... not sadistic, but the wanted word eluded her.The thought, There are others, came to pass but went unsaid; it was a cruelty not needing to be said.

"Forgive me for being so bold, you know him better than I."

[Lúka Jibral]

Something bittersweet tugged at the corner of Lúka's expression. "Do I?"

The usually resolute certainty in the Knight's expression slipped a little. In most circumstances, his confidence was unwavering. He trusted his knowledge. He trusted his insight. He trusted his capabilities in combat. None of those applied when it came to the instruction of students. At the front of a lecture hall, his audience captive by their desire to learn whatever wisdom he was to impart, was one thing; but in isolation, with a pupil who seemed unwilling to listen? Jibral's experiences with his own Master had made him think it was easy. How could it not be? Attention, support, advice - his Master had made it seem effortless, and in his hubris he had thought himself equally capable. He had miscalculated, however. Underestimated.

"We are too similar."

The words snuck out with a frown, and Lúka was not entirely sure why they did so with such ease.

"I suppose that should make it easier to understand how to reach him, but for some reason it is not, and I -"

His voice faltered, in the face of something he had never heard himself say aloud before.

"I made a vow to help him, to train him, and I am struggling to do so. I can excuse, and rationalise, blame his youth and his stubbornness a much as I wish, but in the end? I fear that the failure is mine, and I do not like the thought of breaking my word to him."

[Anastasia Xivelle]

The familiarity in which the Knight spoke to her was unexpected, but not unpleasant. So many had built up anyone with the abilities The Force granted that any time they did something so utterly normal, it was hard to comprehend. Anastasia wasn't exactly of that mindset, but there were certain pitfalls you still often found yourself when society itself had made these individuals near mythic.

She wondered how often it was that the Commander spoke to others like this. Was this a rare moment, something to feel honored to be trusted with, or was he just venting to anyone who would listen?

"You hardly seem the type to give up on something you have set your mind to," she replied, hoping her tone was suitably encouraging. "I don't believe you will fail so long as you don't quit."

As they turned down another corridor, Anastasia couldn't help smirk, barely containing the breath of a laugh that came upon her. "Failing that, my father always believed in the power of a good smack upside the head."

[Lúka Jibral]

The laugh that escaped Lúka was all snort and no composure, and caught the Knight completely by surprised. He recovered quickly, though couldn't thwart the nervous tick that smoothed a hand down the front of his uniform.

"I have my own variation on that theme," he admitted, with a small hint of a smile - not malicious, more mischievous, as if confiding a secret in his companion. "Mine has more to do with the Force making them fall down though. Preferably in front of a group of their peers. Not a new or unique strategy, granted, but it's one that proved particularly effective against me back in my Temple days. It only took being knocked on my ass a few times to start getting the message that maybe my mentor knew more than I did."

Lúka braced himself, as if waiting for the nostalgia to turn bittersweet; but the sensation never came. His mind lingered on that reflexive reaction for a moment. Why would he have expected it to do so? Jedi Purge aside, why would he look back on those aspects of his past with anything but fondness?

A subtle shake of his head knocked the notion aside. He glanced across at Doctor Xivelle, and offered her half a shrug.

"Feel free to indulge next time you have the urge to put Jensen in his place, though. He needs to start learning that the chip on his shoulder won't always be tolerated, and who knows: there's half a chance he might even respect you a little more for it."

[Anastasia Xivelle]

"Is that personal experience talking?" She asked, a hint of mischief lingering at the edges of her lips.

Anastasia knew she had gone too far with the comment, but it felt worth saying. A bit of teasing never hurt anyone, and unlike so many others within the Empire who seemed near obsessed with cultivating an image of themselves as a stoic "proper" Imperial, the few times that she had found herself alone with the Commander had seemed to prove he wasn't quite there. At least when he could afford to be.

It was a moment of reprieve she wondered that the both of them shared before he would have to resume his entire duty and air as a Knight and she would have to put on the mask that shifted her from civilian Doctor to Empress' asset and tool. Not that she wasn't both at all times, but when in the presence of the General, or merely aboard the Deliverance for that matter, she found it prudent to mind her manners and present herself more as the professional she was.

Sadly, she wasn't certain she would get the gift of a similarly cheeky reply as the double doors to the Tactical Suite loomed before them. Time to make sure her mask was firmly in place, then.

[Jensen Par'Vizal]

Retrieve the Governor... Politely.

The instructions played on a never ending loop within Jensen's thoughts.

Politely. What precisely did that mean? He knew how to be respectful and show the appropriate amount of difference to those of such rank. Though, there was something in the way that his Mentor had delivered the word that seemed to suggest that the Cadet was going to have to put something more into his inflections and attitude. Jensen wasn't sure if he should be offended or amused at the fact there was no doubt a lesson being delivered by it all. Very well, then. He could play the part of diplomat if it was so required.

He didn't exactly attempt a smile as he arrived at the Governor's quarters, but effort was extracted to make sure he seemed more approachable; subtle shifts in posture and how he presented himself through The Force. The chime was activated as the Cadet mentally finished preparing for his performance.

[Sophia Rübezahl]

Sophia stared at herself in the mirror. She was ten minutes into her inspection. Ten minutes of lingering, languishing, before her own indecisive reflection. With a stern tug on her jacket, the last of the imperfections were eradicated. She straightened up, rigid like a soldier, inside the smart sexless uniform of modest grey and purest white. Against the clean fabric, her olive skin betrayed the look of someone not long returned from some exotic vacation or other - lazing in the verdant hills of the Lake Country, perhaps - the look of a lady of leisure, not a governor. It was a good fit, tailored to perfection, and yet...

"For goodness sake."

