Aftermath: Empire's End (Star Wars: Aftermath #3)(78)

Tonight they move beyond the collection of relics. Tonight they attack. Not just here. The strikes will take place across the galaxy. This is the first attack, and as such it is a small one: In various systems, the Acolytes have gathered on different worlds to slaughter enclaves and outposts of the New Republic. They do not have the number or the power to achieve bigger, not yet. But they will. This is just the start.

And Kiza is afraid.

She doesn’t know if this is who she is.

She doesn’t know if she’s as strong as Remi.

She doesn’t know if the visions she’s experienced were even real.

Kiza thinks, If I go ahead with it, if I go on this attack, I’ll just stay in the background. I’ll make it look like I’m doing something. Like I’m participating. Maybe I’ll hit somebody. Or throw a detonator and blow up a shuttle. The anger she’s felt for so long curdles and goes sour. It turns to fear. Puzzlingly, it is that fear of which she is afraid. If she runs—if she seizes the fear and lets it guide her—they’ll come for her. Remi won’t let her escape. He’ll find her tonight. Or in a week. Or in a year. Remi does not tolerate things that disappoint him.

As she works diligently to still her heart—a new shadow joins them. This shadow, blacker than all the others.

It is their master. It is Yupe Tashu.

The Acolytes bow to him. They gabble their glee at seeing him again after so long. He is not their only master. He is one of many (though their living masters number far fewer than their dead ones), but he is the closest they have to the Sith Empire created around Sidious and Vader. They paw at him, and he adores it, his crevasse-lined face tilting back with pleasure.

Kiza does not join them. She’s too afraid to do anything, even to move. It’s as if she’s a stack of little rocks and if she moves, all of who she is will crumble apart and collapse.

Tashu begins giving them their weapons. They were to wait for him here. He says they are special. They receive artifacts and relics from the ancient departed Sith. To some, he hands dark robes. To others, he gives glowing red crystals around gut-leather cords.

Then he turns to Kiza.

He hands her a mask.

The mask is burnished bronze. The smooth metal is peppered with tiny, hammered divots. The eyes are black glass. There is no nose or mouth—though where the mouth should be is a line of black rivets.

“The mask of Viceroy Exim Panshard,” he says, giggling. “A mask made of meteoric metal and containing the screams of a hundred innocents slaughtered for the viceroy’s pleasure. Masks have power. Some are worn in the grave. Others worn in life. This, like the others in my collection, has gathered the darkness of the living Force! Wear it. You are anointed, Kiza of Corellia.”

“I…”

The others stare at her. Some, in awe. Others balefully.

Remi’s gaze is poisonous. He says, suddenly: “I should have that.” And he reaches for the mask—

Tashu snaps at him. Literally. His mouth opens and closes on open air, the half-broken teeth clacking together as Remi’s hand recoils. “You do not deny the wishes of the venerable specters,” Tashu hisses.

“I…”

“Also, the lady needs a weapon. Does she not?” Tashu’s eyes twinkle with a special kind of madness as he reaches down and snatches the lightsaber hilt from Remi’s belt. He places it gingerly in her hand.

It throbs with power. She knows not to turn it on—not yet. Its red glow could give them away. But its potential thrums against her palm. And as she lifts her chin and lets the mask rest upon her face, she feels a wonderful darkness sweep over her. It is a consumptive void and with great hunger it chews into her fear and swallows it in great, greedy gobbets. With the fear gone, her anger emerges anew. It springs forth like a living thing inside her. A vicious creature hatches within her heart.

Time moves strangely. She blinks and it has begun. She’s there, now, at the outpost. I’m not alone, she thinks. The others are here. They have their mundane weapons: clubs and machine shop blades and ugly chop-axes, all painted the red of blood, the red of Sith. Republic fools scream and flee. One comes toward her and the red blade extends from its hilt in her hand—she can feel its vibration up through her elbow, all the way across the bridge of her shoulders and into her very teeth. A swipe of the blade cuts one scream short. Another takes the legs out from under a fleeing woman. Hate pulses in her. Her heart beats so hard, it feels as if it’ll shatter her breastbone in twain.

Kiza moves with little precision. She swings and swipes with the blade. The Force does not move through her, but the weapon is still unlike anything else she’s ever seen—it cuts through flesh, bone, metal. The light leaves streaks of itself burning across her vision. It thrills her.

Then she’s down. Something slams into her. Her head snaps against the ground. New Republic scum! Anger not entirely her own threads up through her like braiding vines, and as she rolls over she sees it’s not a Republic soldier at all.

It’s Remi.

His face is pale and struck with fury. As he yells at her, spit flecks from his mouth. “You aren’t worthy. That’s mine. Everything you have been given, I gave you! You weak stripling! You coward! You thief.”

Her hand is empty. The lightsaber hilt is gone. She paws at the ground, kicking at him with clumsy feet as he descends upon her. Remi’s long-fingered hands find her neck and close around it. He’s weeping and laughing as his grip tightens. She gags trying to get air. Her own hand bats at the wet grass, finding no lightsaber. Above them is the darkness of the outpost landing platform, and she hears the screams and yells of the Acolytes and their victims. Someone falls off the edge and lands nearby—thud.