Dawn of Forever, Part XIX

Kilana had come into the world, and everything was wrong. The memories were incomplete; the galaxy was not what the implanted memories in her cloned brain -the basic programming of her Vorta mind- said they should be. No Founder waited to greet her, instead there were lesser creatures, with lies. And they tricked her into serving as entertainment in a Ferengi pit, where she was an unwitting slave. In that hellhole, she saw the worst in people.

Now she was in a firefight with Vong, and she saw the worst in people. They were the yellow, pink, and green tubules that jiggle about when the body splits open.

Built into the Vorta form the Founders had developed from her monkey ancestors was the same desire for order that they pursued. The Vorta believed in the chain of command, and their place in it. Kilana was attracted towards Han Solo because of this; not physically attracted, but a natural gravitation. He was at times a disorganized, improvising rogue, but he led people when the moment struck more naturally than most people Kilana had ever met. As Han shouted over the sound of battle for her and the shrinking group of rebel agents to hold the advancing Vong warriors off while he diverted the civilians out of harm's way, no one questioned him, least of all Kilana. She took up position behind a duracrete barrier, snapped off two quick shots, then examined the situation. It was a quick yet orderly look, because that was how a Vorta thought. They needed a distraction. She stepped out around the barrier and made one.

Kilana had seen this same thing in Sebastian; actually, it went beyond. It was a difficult thing to describe. When it came to dangerous situations, a natural leader like Han knew how to organize people and make it happen. Sebastian had done that. But more than that, when he told you his orders, there was like an undertone to it. It said, "This has to be done, and you have to do it. We're all counting on you to do it, but it's all right because I know you can." It spoke to the best in people. There was no confusion as to why a surly revolutionary Klingon would give it up to fight beside him; despite her genetic programming to serve the Founders, it had even overcome her in the end.

A quick intake of air, deep concentration, and the kinetic energy rose up out of her chest, then shot forward, slamming into Vong and knocking several off their feet. Kilana ducked back behind the shield as thud bugs peppered the air where she'd been.

Sebastian hadn't been the best of Jedi; even Kilana knew this. He was the best when it came to going against Vong, but that was mostly due to experience with their fighting techniques from when he'd been brainwashed. But in a match-up against another Jedi or a Sith, there was no guarantee that he could come out on top. Even if that telepathic attack hadn't incapacitated him, Sebastian wouldn't have had any more success against the Sith warrior than Gorren had. And that was the amazing thing.

The rebel forces took advantage of the distraction, putting blaster bolts into exposed areas of flesh, thinning the Vong numbers. But they were still coming; they were losing to Borda's actual army, but those here were willing to take as many of the "inferior" beings here with them before they died.

The odds that, of all the women in that Ferengi club, it would be Kilana in that room that Sebastian broke into were so low it scarcely bore thinking about. Yet, Kilana knew that of them all, she was probably the only one who could make something of herself. That wasn't egoticism; she knew the girls, and even the slaves had succumbed to drugs as a mental escape from the daily indignities of service. If any of them escaped, it wouldn't even be a month before they'd wind up back in some other club doing the same thing, just to get their next fix. Sebastian had told her, though, that things don't happen by accident. They were meant to find that room, with her in it, and free her from the life of degradation she'd been tricked into. Kilana had liked that idea; it appealed to her desire for order to think that there was something out there that worked things out.

"Han," Kilana shouted, "there's too many of them! We can't hold them off!"

But it wasn't until later that Kilana had allowed herself to look at this with open eyes. Sure, a positive result had come of it, but how many negative events had been necessary to bring it about? The Borg turned the tide of the war, but there was so much that had conspired to make it happen. The Lythian attack that had impaired Sebastian's mind. The Klingon stepping in to face the Sith -and certain death- just to buy them a few minutes. The murder of Sebastian's wife and unborn child. The infection that threatened Annika Hansen Skywalker and millions of others. The murder of that Jedi and that same Annika's capture by the Sith (whom Han and Kilana still hadn't been able to track down). It seemed the success was built on a pile of broken bodies and tragedies. No doubt things would have been far worse if the Borg had not been there to intervene; the Empire would have suffered a mortal blow and it was doubtful anyone could stop the Vong from rolling through the galaxies. But it seemed those victories were coming only with a bitter price.