She gave the jacket one last pull and turned her back on herself. Impostor Syndrome, that was what Grandma called it. An absurd notion. That was precisely the kind of talk that put one on a long leather couch, spilling one's secrets to a perfect stranger, all in the name of medicine. No. It wouldn't do. Her position had been earned, and no-one would deny it - least of all her own tedious nagging sense of self-doubt. She was the Governor of Loranor, a proud Imperial fortress world on the Corellian Run, it was a stronghold of corporate sharks, military contractors, and the wealthy elite. It was also a world that was unerring in its loyalty to the Empire. As Governor of Loronar, she had been tasked with a job that was exceptionally important, and unquestionably easy. The people of Loronar wanted for nothing but more of the same, and as their governor, Sophia had become the custodian to the status quo.

Father's words rang in her ears, reminding her of how pleased he was that she finally had a role that was "befitting of someone of your position." The uneducated might have dismissed that as plain snobbery, of the privileged patting the back of the privileged, but the years had made Sophia fluent in the curious Language of Father. What he meant was that he wouldn't have to suffer the sight of his daughter's bruised bloodied face smiling at him from the Holonet anymore. Instead, his daughter was respectable, a lady, an ornament. How it had always eaten him up inside to know that his little girl had bigger balls than his beloved son. Arion the Faultless.

From the silver case on her dresser, she plucked a slender stim and held it short of her lips. She considered it with a held breath - such a small ineffectual thing - and thought better of it. The stim was returned and the case snapped shut. It was a full case. It had been full for 32 days, and she intended to keep it that way. Besides, it wouldn't do to meet the general, and the captain, and Force knows who else, smelling like a Lokian fire pit. They were expecting the Empire's Sweetheart, she'd give them the Empire's Sweetheart.

The door chimed. She waited 15 seconds.

"Hello, there." She greeted the young man with a warm smile. He was pale and had the most extraordinary red hair. She recognised the uniform at once.

"How can I help you, cadet?"

[Jensen Par'Vizal]

Now Jensen allowed the smile to form. Not an overbearing show that took over his features, but a rather subtle one, barely hinting at the edges of his mouth and eyes. It was an expression that had been practiced, just to ensure it didn't look creepy; and not one that the Cadet made a habit of using. It was simply pleasant and poised... And underneath he felt almost ashamed that so much effort had to be put into such a simple gesture.

The Cadet clasped his hands behind his back and glanced down the corridor towards their intended destination before he looked back to the Moff.

"I hope you will excuse the intrusion, Governor Rübezahl, but your presence has been requested in the Tactical Suite."

Not his finest performance, perhaps it could have used a bit more apology in lieu of respect, but it would do.

"I am to escort you at your earliest convenience."

Overdone, his thoughts critiqued. But perhaps with a bit of luck, it would just appear as the conjecture of a far too eager-to-please young disciple.

[Sophia Rübezahl]

"My earliest convenience?" She toyed with the idea of teasing him, then. Drawing out a pretence of labouring over calendar dates, but she thought better of it. The young man was being polite, creating the illusion of choice when they both knew what he really meant. A summons received on a military vessel was not to be ignored. She gave him a smile, alight with quiet mischief, just as she vanished from sight. Moments later, she reappeared with a datapad in hand and sense of purpose in her step. The young man was regarded again as the door sealed behind her.

"It's a rare honour to receive a personal escort from someone such as yourself. I don't imagine they call it the Citadel for its open door policy and record of public relations." She fell into smart step alongside the boy, "What is your name, cadet?"

Inwardly, she cringed at the inherent sense of formality, of authority, in her request. Still, it was folly to believe introductions were necessary: the offer of a handshake would have surely patronised his position - this young man was on the clock, as they say - and to imply that he did not know who she was, well, that would've been a display of the falsest of modesty.

[Jensen Par'Vizal]

A rare honour. Jensen was torn at wanting to scoff at the notion or be utterly amused. He settled for neither, merely taking it for what it was: a pleasantry casually given, more generic towards what he was rather than who. It was, however, the first of it's kind that he could recall receiving. He certainly wouldn't be bragging about it later to his mentor, or use it as any form of proof that he genuinely could make a good impression when necessary; but that didn't exactly make it meaningless, either.

"Cadet, Par'Vizal, ma'am," he offered as he walked alongside the Governor.

He almost cringed. It never failed. Not that Jensen had anything against the so-called gentler sex having positions of high ranking within the Empire, they were just as capable as their male peers. It was that annoyance that calling them ma'am seemed some sort of insult but sir never sounded right, either. It felt like one of those things a person could debate about for a great length of time if they wished, but never something he should openly ask. His sister probably knew.

That particular concept certainly didn't bring on any fond musing and so, with barely a second or two having passed he felt the need to elaborate, to differentiate himself from the other former-Cadet Par'Vizal, who now boasted a position among the Imperial Royal Guard.

"Jensen Par'Vizal."

He was glad it sounded more like an attempt at lightening the formality of the introduction rather than the more selfish want to distinguish himself from his sibling. Master Jibral would have picked up on it, it was doubtful the Governor would.

Another thing to be thankful for was the walk to the Tactical Suite was not over long, not nearly enough to make attempts at engaging in small talk and the Cadet let himself be calmed by the familiar grey corridors they passed. It wouldn't do to have his thoughts still lingering once we was around his Mentor, nor the General.

Nor this... Other face that awaited them outside the room. Perhaps it was folly to believe he would simply walk with the Governor into the room, perhaps even beating his teacher and his associate in arrival. To be among the first, to wait along with the General for the others... But no, there was always another obstacle.

Jensen couldn't quite place why the boy - man if he was being polite - had a sense of familiarity about him. Maybe it was just the proximity to the Cadet's own age. Still, the sensation bothered him. Another sensation to push down and remove, then.

[Jeryd Redsun]

"You remember the deal?"

"I remember the deal."

"You swear?"

Jeryd could have laughed, but he didn't. To his right, Wyll bounced on his heels like an anxious durni. The silence between them was invaded by the ever-present hum of the ship, and the distant approach of footsteps. Up ahead, two figures were taking shape, strobed by the pale glare of intermittent lights; both of whom were familiar to them, but for very different reasons. The kid was an associate, a colleague, at best, and of small interest. The woman, on the other hand... Jeryd gave Wyll a look.

