The Rebel Faction

Zeratul would have smiled at Zander’s discomfort, if he had a mouth.

“The ability to hear the thoughts of others is a rarity amongst our people; it is not a commonplace trait,” Zeratul told him. “It was one of the reasons I was chosen for the position I am in now; my ability to detect deceit amongst those I spoke with of your kind.”

He leaned slightly closer. “I, personally, do not care for politics and guarded words. I appreciate people who are… raw, blunt, and unvarnished. I prefer to know where a person stands without them needing to put on a face,” the skey’g’aar continued.





Their calculation of his age, meanwhile, caused Zeratul much amusement.

“Are you 976 years old?” they asked, using their best computation.

“No,” he said, “not even the eldest Cree’Ar tend to live that long. The oldest amongst us very rarely will see nine hundred years old. Such, though, is our way of life. We give ourselves away to the pursuit of peace; in such a cause, many of us end before our time.”

He thought back. “I have seen many days,” he said. “Time passes more or less slowly depending on where one is and what one is doing. We measure the decay of cerebrospinal fluid and calculate how aged our physical bodies are. My last examination, taken roughly a month ago in your time, indicated my body has aged 474 years since I was born.”

He turned closer. “Some of that time, however, is lost time. Travel between galaxies can take hundreds of years… much of which will be spent in stasis, during our bodies age at an extremely slow rate compared to the regular daily decay. How long has it been since I was born? Only God knows.”

He turned his eyes back to the stars. “What is time? How is it defined? Is it the breaking of atoms, which can be accelerated artificially? Is it the spinning of planets, which can dislodged and caused to stop spinning altogether? Only God knows.”

He turned back to the Capricians. “You ask difficult questions of a simple soldier,” he said, bowing his head.






Terra Nova watched Vejuun, cutting in when he grew silent, "Why don't your priests trust the technology? Was it faulty or did an accident happen that made them grow distrustful?"

"Indeed," Qin continued on the thought process, "It is odd that with a technology that is so critical to your civilization you would have this group that was so fundamentally against it. And a group that would hold a certain amount of power at that."

Vejuun furrowed his brow. “The Cree’Ar… and, their Priests especially… are very much rooted in their traditions. They evolved as a largely agrarian people… to them, technology was a strange curiosity of little relevance. Things changed… many embraced the changing of the times, but the Priests trust only what they understand, and they only understand what they themselves can create.”

Vejuun looked over at Zeratul, once again making sure he wasn’t being watched. “The Priests prefer to work only with that which they can control; they know The Nexus is capable of functioning autonomously, and that gives them pause,” he continued. “They have always been a suspicious people; oft at odds even with the others of their own kind.”

Terra Nova brushed off the uninteresting cultural details. “What are Astriaporta?”

Vejuun nodded. “Within The Dominion, travel occurs in several ways. Some, such as Zeratul, possess the ability to use a mode of transport known as Mer’a’brak taba. It’s a form of… well, I’m not sure exactly how to describe it. I am a man of science and I am not sure of the science behind it. Our vessels, of course, are how most of us travel. Our capital vessels are generally small and can land on the surfaces of our worlds. However, when that will not do… when something faster is required… there is another way; The Astriaporta.”

He stepped closer to Terra Nova. “Essentially, The Astriaporta is a doorway. It creates a barrier of energy that you step into… once you step into it, the energy breaks down your mass, matter, and connected energy, transforming it into raw waves of light. That light is then projected through a C-Velocity conduit to another Astriaporta, which receives the energy of you, and reconstructs you a molecule at a time. The process, to you, seems almost instantaneous; your body, in the form that it is, moves faster than light in a conduit which cuts through space. It allows us to bridge our worlds together without the need for vessels.”

He stepped back slightly. “The Astriaporta we construct largely for The Priests… they dislike being at the beck and call of the military, which controls deployment of vessels. They prefer to have their own way to travel at their own volition.” Vejuun looked back to Zeratul again, who was otherwise engaged. “Actually, before our arrival, there were already several Astriaporta in this galaxy. You may have heard of the Hypergates… they are Cree’Ar technology, built in this galaxy many millennia ago. The ones we construct now are more efficient but the base means of transportation is much the same.”

He smiled at her, hoping that had answered her question.




Bint and Opi looked about at each other in confusion. "Some would say that to believe in a god is to subject yourself to a sort of slavery. Is this not true with the Cree'Ar?"