The Vong were up close and personal now. Amphistafs swung, severing limbs and heads or slashing deep. Screams filled the area as Kilana backed away, firing her pistol in the hopes of putting them down. Han came back around the corner, blaster at the ready. A Vong saw him and swung. Old instincts must have kicked in, because despite the fact it was at heart-height Han managed to drop underneath it. As the swing passed overhead he quickly straightened, shoved his blaster into the scarred face of the Vong, and pulled the trigger; the towering alien crumpled. Han assessed the situation and cursed under his breath as he grabbed Kilana's arm. "It's too late; let's go." Kilana knew it had to be true; even if it was a long shot of saving even one of the rebel agents, Han would have gone for it, would at least have tried to get his people out. But he knew, just like Kilana did, those people didn't have a chance... but the civilians that had been rushed off did. Their lives could be saved, by standing on the bodies of the fallen.

It had been a mental leap for Kilana. For her, "order" was by definition "good." The absence of order was chaos, and in chaos was the potential for harm, for the unpredictable that threatened life and limb. But over time, of reading about some of the things the Empire, the Borg, even the Dominion had done to impose order, it had finally sunk in that that which is done to further order does not, in fact, become good. And if that was so, then maybe the guiding influence of the Force was flawed as well. How can there be good if it requires evil things to happen?

"Where are the others?" one of the huddled masses asked. Terror was written on every feature, some more than others, but those that tried to hide it weren't able to fully disguise it.

"We're going in the sub-levels," Han said without answering. "Move it!"

"They're dead, aren't they?" someone said before wailing went up.

"No," Han lied, but his voice was full of command, so that even Kilana wasn't sure he wasn't telling the truth. "But if they do, it's to save you, so make those lives count for something and go! We've got the entrance; we'll protect you." And when Han said it, it was impossible not to believe it. Still despairing but at least somewhat trusting, the people herded down the stairs of the interior; Han sealed the door behind him. "Don't make a liar out of me, Kilana," he said.

Sebastian had explained once about a Klingon's relationship with fear, in an effort to get her to understand his companion better. Even a Klingon, who would charge head-first into certain death, held fear. It was necessary, something they recognized. Because, he said, there cannot be courage without it. A person without fear isn't brave, he's a machine. Kilana had taken that view to its natural conclusions. Absolute order without chaos wouldn't be right, it would just be everyone following pre-programmed rules. And good without the ability to choose to do evil has no moral basis, any more than a machine dispensing medicines is morally good. So maybe the Force wasn't choosing evil to happen to people... maybe it was pitting the evils off against each other so that good would come of it despite their best efforts? Anything more would be taking away that will, taking away that ability to choose to be good rather than being-

Rather than being programmed to?

Han and Kilana took up stations around the exposed doorway of the building. It would provide cover enough for the thud bugs, but whether they could stop the Vong completely was another matter. But they'd try, they had to... no, they wanted to. Fortunately, as the Vong came into the clearing approaching the building, there was the scream of a rebel gunship. Its weapons blazed at the Vong warriors even as rebel soldiers rappelled down to the ground. Most were engaging the withdrawing Vong forces, although a handful trotted towards their momentary shelter. The leader gave Han a salute. "The bulk of the Vong force has been routed," he said. "We're here to help with the mop-up."

"Glad to hear it," Han said, shaking his hand. "If you've got things in hand, I've got a lot of frightened people to deal with." The leader turned to give out orders while Han turned back to unseal the door. Kilana couldn't believe it; a few minutes sooner, and those rebel agents could have been saved. But then again, the few minutes their lives bought had made the difference. Was what happened right or wrong? Kilana gave up. It was easier to deal with life if she stopped trying to guess at these things and just did her part to make the right choices.

Alema Rar settled the shuttle to come in for the landing. The Oracle had meditated ever since they'd left Calrissian and Garak behind, leaving her effectively alone. Now her master sat in the co-pilot chair, observing the approaching planet. "It upset you that I used you as an example against Calrissian."

There were no secrets from the Oracle. "Yes, master."

"There were three lessons involved in that affair, only one of which was for our penny-counting friend. Do you know what they are?"

"To know my place," Alema said, although it chafed her to say the words.

"Yes," the Oracle said. "And the other?"

"I do not know, master."