"I swear."



###


24 hours ago...


"The Emperor's Fists." Wyll punctuated his words with a strong one-two combo. Jeryd strafed to the right, his steps were mirrored in perfect time; Wyll had excellent form. He threw a couple of right jabs and landed an uppercut that echoed like thunder across the gym. "The Star Destroyer."

"Star Destroyer?" Jeryd looked dubious, and took a swing at his sparring partner with one of the pads, he ducked and weaved with the supple grace of a dancer.

"The fight with Huxley Provost, remember? The kid from the action films."

"Oh, yeah." Afforded no time to reminisce, Jeryd found himself promptly on the receiving end of a fresh volley of blows. Wyll worked the pads like they were war drums until he was spent. The equally spent sparring pads were disposed of unceremoniously on the floor. Jeryd's face illuminated with a new thought, and he pointed at his recovering friend, "The Bloody Princess."

Wyll winked, "The Empire's Sweetheart."

There were many names Governor Rübezahl had gone by before she became Governor Rübezahl. Granted, they weren't names she had chosen for herself, but aliases she'd earned over the course of a storied career in the arena of mixed martial arts, culminating in her championship victory at the Core World Games. It was an understatement to say that Jeryd and Wyll were fans of her work. In their early teens, it was a thrill to see someone so young, so beautiful, so unquestionably Imperial, rise to the top of what was considered by most to be a brutish and uncivilised sport. Yet, there she was, with her eloquent tongue, her Imperial reserve, and her class, throwing it down with fighters twice her size. That year, Stava schools opened all over Coruscant. She was the reason Wyll's footwork was so good, and why he hit like a gundark.

Wyllas Kador was a tough man. Jeryd smiled to himself. It was strange, and difficult, to think of him as anything other than the boy from Level 434 with the smart mouth and wicked sense of humour. When he saw Wyll, he still saw that same kid whose hair looked like a planet, who kept his trousers on with dorky grandpa braces, who liked to fight, and cheated at blaster tag. He remembered the day they met, playing Troopers and Traitors with the local kids; they fought over who had to be the Traitor. In the end, they made an agreement that neither would be the Traitor, that they would always be Troopers, together, and they certainly made good on their word.

Before they graduated from Carida, with distinction, Jeryd and Wyll attended Manarai Military Prep School together, where they were teammates for the Manarai Mantasharks, and, before that, they were equally as inseparable: there was scarcely a dinner in the Kador household without Jeryd's feet under the table, or a Redsun family holiday without the fifth honorary member tagging along, and they fell in love with twins, Sara and Lillibet Naris, from Naboo. It was said that the only way Redsun and Kador could bear to be separated was if they were kissing the same face. There was some truth to that, Jeryd supposed, when some of the fondest memories of his first romance was sharing sordid stories with his best mate. In the end, it was never going to work, he and Sara understood that, and they made do from time to time with a raunchy holo-link whenever they were feeling particularly lonely or desperate. But, Lilli? She broke Wyll's heart. Time was a healer, of course, but then, so too was a celebrity rebound.

"I want her to see me fight," Wyll said, after some consideration. "You know, put on a show. Let her see the goods."

"I don't think the Moff of Loronar has come all this way to hook up with some low-ranking army grunt."

"I'm a sergeant!" Wyll objected, his shoulders square.

"She's a moff."

His friend fell silent for a moment, while he mopped the sweat from his face, but Wyllas Kador was not given so easily to defeat, and soon enough, he surfaced from behind his towel, "You could help me."

"I beg your pardon?"

Wyll must have known he was crossing a line, because it took him a moment to take that final tentative step, he shrugged, "Take a few punches. Lay it on a bit thick. You can have-"

"I can have my second-in-command bitch slap me around the ring just so he can get Sophia Rübezahl wet? You can kiss my arse."

"Jed, come on!" Wyll closed the distance between them now, he was really putting in the work, "This could be my only chance with the Sophia Rübezahl, and you know I liked her more."

"Now that is bantha shit," Jeryd said, flatly, "I believe it was I who wanted to get that tattoo, and it was you who talked me out of it."

"Yeah, because I wasn't going to let you put her face on your arse!"

"Sounds like a good idea to me," By a miracle, he remained deadpan, "Besides, what if I want a shot? Have you thought about that?"

"I'm in a drought here, man." Now Wyll sounded desperate, "You had your shot, just the other week with that little pink thing in Old Town."

"We all slum it, sometimes. And let's not forget your own small victory on the station."

"Jed, did you see her? She was half-wookiee."

"She was half-wookiee." Maybe it was the colours of disbelief and disgust painted vividly across Wyll's face, or the fact that he'd elected to at last concede to his point regarding his most recent dubious conquest, Harietta the Hirsuite, but Jeryd's defences finally broke. His laughter marked the end of the debate, "Ok, I'll help you win the governor's fair heart. But you're not kicking my arse."



###


So that was the deal. Step aside and let his mate have a clear shot at their childhood crush. Jeryd couldn't complain, he supposed. Wyll needed this, and it wasn't like the governor was actually going to humour the advances of a love-struck trooper while on official business. Then there was the age difference. If Wyllas Kador can overcome all of those odds, then he deserved it. He was just glad to have him at his side - his best friend - serving alongside him in Her Imperial Majesty's Army, just like they were always meant to. It was perfect.

"Here she comes," he muttered, under his breath, "Let's just hope the Red Knight hasn't swept her off her feet with his sparkling personality."

He heard Wyll snort in quiet amusement beside him, but he remained firmly eyes-front. Once they were upon them, both men stiffened with synchronised discipline. Both raised a crisp salute in greeting.

"Governor Rübezahl. Sir. Please be advised, the general is not to be disturbed until our presence is requested."

