By Her Will

[Rugs]

Something shook in the citadel courtyard, far below the command center. Distant thunder, drawing nearer with every passing minute. Karn struggled against his restraints but found no give, no purchase to even attempt to slip a wrist and hand free — at least, not without the Force’s aid. He remained calm, affixing this Alistair Sampson fellow with a stare that seemed for all the world to be looking down on him, though the opposite was true. Let the rebel think he held Karn prisoner. The Arkanian was capable of more through the Force than this backwater bumpkin could begin to imagine. If only his head wasn’t so foggy, throbbing and aching

“Do you think I’m going to beg for my life, rebel?” Karn laughed, as if at a child. “Go ahead, then, try your luck. But even if you could, you’d be throwing your life away. Whatever defense you and your pathetic friends here think to mount, my master will breach these wall and find you.” Another explosion rocked the courtyard below, as if to emphasize the point. “Perhaps you would find mercy as things are, but with me or the baroness dead, you’d do well to throw yourself through that window than stand before Darth Viren when he finds you.”

Karn expected a reaction. A flushing of the face. An impassioned response, raging against what he’d said, call it lies — the works.

Alistair did none of these. He stood, silently, thoughtfully, as he stared at the Sith acolyte, and then his lightsaber. Karn’s pale brow furrowed as he watched the rebel leader until finally, Alistair’s dark eyes turned the broad transparisteel window behind Karn. His gaze went momentarily distant as he took in the smoke-darkened sky and the city lit with red and orange flame below.

“Mercy,” he said softly. His gaze returned to Karn, and the Sith saw the same sharp, piercing hate that’d greeted him upon his return to consciousness. “For years I’ve seen what the Empire’s mercy looks like, Sith.” Again the title, the name that Karn boar with pride as the successor to a great and powerful tradition, twisted on Alistair’s tongue as if it were a slur.

“The Empire does not know mercy, only delays revenge to suit its own ends. Maybe once I would have believed you, Sith. But not anymore. Not after what I’ve seen.”

“Now Alistair,” Baroness Decou cut in, “the boy is prideful yes, but he does not lie. Darth Viren, whatever you may think of him, is a man of principles, of ho-”

“Be quiet.” Alistair’s jaw clenched and he rounded suddenly on the Baroness, bound much as Karn was in a chair. His hand trembled around Karn’s lightsaber. “ You, of all people, have no right to talk to me about Imperial mercy. We knew the kind of things you did to our friends, our neighbors, our families if you caught them. Don’t talk to me about principles or honor.” Alistair’s breathing quickened as he stepped toward the baroness. Karn felt deep hatred, buried for years, rising to the surface.

It was a real, pure, emotion, burning hotter even than that displayed by some of his Sith compatriots. “I should have killed you in the cellar,” he muttered threateningly. He looked at the lightsaber in his hand. Karn raised a brown.

Baroness Decou, despite the obvious danger before her, looked cooly at Alistair. “Think well on what you intend to do, boy,” she said, frosty. “If you do this, you imperil not only your life bu-”

“What was it you said, Baroness?” Alistair placed the lightsaber’s emitter on the proud woman’s forehead, silencing her. “When we ere down in the lower levels. I believe it was, ‘We are, all of us, in great peril.’”

Baroness Decou’s lips began to tighten and then the blade ignited into her skull. Alistair disengaged the blade and stepped away. The Baroness’ corpse slumped forward lifelessly against her restraints.

Silence stretched for a long moment, broken only by Alistair’s heavy breathing. Karn felt the rage boiling within the rebel leader.

Too much. Threatening to burst.

With a sudden, enraged yell, Alistair reignited the blade and swung at the baroness corpse. The crimson blade burned neatly through her neck, separating head from shoulders. As her head tumbled across the floor, coming to rest on its side facing Karn, the Arkanian decided it was time to act.

Alistair stood, ignited lightsaber still in hand with its tip burning into the floor, with his back to Karn. “If my life is forfeit, Sith,” he began slowly, “then so is yours.”

Karn, meanwhile, drew deeply on the Force, in spite of throbbing in his skull. A burst of power to his body, to ground himself and augment his strength. He stretched his arms, straining against the restraints’ resistance until they snapped loudly.