"Pain, child. Pain leads to anger and hatred. These are powerful tools. You can use them to become stronger, or you can let them blind you. You could direct your anger at your pain and humiliation at me, or you can let it stew within you, letting you grasp more and more of the powers the Dark side has to offer you. It's the important balance the Sith must strike. Passion is our strength, but slavery to our passions is slavery nonetheless. We must exercise patience, so that we do not do anything before it is time."

"Yes, master," Alema said. She gently dropped the ship into the docking bay.

The Oracle nodded. "Inform the students that I want them to be present outside my laboratory for an announcement," she said. "Oh, and bring Seven, I'm sure she'd like to see this."

Alema left to carry out her tasks. The Oracle took a moment before exiting the ship. She found Ben looking over records. "Come with me," she ordered, and began leading him through the facility.

"I assume all went as you foresaw," Ben said.

"Our work with Garak should soon bear fruit. Despite the setbacks we should be able to bring the Empire to its knees."

"Very good, master."

"Anything to report?"

"No, master," Ben said. "It's quiet."

"Only for those who refuse to listen," she said, leading the way into her lab. "Things seem just as I left them," the Oracle remarked, her back towards Ben. Without any warning, he felt like someone had slipped a noose around his throat and was crushing him. "But things are not what they seem." Ben was choking for air as he was hoisted off the floor by his neck, grasping feebly at the nothing. "I have just one question for you, my former apprentice," the Oracle said as she slowly turned. Her eyes were gone, replaced by emptiness, with lightning crackling around and through them. "Did you actually think that I could be deceived?"

Annika didn't say anything when Alema grabbed her and pulled her amongst the Sith. Was this it, then? Had the captain finally decided she was of no further use? All such thoughts vanished at the sound of fierce pounding against the metallic wall of the Oracle's lab. There was only a moment to speculate on the cause before the wall ruptured under the impact of Ben's body. He continued his shallow arc until he hit the rock wall, bounced off, and dropped to the floor in a heap.

The Oracle was gliding through the opening, slowly, like the approach of a storm. All eyes, even Annika's, were glued to her hovering form. "I tire of your petty jealousy," she said, her voice echoing far more than the cave should have allowed. "Your glory is behind you, Skywalker; your deeds of late are peppered with one failure after another. And yet your arrogance persists." She touched down on the cavern floor. "I would have thought that you'd learn some humility by now."

Ben pulled himself to his feet. There was blood on his lips; he touched it, looked at the crimson fluid, then up at the Oracle. Annika didn't have to have Force powers to see the rumblings under the surface. Ben had had enough. When a Sith got this way they would charge into a meat grinder without thought of the consequences; the rage was all that mattered. With deliberate movements he reached to his belt and pulled out two lightsabers; their red beams offered a chilling tint to the hatred on his face.

The Oracle reached deep into her cloak and pulled out- Annika blinked. It was a sword. It was almost a meter long, polished black, with a slightly curved edge in front and nasty looking arcs on the back. There was no elegance to it, but somehow just the sight of it sent shivers up Annika's spine. The Oracle held it as if it were light as a feather, then spun the sword once and plunged it tip-first into the floor before her as if the rock had been replaced by foam. The sword rocked slightly as she reached up with both hands, undid the clasp of her cloak, and dropped it off her shoulders. She was clad in a red and black suit underneath that had the vaguest bit of familiarity to it for Annika, until she pieced it together. It wasn't exact, wasn't even close, but if you looked at it with a skewed perspective it was clear that this was some sickening morph of a Starfleet uniform. The red was the color of spilled blood, the black that of the darkest corner of the human soul. Like the Oracle, it was unrecognizable in the wake of its transformation.

Time was written across her features, but as she stood there, she looked as strong and lithe as Ben did on his best day. Her hair was pure white, draped down her back in five long, thick braids, bound in metal clasps. Her face was lined, but it only seemed to give her an expression of granite. Her hands, far from being the brittle digits expected, instead looked capable of choking the life from her adversary without need of the Force.

The Oracle grabbed the sword handle and yanked it from the rock without effort. Ancient technology, tempered with dark Force energies to give it almost supernatural abilities of hardness and sharpness. It could stop a lightsaber just like an amphistaf, except the connection to its maker, its master, was far greater than that primitive symbiosis.

The Oracle held her head high. "You want to usurp me, Skywalker? Then try. But if you raise that weapon against me it won't end until one of use is dead."

Ben took a deep breath, but he seemed to be trembling with the pent of anger of his many humiliations. "Good," was all he said, and then attacked.

Go To Part XX
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