[Jensen Par'Vizal]

Jensen had once heard it described that life was a series of disappointments made only bearable by intermittent victories. It wasn't exactly something he had taken to heart, nor even attributed to his own beliefs, but in the here and now, the apprentice Knight could see how someone might be willing to offer such a blanket statement. He didn't fault the lieutenant for delivering the less-than-desired news, however. Though, it did mean Jensen had to keep up his little facade for longer than he would have preferred.

The partial smile he had forced upon himself remained in place as Jensen turned from the closed door and it's two guards back to the Governor. There was something about the other two that was directly involving her, the Force granted him that much, also enough to make the realization that it wasn't mere respectful adoration. Anything more than that, however, was an utter loss. A lack of basic understanding that his mentor found infuriating at times, no doubt. Not exactly one that Jensen saw as a weakness, just a quirk, one he was more than capable of making up for in other areas.

"Ah, I'm afraid I must apologize, Governor. Had I known that we were not quite expected so swiftly, I would have chosen my words more carefully. Or, at the very least, not set such a brisk pace on our way here."

Jensen was tempted to push the envelope, to perhaps add an additional comment about having limited himself more of her pleasant company, but no - that would have been a phrase too far, a tiptoe over a professionalism that even he wasn't quite willing to make. Even if it may have been worth it, just to study the subtle changes in expression and aura from the two officers. As if to further discourage any such antics, the cadet caught site of Commander Jibral and his associate approaching in the edge of his vision. Shame, really, it might have been fun to see just how far he could try this false personality.

[Sophia Rübezahl]

When Sophia became Moff of Loranor, she knew there would be sacrifices; gone were the days when she could do as she pleased, when she pleased, with whom she pleased; the days of mingling in dubious, but colourful, social circles, of romantic flings with musicians and holonet stars, of unearthing tombed treasures, and of bloody brawls in cages - these were all things that she did, but what Sophia had not anticipated was having to sacrifice who she was. Being governor meant that there was a piece of Sophia Rübezahl that she no longer owned, it belonged to the people, instead, be they high-brow intellectuals, military commanders, desperate scraping socialites, or creditless mandolin-players. In the presence of the people, her time was no longer her own. So as much as she wanted to continue a private conversation with the charming young Imperial Knight, duty called:

"Not at all, cadet. As it happens, your timing is most fortunate."

She advanced a step, placing herself before the officers. The lieutenant was tall, a handsome young man, who looked like he had been built to meet some impossible Imperial specification with his broad shoulders, his square jaw and barrel chest. The sergeant, on the other hand, was dark, lean, and had a hint of mischief in his eyes. She had met a thousand of their sort before. Inside, she wilted, longing for the chance to discuss the cadet's training, life at the Citadel, and all the mysteries of the Force, and chided herself for not having the courage to bring it up beforehand.

"One relishes the opportunity to meet the Empire's finest." The smile came easily, as did the sentiment. While her heart ached for the strange and the new, Sophia was nothing if not a patriot, and even if she went on to meet a billion more lieutenants and sergeants over the course of her career, her appreciation of their service would go undiminished. The Empire was a sacrifice they made together.

"What is your name, lieutenant?"

[Jeryd Redsun]

Jeryd was very careful, as the conversation unfolded between Cadet Par'Vizal and the governor, not to show what he was thinking. Because what was he thinking? The Red Knight's smile drew to mind memories of the weird kid in school who used to balance a slug on his upper lip and pretend it was a moustache - there was something quite unnerving about it. And the talking! Where in the galaxy did that come from? Jeryd had him down as the strange reticent sort who favoured droids over people, and yet, there he was, showering the governor in words like he'd just swallowed a whole dictionary. Surely, Wyll had noticed it, too. Force freaks keep getting weirder and weirder. Thankfully, the governor intervened with a welcome distraction.

"Redsun, ma'am," he answered. His voice lacked the charm of Par'Vizal's curious affectation, or the levity of Wyll's banter, instead it betrayed the firm sophistication of a man made in the Imperial army. "Jeryd Redsun. And this is Sergeant Wyllas Kador of the 506th Shrike Batallion."

"A pleasure, ma'am." Wyll was making his voice sound deeper, and stood like he had a pole up his arse, "The lieutenant and I are both avid fans of your work. It's a happy accident that we have crossed paths, today."

"Indeed. But then, Cadet Par'Vizal has quite a reputation for coming early." He offered the Red Knight a nod of respect, "It is one of your defining traits, sir."

[Jensen Par'Vizal]

He'd learned enough of the subtleties of communication to know some sort of jab was being made at him rather than any form of sincere if not misguided compliment. How easy it would have been to allow the comment to nettle at him, to try to weave under his skin... But likewise, it would have been all too easy to retort, perhaps not verbally but there were other ways of silencing such rudeness. Alas, he'd been told to behave, and considering exactly who was on the other side of the closed door, it truly was the most prudent course of action.

"Well, like any Knight - or Imperial officer for that matter - worth their salt, I do try and make an effort to arrive when I intend to - When I am expected. Anything less risks inconveniencing others."

How Jensen managed to remain civil, pleasant even in the banter was beyond him. It wasn't quite award-worthy, but it certainly deserved some sort of accolade. Perhaps that was why his attention shifted back towards Moff Rübezahl, though more likely it was a less than subtle way of derailing the lieutenant's quip. Still, he did hope it didn't come off as petty. Had he wanted that, the cadet would have utilized less taxing means.

"Wouldn't you agree, Governor?"

[Sophia Rübezahl]

"I quite agree. It is as my father likes to say: punctuality is the best first impression."

There was a moment, just a fraction of a second, when Sophia feared her gag reflex was about to kick in. Summoning the wisdom of dear old dad was an exercise in self-abuse, but it was in truth the only pertinent offering in her arsenal. In the short but telling exchange between the lieutenant and the cadet, Sophia picked up on wavelengths that were perhaps not meant for her ears. For an avid fan, the lieutenant had a peculiar way of showing it, with such unwarranted crudeness. And while Jensen's response betrayed a sweet sort of naivety, he was still on the defensive and had made of her a dubious ally, in the process. Yes, Sophia had been around enough egotistical men in her time to know a pissing contest when she saw one. And, if it was a question of taking sides between a crass meathead like Redsun, or the unusual gentlemen emerging in young Par'Vizal, she'd take unusual over crass every time.

