He stepped from the spiral staircase and onto the fourth-story landing, then pushed open the door to the second floor of the Archives. He was relieved to see there was nobody else around; he wanted to do his research in private.
Passing through the tightly packed stacks of data disks, he took a seat at one of the holo-terminals. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was looking for, so he simply entered Meetra’s name into the index.
Several entries came up, including an official report on Malachor V compiled by one of the Jedi Archivists. He made a mental note of the reference number, retrieved the data disk from its shelf, and inserted it into the terminal.
He spent the next few minutes reviewing the report, but failed to come across anything he didn’t already know. Malachor V had been a trap, a ploy to lure the Mandalorian fleet in close enough to the planet to unleash the mass-shadow generator—an experimental superweapon that would draw upon the gravitational anomalies unique to the Malachor system to instantaneously destroy every ship orbiting the planet.
Revan split his fleet in two, giving command of one half to Meetra. While he led his forces against Mandalore’s flagship, he ordered his most trusted general to use her fleet as bait to lure the bulk of the Mandalorian ships within range of the mass-shadow generator.
The Mandalorians had taken the bait, and once they were in range Meetra gave the order to engage the mass-shadow generator. The atmosphere exploded in a flash of fire, leaving only ash behind. Everything on Malachor’s surface—every plant and tree, every animal and insect—was instantly vaporized by the intense heat. The ground cracked and heaved, leaving deep scars across the blasted landscape.
At the same time hundreds of ships, Republic and Mandalorian alike, were yanked from orbit by the creation of an irresistible gravity vortex at the planet’s core. They crashed into the surface of the world, striking with such velocity that their hulls actually penetrated several kilometers into the ground, burying the twisted wreckage and broken bodies. Tens of thousands of lives were snuffed out in a fraction of a second.
Revan’s and Meetra’s ships had both been safely beyond the range of the superweapon, though whether that was by luck or design Revan honestly couldn’t say.
His memories of that time were gone, and looking back on his actions, he couldn’t fully explain or justify them. Had he known what was going to happen, willingly sacrificing thousands of his own followers to achieve ultimate victory over the Mandalorians? Or had something in the plan gone horribly wrong?
The report wasn’t so ambiguous: it claimed Revan and Meetra both knew what would happen. It declared them criminals of war and mass murderers. The author of the report speculated that Malachor V was proof that even then Revan had already embraced the ways of the dark side.
But Revan wasn’t interested in the opinions of some anonymous Jedi Archivist; he only cared for the facts … particularly what happened to Meetra after the battle. And here the report was severely lacking.
All he could glean was that she had returned of her own free will to face the Council, which summarily banished her from the Jedi Order and Republic space.
“I should have guessed it was you.”
The voice came from behind, sharp with indignation.
Revan rose from his chair and turned to face the speaker. She wore the traditional robes of a Jedi Archivist, though Revan knew she was in fact a Jedi Master. She was young for the position, about Bastila’s age, but her hair was platinum white. She had cold blue eyes, and a pale complexion that spoke of a life spent inside the Archives, well sheltered from the rays of the sun.
“Atris,” Revan said with a nod and a forced smile, silently cursing.
Once a close friend of Meetra’s, Atris had refused to join those who had gone to battle the Mandalorians. A staunch traditionalist, she had shared the unfavorable opinion of Revan common to the older, more conservative Masters. Of all the people who could have interrupted his search, he could think of few he wanted to encounter less.
“Still trying to recapture your lost memories?” she asked a little too smugly, and Revan understood that her arrival was no accident.
Atris must have tagged the report he’d been reading so it would alert her whenever it was referenced. There were no rules or regulations against this kind of security feature, but it was rarely done. As a rule, those who served the Council of First Knowledge respected the right to personal privacy of Jedi visiting the Temple Archives.
Yet even though Revan had sought to keep his investigations private, he had done nothing wrong. And he still needed answers.
“This report seems to skim over some of the relevant details,” he said. “Shoddy work,” he added on a sudden hunch.
He saw Atris bristle and he knew he’d guessed right: not only had she tagged the report, she’d also prepared it.
“Maybe you just can’t see the obvious truth in front of you,” she snapped.
Revan smiled. Despite all the Jedi teachings about peace and serenity, he’d always had a knack for riling up overly sanctimonious members of the Order like Atris.
“Guess I just need your great wisdom to help me understand what I’m missing.”
“What makes you think I would do anything to help you?”
“I’m still a Jedi, and Meetra’s sentence is a matter of record,” he reminded her, suddenly serious. “I have a right to know the truth of what happened. All of it.”
“What more is there to tell? She made the mistake of following you. You led her down the path to the dark side. She committed an unforgivable act, and for this the Council banished her.”
“It was a desperate act during a desperate time,” Revan said. “And the mass-shadow generator was an experimental prototype. How could the Council be sure Meetra even knew what would happen? What if it was all a mistake? A terrible accident?”
“The mass-shadow generator was a weapon of war,” Atris replied with a cool, rational calm. “Its sole purpose was death and destruction, and she gave the order to activate it. How is that an accident?”