“I’m impressed,” he said as he rose, tearing loose one of the cuffs still on his wrist. “You might make a fine Sith, if you had the gift.” Alistair turned to face Karn, lifting the lightsaber defensively, awkwardly between them. Karn laughed darkly. “Unfortunately, for you, dear rebel, you are just a man.”

Karn rolled his neck. The throbbing his head faded as the Force rushed into him. Life and death at once. Strength with which he could achieve the impossible. Power that threatened to sweep him away like a sea in storm.

“Now,” he said, stepping forward, “you have something that’s mine.”

[CaptainBonkers]

The counter next to the holographic map keeping track of reported casualties suffered a spike as the Imperial forces advanced into the Citadel. It was to be expected but still reached numbers that were close enough to being uncomfortable as to make Havlen to make a mental note to have the Ministry of Information prepare a propaganda campaign to blame the casualties on the Republic meddling in the Empire’s internal affairs. That should whip the masses on the Imperial core planets into proper frenzy. On the new acquisitions it would probably go down about as well as a lead balloon but that was what Project Blackboard was for.

Planning for post-operation actions was just about the only thing Havlen had to do at the moment. The fleet could do little at this point; friendly fire with turbolasers was after all generally frowned upon by the ground forces, which at the moment were directed by a leading member of the Sith Order. Havlen could not imagine a more certain way of getting one’s windpipe crushed shut than firing upon a Darth’s location with a full barrage. Unless, of course, one got lucky and the Sith did not crawl out of the resulting pile of ash and rubble to take revenge.

After a while the comm piped and Viren’s voice chimed through. “We have breached the foyer, Grand Moff. Prisoners are being held for interrogation by your hand, once my apprentice has secured the Baroness, we will update you on her condition. Her life matters little to me, but I assume you would have... questions. And perhaps judgment of your own.”

It seemed that time had come to raise the question of Baroness’ retrieval on the table. In Havlen’s opinion there were very few scenarios in which she was taken alive that were advantageous in the long run. Public trials of notable members of the Aristocracy were messy at the best of times, a trial behind closed doors would breed paranoia in their ranks and summary execution might fire up a deluge of seditious activity. Whereas, if she took a ‘rebel’ blaster bolt to the back of her head in the heat of the battle she would smoothly transition from a potential headache to a marketable martyr in an instant.

With a few presses of the incorporeal keyboard next to his chair Havlen connected to the Sith Lord’s helmet’s HUD and typed there a simple message only Viren could see. Consider this when finding the Baroness: If she is still alive, a martyr is more valuable to the Empire than a scapegoat. If questions, switch to channel 276 Aurek.

It would appear on the Darth’s HUD only for a brief moment, long enough to be read and remembered by someone like Viren, after which every trace of the message would be purged from the data-banks of both the helmet and Panoptikon. While as the Minister for Security Havlen had the authority to designate any Imperial subjects as national security risks and deal with them accordingly, an ex tempore execution of an Imperial aristocrat using the Sith order as a the tool of execution was better done without a paper trail.

---

Just about the only good thing about storming a citadel was that finally the enemy was occasionally close enough for Drenner to take potshots at them. Every time he spotted one of the rebs poking their stupid faces out of some nook they were using as cover he sent a torrent of blasterfire and insults into their general direction. And since this phase of the assault required less coordination, he had far more time in his hands to just to look for hostiles to shoot.

The Darth had led the assault deeper into the main compound and Drenner was all too happy to let the glowstick wielders take point. Indoor fighting wasn’t fun, though he would have paid good money to see the expression on the enemy faces when they saw what was coming down the hall at them.

[Ysmir]

While the Grand Moff's mind was focused on what would become of the after, and Karn's on what would become of the now, Viren cared only for seeing that the mission he had been handed before was seen through posthaste.

Whatever had happened to his apprentice, Viren knew the risks when Karn took charge of his portion of the operation. Inwardly, the Dark Lord knew not to expect astounding success. Karn was, after all, still a pup in the grand scheme of his ascension. Viren would heap upon him praise when it was appropriate, but more than that, he would heap upon him expectation. It was the desire to overcome those lofty expectations that would drive Karn to greater, better things.

But only if he survived to do so.