"But then, that is my father speaking. When it comes to making a strong first impression, I believe good manners and decency are paramount. An Imperial officer is, first and foremost, a gentleman. Wouldn't you agree, Lieutenant Redsun?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said, eyes forward, at rigid attention.

And there he went, retreating into his military schooling, just like she knew he would. Now for her other so-called fan:

"The downside of being early, of course, is small talk. Filling the void with vacuous chatter for the sake of making noise. It is the recourse of the primitive, and we are not primates, are we, Sergeant Kador?"

"No, ma'am."

There. That was the children taken care of. Force knows she could do with an adult or two, right about now.

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka's life was defined by simple pleasures. He was not a man who indulged in luxuries, or surrounded himself with the fineries that his status within the Empire might afford, but rather one who sought to enjoy the small satisfactions that his life already naturally held. The pleasure of good company. The satisfaction of his righteous duties. The subtle thrill of a coat that swooshed just the right amount as you walked at just the right speed.

In this moment, however, Lúka denied himself the latter in order to focus on the former, moderating his pace to enjoy the company of Doctor Xivelle just that small amount longer. She was a remarkable and fascinating woman, intelligent and insightful, whose captivating eyes and voice like music made the experience of conversation a joy, and whose subtle smiles and rare, delicate laughter were luxuries in and of themselves. Lúka felt grateful that the Imperial Knights had chosen to uplift the research of people like Anastasia Xivelle, cultivating the slow but progressive erosion of the mystery and mysticism that surrounded the Force. For too long, Jedi and Sith alike had hoarded the knowledge, possessing miraculous gifts that were denied to the rest of the galaxy. Anastasia sought to bring an end to that, extending that gift to others beyond the scope of random chance. The potential benefits to society were plain to see, even in the smallest of examples: the Jedi had always regarded themselves as warriors and protectors, never even contemplating the way that their gifts could improve the lives of others; but imagine a society where Force healers attended to the sick, where empaths worked as therapists to nurture victims through trauma, where the Living Force could serve as a boon to agriculture, or feats of civil engineering could be achieved in a fraction of the time as Force Wielders aided in the construction of schools and hospitals. The galaxy would always need Knights to protect it, yes, but it was foolish to hoard the Force so jealously: it was like the Guardians of the Whills described it, the Force of Others, not something that any one or group had the right to consider itself the sole custodian of, especially not when the criteria for their access to it was little more than surmountable biology.

Happily, and eagerly, the Knight would have spent hours speaking with the Doctor, hanging off every word as she described her research, her theories, her hopes and dreams for a better and brighter tomorrow. It was a world that Lúka craved, a reality that the galaxy deserved after these last decades of relative darkness. Perhaps under Chancellor Tarkin, and with the contributions of brilliant minds like Anastasia Xivelle, they could finally move past the shadows of Separatism, and unite the galaxy in common purpose to achieve that utopian future.

Alas, circumstances conspired to prevent Lúka from indulging that particular impulse. The emotions of his Apprentice loomed like the forming of storm clouds on an ocean horizon, and they were not alone, either, backlit by the twin sunsets of the two soldiers' obvious admiration and attraction towards the island silhouette that was Governor Rübezahl. The Knight's lips curved into a subtle smile, his posture shifting slightly to lean an iota closer to Doctor Xivelle, and offer her a whispered insight.

"Heads up, Doc: looks as if the Governess has herself some gentlemen admirers. Ten credits says the Sergeant says something to embarrass himself before the end of our briefing."

[Anastasia Xivelle]

The Doctor was first and foremost a scientist. It allowed her to contemplate the different scenarios that might have lead to different results, sometimes following through with an experiment if the idea warranted it, but often times just enough curiosity was sated with the little mind games that she never felt the need to fully peruse the options. Right now, she was wondering just what her life would look like had she experienced the company of the Commander Jibral before she had Parrus had ever become close. An idle fancy, a guilty one too in how it edged next to a line she might consider betrayal to her fiancé; though not as guilty as it may have been had Parrus not crossed that line first. It was ages ago, she reminded herself. Young love. Mistakes made and forgiven; or at least should have been, could have been, if not for that tiny voice within that whispered doubts each and every time she was away from Coruscant.

Ah, but now was not the time for such things to darken her mood. There was business to attend to and impressions to be made and - if even for only a brief moment - the most amusing of all, a bet to be made that Anastasia was fairly certain she could not have won. Not with how it appeared that there was something that had already taken place between the Governess as the trio of young men.

"I'm afraid he may already have," Ana whispered back. "But if you're saying he would be so foolish as to do it again..."

She leaned away from him as they approached to better reflect the air that they should have rather than their little conspiracy against their allies. A glance back to Lúka was given, her mouth forming the words You're on.

The Doctor granted him one last smile before she turned her attention towards the others, the most influential of which at the very least.

"Governess, it's an honor to have you among us." The pleasantry exchanged, she cast one last glance at the Knight before her eyes settled upon the two officers. "Well, since we are all here, shall we, then? I would hate to keep The General waiting."

[Inyos Aamoran]

* * *

The General's attention barely shifted as the doorway behind him opened, admitting the six arrivals he had summoned. There was no need to engage his eyes in seeking out who they were: even if they had not been expected, there was little that transpired within the room that escaped his attuned senses. His focus remained where it had been, studying the small assortment of relics and artifacts that had been transferred here to the Deliverance. It was an indulgence, perhaps, to go to such lengths to adorn a space that would only be occupied temporarily. Yet, it was a measure that the General deemed important, most comfortable when he found himself surrounded by history. He had explained as much to his former apprentice, when Lúka Jibral had once inquired. What use did an Imperial Knight have for the assorted trinkets, tokens, and talismans that comprised his personal connection? The General had explained that it was among his fellow relics that Inyos Aamoran felt most at home. They had been words uttered with jest, and with a subtle smile that had carved through the tightly trimmed facial hair (https://78.media.tumblr.com/033843530d92fc954b883e0faff89c38/tumblr_inline_nkm47zpXyx1r0kmbk.png) that adorned his jaw, and yet the sentiment was true. Reminders of the past were important, he had also explained, to help one comprehend the true nature of one's place in history.