“But she obviously regretted her actions, and she surrendered voluntarily to the Council. Why wouldn’t they show her mercy?”
“They needed to make an example of her.” Atris made no effort to hide the bitterness in her voice. “She became a symbol for all those who had defied the will of the Council. Mercy was not an option.”
“It can’t be that simple,” Revan pressed. “My crimes were far worse, yet the Council gave me a second chance.”
“You could still be of use to us.”
Revan sensed there was something she wasn’t saying. “What does that mean? Meetra was a powerful Jedi. Why didn’t the Council try to redeem her?”
The archivist shook her head in disbelief. “You really have no idea what you did to her, do you?”
“No, I don’t,” Revan snapped, allowing his frustration to bubble over. “My memory has more holes in it than a Kaminoan sponge. So why don’t you just tell me?”
Atris bit her lower lip and glared at him. Then, perhaps realizing that answering his questions was the quickest way to get him to leave, she began to speak.
“Meetra was much closer to the mass-shadow generator than you were. She felt the shock wave; it nearly killed her. Left her vulnerable. At the same time, she felt the deaths of the Mandalorians and her fellow soldiers through the Force. It was all too much to bear in her weakened state. It would have killed her.” She paused for emphasis, before continuing. “Instinctively, she protected herself the only way she knew how. She cut herself off from the Force … permanently.”
“I’m sorry,” Revan said sincerely. “I had no idea.”
“Really?” Atris replied angrily. “Then why did you and Malak leave her behind when you went into the Unknown Regions? You realized she was of no further use to you, and you abandoned her. That’s why she came back to the Order to face judgment.”
“I didn’t see that in your report. Is that fact, or just speculation?”
<
br /> Her refusal to speak was reply enough.
“Even if what you say is true,” Revan continued, “I’m not the same man anymore. Is it right to still hold me accountable for those crimes?”
“A chalarax can’t change its spots,” she muttered under her breath.
Revan was too busy trying to process all he had learned to react to her comment. If Meetra was cut off from the Force, that would explain why he hadn’t been able to sense her presence. That meant she could still be alive somewhere; she might still know something that could help him understand the meaning of his vision.
“Do you know where she went?” he asked. “I need to speak with her.”
“Haven’t you done enough already?” Atris demanded. “It’s your fault she defied the Council and betrayed the Order. It’s your fault she fell to the dark side and was branded the Exile. It’s your fault she cut herself off from the Force. For a Jedi, that’s a fate worse than death!”
“I’ve come closer to death than most,” Revan countered, “and I can assure you that’s not true.”
Atris snorted in contempt. “That is the difference between us. I live for the Force. You live for yourself.”
Revan shrugged, knowing a philosophical argument wasn’t going to get him any closer to finding Meetra. “Whatever you think of me,” he said, “I did not compel Meetra into any of this. She made her own choices. And it should be her decision now if she wants to speak to me again, not yours. If you know where she is, you have to tell me.”
“I haven’t spoken to her since her trial,” Atris answered through gritted teeth, and Revan knew she was telling the truth. “I do not know where she went, and I hope I never see her again. The Exile betrayed the Order, as did you.
“You’re not welcome here. Go back home to your wife.” Atris spoke the last word with such venom, she nearly choked on it.
“Uh, uh, uh,” Revan said, wagging his finger at her. “There is no emotion; there is peace.”
Her lip curled up in a snarl and she spun on her heel and stormed out of the room. Revan waited until the sound of her feet on the stairs faded, then sat slowly back down in the chair.
With Atris gone, he could let his sarcastic mask slip. Despite what he’d said to her, he couldn’t help but feel responsible for Meetra. He’d refused to give Atris the satisfaction of seeing his guilt and grief, but now that he was alone, the emotions came flooding to the surface. Most of his specific memories of Meetra were gone; he could recall only disjointed bits and pieces. But she had once been one of his closest friends, and he still felt a powerful emotional connection to her.
Slumping forward, he buried his face in his hands. He expected tears to follow, but that didn’t happen. Instead, he just felt a hollow, numbing sorrow. After several minutes, he took a deep breath to collect himself and rose to his feet. Then he headed out the Archives door and down the stairs.
He’d come to the Temple in search of an old friend and confidante, hoping she could help him understand the dreams that plagued his nights. Instead he’d found a dead end and learned the grim truth about the one they called the Exile.
“No wonder I never come here anymore,” he grumbled under his breath as he made his way across the courtyard and headed for the exit.
CHAPTER SIX
A WEEK HAD PASSED since the mission on Hallion. Daily doses of kolto had healed Scourge’s wounds; even his cracked ribs were fully mended. But his pride and confidence were still wounded. The mission had been a success, but things had gone a lot less smoothly than he would have liked. No doubt Sechel’s report to Nyriss would paint each of his mistakes in the most garish tone.
He was desperate to find some way to vent his frustrations, and today he had finally felt well enough to visit the stronghold’s exercise yard for a much-needed workout. He rarely went more than two or three days without practicing his drills, knowing that his continued survival would often depend on his martial expertise.