On the HUD of his helm, a message from Havlen flashed. The Darth was only slightly bemused by the words, but he quickly ascertained precisely what Torrik meant. While Viren generally detested subterfuge and skullduggery of this kind, if it proved useful to the Empire as a whole, then it was a worthy sacrifice. Besides, the Grand Moff was perhaps the only individual other than his cohorts and the Empress herself who could get away with suggesting such a thing to Viren. He had respect for the officer's wit and intelligence, which was more than could be said for most. He typed away on his wristpad, switching his comm channel to the designated secure link directly to the Grand Moff that had been provided. In response, Viren uttered one simple word.

"Noted."

The grand halls of the besieged Citadel were mostly empty, save for a few rebel stragglers that were swiftly dispatched by Viren and the two knights flanking him on either side. They made their way toward the central lift to the Command Center with great speed; he wished desperately to be off this rock so that preparations for their further crusades could begin...

BA-BOOM!

From either side of the trio in the hall, explosive charges were detonated on the walls, throwing scattering bits of debris and shrapnel forward and clouding the hall in dust. One of the Sith Knights was blown completely off their feet and slumped lifelessly to the ground. The other staggered to a knee, igniting their lightsaber mere moments before a volley of blaster fire came from behind and in front of them. The bolts caught a weakness in the Knight's armor at the neck, causing their head to recoil back before they, too, fell. Viren was left staggered and, momentarily, caught off guard in the midst of this most unforeseen ambush. On pure instinct, his lightsaber had erupted to life as he bobbed and weaved through the smoke and blaster fire, deflecting each bolt that didn't glance off his armor.

"Don't let up! FOR DANTOOINE!", came a rallying cry from one of the unseen assailants.

These few rebel shocktroopers knew that, eventually, the Citadel would be breached, and the Sith would come to claim their prize. Even if it meant their lives, they'd see to it that it didn't go off without a hitch. Pinned down and outnumbered, Viren retreated against the far wall to gather his senses and plan a counterattack against his hidden adversaries.

[Rugs]

To the rebel’s credit, he kept his cool as Karn — newly freed under his own power — stalked toward him. The pounding, throbbing ache in Karn’s skull faded with the Force rushing through him, but did not vanish. An echo remained; an annoyance, a reminder of his failure that drove his steps as much as the desire to reclaim the lightsaber the Alistair clutched in his dirty hands.

“Hand it over rebel,,” He spat the word as if it were poison, “and I won’t make your death too painful.” Electricity crackled around his fingers, giving away the lie. Alistair was going to suffer, no matter what he chose to do.

Alistair retreated from Karn’s advance, but slowly--enough to stall a moment or two longer, but not to escape the angry Sith approaching him. He knew there was no escape. There never truly was, from the Sith. Only submission, or resistance. Alistair’s grip tightened on the lightsaber’s hilt. His stomach tightened, repulsed by something about the weapon, even as his expression hardened. “Come and take it, Sith.”

Karn smiled darkly. “I hoped you’d say that.” He lunged at Alistair, who stepped back and took an awkward swing with the lightsaber. Karn ducked easily out of the way of the clumsy stroke and threw the Force at the rebel leader. Lightning erupted from his fingertips, hurling Alistair back into a set of consoles that erupted in sparks and acrid smoke as the rebel’s body slammed into them.

Alistair collapsed, teeth clenched against a scream, with a death grip on Karn’s lightsaber. He tried to stand but fell, his motions halting as his body convulsed, even after the lightning ceased.

“You could have avoided this, you know,” Karn said, approaching slowly as Alistair struggled pitifully to rise. “You and all your stupid little friends. By all rights, you lot should have been executed long ago, but the Empire showed mercy--would have let you live in peace.” Karn extended his hand with slender fingers clawed. Alistair rose suddenly from the ground, clutching at his throat. Even as his feet left the ground, he still clung stubbornly to Karn’s lightsaber with one hand. “But no, you decided to raise your hand again, knowing you couldn’t win. And for what?”

Karn laughed, motioning to the broad window and the devastation unfolding around the citadel. “A city ruined. Your friends dead or captured. Your own life forfeit. Do you see, dear rebel what uprisings get you?”

“No...” Alistair’s voice was stronger than Karn expected, though he struggled for air. “This is what empires do.” He lurched in Karn’s grip, finding enough strength to throw the Sith’s lightsaber at him. Karn swore and dropped Alistair as he moved out of the crimson blade’s path.