He waited for the doors to close before he turned, taking his time as the ponderous motion completed to study each of the arrivals in turn. An odd assortment. Two Knights and a Doctor; two soldiers and a Governor. Half representing the arbiters of Imperial mysticism; half representing the might of the Imperial military. A fitting ensemble for the task that lay ahead.

General Aamoran's hand passed across a sensor on his desk, the air of the room shifting and shimmering, the existing dimness making way for the flickering blue shapes of a holographic projection. He moved through the field wordlessly, perhaps inadvertently or perhaps by design echoing the course that the Deliverance had followed, departing from Coruscant beside the galactic core and heading rimward towards the Tion Cluster. He came to a halt, a hand extending to grasp hold of one of the stars within the Cluster; the starfield faded in response, and as Inyos drew the star system from its position and then let his hand unfurl, it expanded to fill the chamber, the rest of the galaxy disappearing from view and notice.

Four simple Aurebesh characters floated beneath the orb of one particular planet. Inyos peered through its oceans and continents, focusing on Lúka Jibral's apprentice - the General's grandpadawan, as the General's daughter had taken to calling him.

"Cadet Par'Vizal."

The General's voice was soft, yet commanding, managing to subtly demand a concise response while at the same time serving as a warning against extraneous comment.

"This is the planet Voss. Tell me what you know of it."

[Jensen Par'Vizal]

The Cadet took no pride or pleasure in being the one that The General asked the information of. Jensen wasn't exactly one to flaunt the knowledge he had gained from many - far too many, as some may accounted - days spent doing nothing but reading. However, Par'Vizal didn't exactly shy away from the moments where he was asked to share what he had learned, either. It was a fine line to walk, and while the Cadet may have thought he was doing so quite well, there were plenty of others that he had come to learn thought of him as nothing more than an insufferable know-it-all.

"It is a terrestrial planet, known primarily for it's mining resources," The Cadet began, leaving the obvious statement of it's location unspoken as the star chart before them more than illustrated that for the others within the room. "It is currently a site for new industry and development, some speculate the planet is poised to rival it's neighbor, Lianna, in such matters."

He could have gone on, stating Voss' orbital position - Three, the number of moons - One, it's rotation period, it's orbital period... But such were extraneous to the discussion, not pertinent at the time. Jensen briefly considered the collected bodies within the room, of what information he held was meant to be released, of what was best kept unspoken.

"It was home to an - either reptilian or amphibian - race known as the Gormak," He paused and moved his steadfast gaze upon the display to beyond it, to glance towards The General to ensure he should continue. There was no hint given that he should stop speaking, and so the Cadet continued.

"It was also - if rumor is to be believed - the once-home of the Voss Mystics, their Shrine of Healing, and their Tower of Prophecy. But evidence of such a race is by most accounts sparse, questionable, considered by the natives to be mythology rather than truth. Though, there have been some archaeological findings to suggest otherwise."

It was a place to stop, before his commanded expose on the planet turned to further information regarding the Voss people. If the instruction had not been so precise, Jensen would have continued. But that was not his place, at least not without permission granted to continue.

[Inyos Aamoran]

The smallest of smiles formed on General Aamoran's features, directed mostly towards Commander Jibral with a momentary glance.

"It seems you do not share your mentor's aversion for historical studies," Inyos commented, the note of respect and appreciation in his voice subtle, but evident.

The General's attention shifted, rising to include the rest of the assembled group.

"Cadet Par'Vizal is indeed correct. Voss is indeed believed to be the once-home, as he eloquently puts it, of the Voss Mystics. According to legend, they were once members of the native Gormak species, affected by interactions with ancient Sith and Jedi to become powerful Force Wielders, particularly adept in the arts of healing and prophecy. Accounts from nearly four thousand years ago describe an entire culture built upon the premise of prophecy and predestination, where the precognition of these Voss Mystics was treated as immutable law. Whatever fate the Mystics foresaw for you, it was your legal, social, and religious obligation to ensure that events unfolded exactly as described."

He regarded the six figures before him, his eyes scrutinising each of his assets in turn, as if to gauge their level of interest, engagement, and attention. His own thoughts on the matter remained illusive, his expression and manner cool but not cold, restrained perhaps by formality, or propriety, rather than any sense of unfeeling detachment. He stood smartly, but comfortably, as if everything about his situation and circumstance was undeniably his default resting state. In a way it was: missions such as this were as close to the ways of the old Jedi Order as the Imperial Knights ever got, and though the Order might have fallen, Inyos Aamoran did not. His loyalty had been absolute, a Knight loyal to the galaxy of people he was sworn to protect, no matter which moniker the governments and powers-that-be chose to ascribe to him.

"As Jensen also stated -" The use of the Cadet's name, a more personal form of address, was deliberately and strategically deployed. "- some archaeological findings seem to indicate that the Voss Mystics were more than mere myth. In fact, there is evidence to suggest that the Voss Mystics were very real. Emperor Palpatine certainly seemed to believe so. Among the aspects of his vast collection of occult artefacts and relics that we have been able to locate and recover since his death, are items and accounts that portray the Voss Mystics as having been instrumental during the Great Galactic War, expanding their prophetic capabilities to foretell the fate of the entire galaxy. The Emperor certainly believed that the evidence he had obtained constituted real proof that the Mystics existed, and went to significant lengths to keep such knowledge secret."

That statement was left to hang in the air. Even seven years after his demise at the Battle of Endor, speaking ill of Emperor Palpatine openly carried a certain stigma with it.