Zeratul shrugged; a gesture he had inherited from humans. “Is belief in the path to enlightenment accepting slavery, or accepting freedom?” he posed in return. “I suppose your question depends on which god to which you dedicate yourself.”

Scipio, meanwhile, cut in with a more relevant question. “What is the work of god?”

Zeratul bowed his head to her. “An easier question to answer would be to answer what is not,” he said.

“You were not born your own man?” one of the others interjected while Scipio was still considering.

“I was born, but I was not born a man,” Zeratul said. “I was born a child. It was my decision to become a man. It took many years, as well, to earn my place as a man within our society. Ours is a race that does not accept weakness.”

“In our society,” the linguist began, “a matriarch is a female leader. Is it not the same of your race? Would it… not to offend… but would it be wise of us to address Kal Shora as a female?”

Zeratul was amused at that thought. “That may prove entertaining,” he commented. “No, Kal Shora is a male. The Matriarch is a title which, yes, was once a woman. Since that time, the role of the M'a'rara'b'a has changed. Many now elect to remain away from positions of influence… only the most ambitious amongst them claim rank within either politics or military.” He turned to the linguist directly. “Kal Shora is male. Implying otherwise may lower his opinion of your attention to conversation.”

Scipio stepped forward again. “If only the High Judicator and Matriarch can command you now, please know that I do appreciate you taking the time to help us with the introductions to your leaders. I would like to inquire about what personal interests you are pursuing here but if you find the subject too intrusive, then please feel free not to answer.”

He nodded. “Kal Shora asked me personally to escort you to him; he is a man who, beyond his title at the moment, commands much respect with all. I follow his word; his word tells me to answer what you wish to know.”

“Why us?” she asked.

The question caused Zeratul’s memory to ignite. “Behind I heard the crying of a widowed wife, clutching to the final moment’s of her husbands life. Ahead, I heard the snarling of a beast I have spent my life slaughtering. I marched, as fast as my three legs could carry, and slammed the bones within my arms across the belly of that beast. It exploded in a horrifying cloud of blood and broken flesh. It screamed. The warrior holding it screamed as well, only his scream was one of hatred and anger. Without the weapon, the living creature he had enslaved to do his bidding, he knew his life would end.”

He paused to reflect. “When I had killed him, I heard the crying had stopped. I turned to the woman, and saw a fire rising in her eyes. She reached down with one hand, closing the eyes of the man that she had loved. With her other hand, she took his rifle; braced herself with it, stood proudly, and then ran to join the fight.”

He exhaled, then turned to her. “That was on Capricia, during the Yat'a'leg'a'lora campaign into your territory; what you termed The First Invasion. I had not been there long; I had heard a general distress call. I answered, alone, for our other scouts were already disposed. When I came to your world, I felt powerless to save it. But when I left, I felt confident it had the ability to save itself.”

He turned his eyes to the stars. “Our society has a principle… it is a controversial one, but one tenant upon which we treat all others outside of The Dominion. We believe that a people must be what a people must be. If your fate was to suffer the horrors of war, then you must bear that suffering; it is what was written, and what needed to happen. Amongst our people, we believe a person is not born the man he is to become, but he is instead forged in fire; under the heat of the intense glare of the Red Sun can he learn that which he is meant to be. On that day, and the years that followed, you opposed the Yat'a'leg'a'lora through every means available to you. In so doing, you became more than what you were before. That victory was forged in loss; horrible loss, to be sure. But it made you what you are.”

He turned back. “We do not allow a noble species to be decimated by a technologically superior adversary,” he said. “Such conquest is a tragic waste of life. But… if that species is capable of their own defense, then we must allow them the freedom to defend themselves. If we intervene, if we… prevent them from rising to face the challenge, then those people may never rise, and may never become the people that they were meant to be.”

He turned away again. “It is… difficult. Watching people die in a war you know you are capable of stopping. But we could not. We had to let things play out as they were meant to happen; if we did not, then you would not be the people you are today… the experiences gained, the fortitude instilled within you… would never have happened. Those things were given to you because you were brave, and strong. If we were brave for you, you’d not have advanced as far as you have.”