Though there were others in the yard, none was a worthy sparring partner. He would gain little from testing himself against any of Murtog’s soldiers. Even the guard captain himself wouldn’t present any real challenge to a fully trained Sith Lord.
Instead he performed a complex routine of drills designed to hone his reflexes, all while wearing his heavy armor. His crimson blade hummed as he cycled through the aggressive thrusts and cuts of Juyo, the seventh form of lightsaber combat. The weapon moved so fast that it was nothing but a blur, but each strike was precise and controlled.
In the middle of his routine he noticed that Nyriss’s young Twi’lek slave had entered the yard. She stood patiently off to one side, her head bowed respectfully.
Scourge put an abrupt end to the session, knowing she would be here only if Nyriss had sent her. He flicked his lightsaber off and clipped it to his belt before crossing the yard to her.
“Darth Nyriss wishes to speak to you,” the Twi’lek said softly, keeping her eyes focused on the ground.
“Will Sechel be there?” he demanded.
“I do not know, my lord,” she replied.
Scourge frowned. He had not seen or spoken with Sechel since their return.
“Take me to Nyriss.”
The slave nodded, then turned and set off. Scourge fell into step behind her.
He’d sought Sechel out several times over the past week, but the aide always seemed to be off on some task or assignment. It could have been coincidence, but it was also possible Sechel was avoiding him.
If that was the case, Scourge might know why. During his recovery, he’d had plenty of time to think back on the mission. Rehashing it in his head had brought several inconsistencies to light—things Sechel might not want to discuss with Scourge face-to-face.
The slave was leading him through the east wing of the stronghold. She was moving quickly ahead of him, but with his long legs Scourge had little trouble keeping up. As he walked, he continued to mull over the issue of Sechel.
At the time he’d credited the aide with saving his life by shutting down the manufacturing plant’s power grid and disabling the security droids. Now he wondered if that had been an accident. The more he thought about it, the more the evidence seemed to indicate that Sechel hadn’t wanted him to survive the mission.
Sechel had obviously needed Scourge’s help to get past the drones and the fence outside the plant. And he’d needed Scourge to hold off security long enough for him to slice into UDM’s computer network. But after that, Scourge became expendable. Once the droids were deactivated, Sechel no longer needed the Sith Lord to protect him.
What at first sounded like a paranoid fantasy became more and more plausible as Scourge recalled specific details of the mission. He had no way of knowing how long it had taken Sechel to slice into the network, but he’d likely found the files he was looking for in the first few minutes. Looking back, it seemed as if he could have shut down the power grid much sooner than he had.
What if Sechel had waited as long as possible before deactivating the droids, hoping they would have enough time to kill Scourge? From the records room, Sechel couldn’t have seen what was happening out on the manufacturing floor. He’d probably assumed Scourge was already dead by the time he shut everything down.
That would also explain why Sechel hadn’t bothered to contact him with a warning that the plant was about to explode. He’d only mentioned the reactors because Scourge called him on the holocomm after everything went dark. If Scourge hadn’t initiated the holocall, Sechel might have slipped away in the darkness alone.
Sechel’s early assurances that UDM didn’t have assault droids were also suspect. The units Scourge had encountered could have been experimental prototypes, as Sechel had claimed, but it was also possible he’d known about them all along and hadn’t said anything, hoping Scourge would be caught off guard by their arrival.
Three pieces of circumstantial evidence—a possible delay in shutting down the droids, Sechel not contacting him to warn about the impending explos
ion, and the unexpected presence of the assault droids—weren’t enough for Scourge to be certain of anything. Yet the fact that Sechel now seemed to be avoiding him further strengthened the Sith Lord’s desire to question him in a very long, very private session. Unfortunately, that talk would have to wait. Sechel still enjoyed Nyriss’s protection, and Scourge wasn’t willing to risk the Dark Councilor’s wrath by interrogating him. Not yet, at least.
They had reached the door to Nyriss’s private chamber. Scourge briefly considered whether he should say something about his suspicions to her, then decided against it. Sechel was an expert at political maneuvering; if he was guilty, involving Nyriss would only work in the adviser’s favor. Better to confront him directly when the time was right.
The Twi’lek slave knocked lightly on the door, and Nyriss’s voice called out, “Enter!” from the other side.
Once again, Nyriss sat at the computer console in the center of the room. As she rose from her chair and turned to face Scourge, the slave closed the door, sealing the three of them alone in the room.
“I was given word you have recovered from your injuries,” Nyriss said.
“Nothing serious, my lord,” Scourge replied.
“You seem to have a habit of getting wounded in my service.”
“I was surprised by the assault droids.”
“And I’m surprised they gave you so much trouble.”
Scourge remained silent.
Nyriss stretched her dry, cracked lips into an unsettling grin that seemed to fill the entire lower half of her wrinkled face. Scourge endured the rictus without comment until it mercifully faded.
“I find it odd that someone with your reputation would be hard-pressed to defeat a single assault droid and a few patrol drones, yet you dispatched my mercenaries with ease.”
Star Wars: The Old Republic: Revan Page 7