Karn’s eyes followed the lightsaber as it whirred past at hit the wall with a clatter. He extended a hand to call it to him -

-and back to the Alistair at a warning from the Force just in time for the rebel’s closed fist to slam into his nose which a crunch and send him crashing to the ground. Karn yelled as pain blossomed in the front of his face. A booted kick followed, though its effect was dulled against Karn’s armor.

The Force erupted again as Karn roared in rage, throwing Alistair away from him. He rose, swearing, fury swirling within him and called the lightsaber to an open hand. With the other, he pressed fingers to his nose. Not quite broken, but badly hurt, and bleeding.

“Alright then, rebel,” he said, darkly. “Have it your way.”

Alistair, slumped against the wall where Karn had thrown him, fumbled a pistol free from his belt and took a hurried shot at Karn. The Sith deflected the shot with ease, then drew the rebel forward again.

As Alistair flew through the air toward, then past, Karn, the Sith made a quick, clean stroke that severed his arm from his body at the shoulder. Alistair screamed as he hit the wall opposite the one he’d just been thrown against. No sooner had he hit than Karn flung him again.

And again, and again. On and on it went, until Karn left Alistair’s broken body in the middle of the floor. Karn stepped over Alistair’s body, grabbed him by the front of his bloodied face, and pressed his head against the ground. Red energy, flitting like lightning, flickered around his fingertips. Drain—the ability he’d learned so readily from Visarion.

“Goodbye, rebel,” he said as he began to siphon the life from Alistair’s body, “I hope it was worth it.”

Red energy spiderwebbed from Karn’s hand onto Alistair’s body and back up Karn’s arm as he pulled the very essence of life from the rebel leader. By the time it was done, Karn stood over a withered, grey husk with dry, brittle skin pulled tight over an emaciated frame.

Karn stood, overflowing with energy. He touched his nose — the pain was gone, healed by the power robbed from the dead man. So too was the throbbing his skull. He snorted. “Waste of time.”

After a few moments of searching, he found his helmet at the back of the command center. He slipped it over his head, and after it reconnected to his suit’s systems, sent a message to Viren.

“Master,” he said, “I have eliminated the rebel’s leader.” His voice was husky, almost drunken from the excess power surging within him. He needed something, anything to release it. “Unfortunately, he killed the Baronness.”

[CaptainBonkers]

The news that the baroness had been killed by the insurgents was excellent news. Staging it such a way it seemed like she had been killed in the chaos would have been barely an inconvenience, yes, but inconvenience nonetheless. This way Havlen’s men would not have to cover much of anything up and could conduct any investigations necesary with engineered opedness that would help to shore up support with the Aristocracy. Force knew the regime could use a boost on that front, seeing how a new war loomed in the horizon. Nothing like a martyr to rally people nicely around the flag before a war.

The baroness might have been a poor governor but at least her incompetence managed to provide this final service to the Empire. Havlen disliked, had disliked, the woman deeply and voicing any kind words over her death would taste sour but he’d gladly read a bloody eulogy for the woman in public if it meant that volunteer numbers at recruitment centers went up. The Empire needed every soldier it could muster if it truly wished to move against the Republic. Personally, Havlen would have preferred to wait a decade or so before striking. The territories conquered in the previous war were yet to be properly integrated, pacified yes, but nowhere near proper integration to the imperial war machine. Nor was the Republic the same sleeping colossus it had been at the begining of the last war. It might have demobilized some of it military but it still kept a watchful eye on the Empire. With decade of peace the Ministry of Intelleigence would have had a proper chance to destabilize the Republic internally and prime it for a coup de grace.

Alas, it seemed that things were progressing according to Sith dogma and principles, rather than pragmatic realpolitics. All Havlen could do at this point was mitigate the damage and put out the flames of rebellion that would follow a declaration of war. It would be an exhausting task, of that he was sure. However, if Project Blackboard was as succesful as the projections suggested, he would have some breathing room come wartime. It wouldn’t be a panacea against rebellion, but it should drastically reduce insurgency on key planets while offering a potential for expansion within the Empire. Daantoine would make an excellent test case and Havlen was fairly certain he could persuade Renata let most of the planets population to participate, barring the ones she needed for her experiments, of course.