"Our task is to confirm the voracity of Emperor Palpatine's information, so that the Senate can make an informed decision regarding these revelations. Why us, you may be wondering?"

He gestured to the star map floating between them.

"Voss resides within the Tion Cluster. Though the ruling houses are still loyal to the Empire, they stand apart from us, an Imperial bastion within the territory of the Alliance of Free Planets. Roughly -" He glanced at the chrono on his wrist. "- three minutes ago, the Deliverance crossed the boarder into Free Planets space. Assuming we dodge any Alliance patrols that stand between the Empire and Tion, we will arrive within an hour. Once there, we will each have tasks to perform, to investigate the information that Palpatine once hoarded."

The General's mouth drew into a thin line.

"Perhaps it goes without saying, but we cannot allow the secrets of the Mystics to fall into the hands of the Alliance. Yet, we are but one ship, behind enemy lines, at least an hour from the nearest reinforcements." His eyes shifted to the younger of the two women. "Governor. I am led to believe by Senator Rübezahl that your dealings with the corporations on Loronar and Byblos might be beneficial in dealing with local interest groups. Tell me, how would you characterise your relationship with Santhe and Sienar?"

[Sophia Rübezahl]

"Healthy."

Sophia's answer came without hesitation, not from practice, but with a quiet certainty. The general's plan was taking shape, as was her place within it, confirming her private suspicions. It was an odd gathering of professionals, and aboard a military vessel, her own presence was more peculiar than most. She was, of course, no stranger to the military, but until now, her role had been ornamental at best. The Voss Mystics, she repeated to herself, and at once the old passion rekindled, but only for a second. She remembered herself, and more importantly, the company she kept: it would not do for the resident politician to become weak at the knees at the prospect of scrambling around ancient ruins, searching for the Shrine of Healing, or the Tower of Prophecy. There was a reason places like that existed in children's stories. She shrugged off her childish enthusiasm, and waded confidently into murkier waters.

"Loronar is a seat of Imperial business and commerce. I have cultivated relationships with each of the significant parties, including Achilles Sienar-Santhe, himself. The soil is fertile, so to speak. And there is opportunity on Voss, which can be exploited to our advantage."

[Anastasia Xivelle]

"But what help could they give if it came to that?"

The instant the question actually left her lips Anastasia firmly believed her lack of knowledge and expertise in such things would have been better left unsaid. She was not of a military mind, nor business. There was a connection The General was naturally aiming for, a confirmation that the Governor may have given, but it was illusive to the scientist. If she could un-speak, she would have.

The stories of the Voss Mystics were not utterly unfamiliar to her, but such as was the way of most tales of Force users, she had always taken them as grains of truth greatly exaggerated through spiritualism and time. Even the Shrine of Healing - a site that Anastasia could only begin to dream of the possibilities for - seemed little more than fantasy. Now though? With the emphasis The General placed upon it?

Her mouth ran dry as she attempted to better explain her reasoning, only a civilian of the government for which the others were representatives of, the outlier, the consultant, the specialist. But for what? What part did she and her research play here? Doctor Xivelle knew there was something, an importance she had not yet been made aware of, that much was certain. But in the meanwhile she felt as if she made a fool of herself, something she desperately sought to mend.

"There is a difference between willingness and ability. It's not as if they could deploy a fleet of their own creations to come when beckoned, could they?"

The Doctor cast a glance, not towards The General, but to his once-student. She could not say why it was she looked so readily to Commander Jibral for her answers, but if nothing else she didn't feel the same sense of intimidation as she did from the senior Force user.

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka saw and sensed the discomfort as Doctor Xivelle spoke, and was quick to offer a swift and gentle response, before anyone else had the opportunity to.

"Even at the best of times, the Tion Cluster is a disputed region. The borders have been redrawn too many times to count across the millennia, but under the Empire at least, the Cluster was split into three key sectors, more or less along political lines: the Cronese Mandate, the Tion Hegemony, and the Allied Tion Sector. Broadly speaking, the Cronese are aristocrats by virtue of material and mineral wealth, the Tionese are struggling socialists eeking out a living in the rubble of what remains of a once greater Tion Hegemony, who have skirmished and civil warred for as long as they possessed ships. The wealthy families of Allied Tion however, like Santhe and Sienar, are rich because of industry, exports, and their affinity for the Republic and the Empire. Those old alliances are the origin of their power and status, and the reciprocal loyalty runs deep."

The Commander hesitated, taking a moment to carefully ensure that his words remained an answer, rather than a lecture. It was a bad habit, he supposed, one he had acquired in the classrooms at the Citadel, helping to train and educate the next generation of Knights. He could feel the amusement and pride that came from Inyos, mirrored by mild annoyance within himself: he was turning into his Master, inheriting the General's propensity for being verbose rather than succinct, when it came to imparting knowledge. It had frustrated him immensely as a Padawan, and yet when Lúka had accepted his appointment as instructor, he had heard his Master's old words echo in his mind almost every lesson.

Do not ask a question, unless you are prepared to listen to the full answer.

"Under the Empire, Santhe has grown rich off Sienar's military contracts. Every TIE Fighter and heavy cruiser built anywhere in the galaxy lines Santhe's pockets with credits. While those contracts persist, the Tion Cluster's isolation separates those families from a significant portion of their wealth, and from the Imperials whose intimidating support would have held any political rivals at bay. If Santhe and Sienar had not already boasted a sizeable private armada - which they did - to safeguard their holdings and discourage rival houses from moving against them, paranoia would certainly have forced their hand. Anything produced by Sienar Fleet Systems since the signing of the Treaty until now has likely remained in the hands of Santhe, Sienar, or their allies; and were the Alliance to invade and provoke a war, they stand to lose far more than anyone else."

His eyes glanced momentarily to the General, and back to the Doctor. A small, covert smile was offered in her direction, obscured from the others at least in part by the distraction of the holographic projection that surrounded them.

[Inyos Aamoran]

With the Commander given the rare opportunity to provide the verbose weight of an explanation, the General was afforded the chance to underscore it with more succinct words of his own. They were not quite as soft or diplomatic as Commander Jibral's words had been, but they were certainly not harsh, and carried with them the fingerprint of the General's infinite patience and calm.

"In other words, Doctor Xivelle: could they? Perhaps not a fleet, but whatever forces they could deploy to Voss would surely be sufficient that any arrival by the Alliance would require an act of aggression, that would constitute an act of war. It is one thing for the Alliance to annex an undefended backwater on the fringes of the Tion Cluster; another thing entirely for them to carve their way through Sienar Fleet Systems to do so. Our hope is that Santhe and Sienar can provide us with enough of a deterrant to hold the Alliance at bay until reinforcements from the Empire could feasibly arrive. If not?"

His attention shifted, abandoning the Doctor in favour of the uniformed officer opposite, silently observing for the briefing thus far.

"If it comes down to it, Lieutenant, I trust that you and your men can manage to safeguard an archaeological site from a few unruly rebels -"

The General's eyes expanded their gaze, a subtle gesture that encompassed himself, the Commander, and the Cadet.

"- with a little assistance, of course."

[Jeryd Redsun]

"Dorn Company is ready and able." Jeryd fired up at once, "And we excel at pest control. Just say the word, sir."

The words had taken shape not in his head, not on his lips, but from within his chest. Had he held his tongue another moment, they would have certainly punched holes through his rib cage just to make themselves known. It didn't take much to ignite his zeal, but the general had done something that spoke deeply to Jeryd's Imperial heart, vindicating his beliefs, and, in one effortless gesture, swept aside any scrap of legitimacy to which the Alliance laid claim. He hadn't called them soldiers, he hadn't called them an army, he'd called them 'rebels,' because that was all they were. With one word, this strange commanding... Force wizard had earned for himself no small measure of affection from the young patriot.

As for the others? He wasn't so sure. It was a briefing, as typical as any other, he supposed, but the nature of the company somehow managed to change the focus of the mission, or at least coloured it in shades of mysticism and fantasy that were at odds with his own traditional palette. Towers of Prophecy? Shrines of Healing? Those were the fancies of story-tellers and priests, and not for a soldier's ears. Perhaps he was being unfair to his less conventional comrades in the room, but they brought it upon themselves.

From a tactical standpoint, the rest was fascinating to say the least. How Sophia Rübezahl fitted into the puzzle was a mystery that haunted Wyll and Jeryd, both. When the general revealed her place in his machinations, it was impossible to not be impressed. It was a smart tactical move, pulling on the strings of Santhe and Sienar through her, to corner the Alliance into self-destruction. They had an hour, he said. No time to waste, then.

"By your leave, sir, I would like to brief my men."

[Inyos Aamoran]

The General offered the Lieutenant a curt nod.

"Keep it brief," he acknowledged, and despite the gravity of the situation, a small smile - aimed at his former apprentice - tugged at the corner of his mouth in recognition of the dubious humour. It faded, but didn't entirely disappear, just present enough to soften the harshness of his stoic features, transforming him for a moment from the Imperial General into the Jedi Master that Lúka Jibral had long known.

Inyos reached behind him, extending the Force towards the base unit from which he had activated his holoprojected map. A small bead, floating atop a small note on the unit, hurtled free and into Inyos' waiting hand. As the projection died, and the room dimmed, the bead was tucked into the pocket of the General's uniform, and a moment was taken to smooth the front of the unimaginatively designed garments. The action seemed to fracture the illusion of Jedihood that had briefly descended, a stark reminder of their circumstances, and of the government they all served. The mask of the General settled into place once more.

"As I said, we do not have much time. You each have an hour: spend it wisely."

The hand reached for the desk once more, the waiting lightsaber hurling itself across the distance, caught and then attached to the General's belt. His eyes sought out Commander Jibral.

"If you have need of me, I will be on the bridge. Dismissed."


* * *

[Jensen Par'Vizal]

Cadet Par'Vizal watched as the others departed the room; first The General, next the Lieutenant - clearly eager to get on with his own tasks - followed by the two women. It was worth noting, and caused the apprentice's eyes to narrow just in the slightest, in how the Doctor cast one last appreciative glance towards Jensen's mentor. The student didn't dare follow that thinly veiled calling of Lorelei to see how the teacher reacted; the fact it occurred alone shameful enough for the two of them. Perhaps the Cadet was reading too much into the action, perhaps it was meant as a simple gesture of gratitude for earlier enlightenment, or maybe it was nothing more than a glance back to two subjects - the elder in particular, closest to the Doctor's age - whose lives were so entwined in the things she studied. That was his burden, however, to attempt to decipher the knowledge that others could grasp so readily, the struggle was probably to blame for why the Cadet always seemed to follow the assumption that painted others in the worst light. Not an admirable trait, though sadly one that more often proved itself correct rather than lacking. Such was the way of sentient creatures, always letting you down unless you had no positive expectations in the first place.

He waited for Master Jibral to make the first movement and smoothly took step behind at first, and then at his mentor's side as they left the Tactical Suite empty once more. The Cadet considered holding his tongue of the question that continued to ask itself over and over again in his mind. It would do no good, however. The tumult it caused would be easily sensed and if anything he would simply be called out on that as opposed to simply asking and resolving them both of it.

"Voss," Jensen broached the subject. "A rather dangerous expedition, I see The General is taking no chances. I would never have thought of bringing in Governor Rübezahl, I had wondered at her presence here but now..."

His head nodded, just slightly as in agreement with himself as he left the understanding unsaid, the implication of his oft-spoken words of needing to learn more not needing voice at this time. It wasn't the question needing answering after all, though he had needed to speak that he wasn't entirely incapable of such comprehension, otherwise his next words might seem overly impertinent. Perhaps they still were anyway.

"I just wish I could comprehend why it is that The General sought to bring Doctor Xivelle here, to involve her in such a task. What purpose does she serve here?"