He turned directly to Scipio Arien. “We revere, and hold in the highest of respect, those who stand against evil, and refuse to be defeated. We mourn the cost of such struggles, but to those who remain… there are none of greater status to us,” he said. He stopped for a moment to consider. “I reported all of this. I also… I hesitate to admit this, but as I am being honest, I feel I must. When the war concluded, I returned to your world. I analyzed the technological advancements you had made in the face of that conflict. What you had employed on the battlefield was easy enough to procure by simply finding broken examples before they could be cleaned up. In analyzing that progression I realized that you were not only a people with a strong will and noble spirit, but also an incredible ingenuity and intelligence. You were, in all ways, capable of a relationship within our Dominion.”

His head lowered slightly. “You should, however, be aware; not all feel as I do. Many amongst us are skeptical. The Dominion is not a widespread organization; although we hold many worlds, we do not have many members. Only those who are exemplary examples of what can be created under the Red Sun are allowed to walk the hollowed halls of Ariguan. All others are allowed their own walls, and their own halls, but never can they know the glory that is life under the Red Sun.”

His head rose again. “For what my opinion is worth, however; I do have faith in The Caprician Regency.” He eyed Scipio intensely. “You need not worry yourself that which I reported. Kal Shora is well aware of the strength and courage of your people.”

“I hope the cost of your promotion was not too high,” Arien said. It sounded sincere.

Zeratul nodded. “I found your galaxy to be most inhospitable. Consumed in its wars. I bore wounds from a few, but such is expected of a soldier under the Red Sun. There is no price that God demands that is too high for the betterment of his children in The Dominion.”

Scipio seemed to consider that for a few moments. “What... what would be the cost to one being their own and shackling off the shackles of slavery to truly enjoy their freedom within The Dominion?”

Zeratul's eyes flashed. Was she attempting to provoke him? “You ask a dangerous question,” he said. “You see, everyone in The Dominion must bow to the will of Borleas Quayver. In so doing, one earns his place in society. Those who do not are not fit to live under his protection... men like me are sent to end their lives.”

Scipio seemed concerned as he dwelled on that answer. She shuddered slightly when his hand made contact with her shoulder.

“I jest,” he admitted. “Borleas Quayver us the protection and the freedom we ask of him. He asks in return much of those who want for much. Those who elect not to believe are not offered the gifts of the service to him. The service which does, admittedly, come with a high price.” Zeratul thought back. “Kal Shora once said, 'Sometimes freedom is slavery'. The choice made to pledge yourself to Borleas Quayver can be seen as a choice made to pledge yourself to the slavery under God, but in that quest to which you pledge yourself, comes the freedom to see... to go, to learn, to know. Those who do not embrace God... those who turn their backs on his quest... live a small life. They are isolated and alone. Those who believe do not often conspire with those who do not. In so doing, one who chooses not to embrace the slavery you would call it embraces instead a world with no freedoms, no options, and no future.”

He turned back to the stars. “Sometimes the freedom given to us by serving God does seem like slavery; a lifetime spent in his defense. But sometimes in that slavery comes things one could only see, and only know, if we embrace the freedom he offers us to be more than just ourselves. The experiences he leads us to cannot be replaced with the knowledge that we alone refuse to accept the truth of that which lies around us.”

He turned to Arien again. "There is a cost indeed to the life I lead, but benefits I can never begin to describe in complete," he said, nodding his head. "Faced with the same choice a hundred times, my answer would always be the same."





"If you would prefer to relinquish control," Vejuun said, reaching for the device to make the necessary modifications. Zeratul grabbed his wrist to stop him.

"Vejuun has not been exposed to the humanoid tendency towards sarcasm in speech," Zeratul said, and then let Vejuun grab, and rub, his own wrist. "We do not intend to subvert your technology; I would trust that from what you have seen, you would likely have grasped that we have no need nor inclination to do so."

The beeping was growing more intense, so Vejuun pointed. "It's guiding us towards that one," he said, pointing. "When you get close enough, it will wrap your ship in a gravitic bubble which will pull it the rest of the way."

Scipio turned away from her thoughts and back to Zeratul. "Before we enter your command ship, we are sending everything we have gathered so far to our science ship,” she told him. “The First Contact Team are representatives of several departments and their Heads aboard our ship who are probably chewing at the bit to find out the information we have gathered so far. Since we may be out of touch with them for a while when meeting Kal Shora, I feel it prudent to give them as much data as we have collected so they can work to understand you as much as they are able too. The delay will not be long."

“Such is a wise precaution,” Zeratul said, chewing through the pleasantries. She didn’t entirely trust him; Zeratul recognized, and respected, that of her. She was wise to be cautious. It likely served her well in her position. “We will not raise our shields while you are aboard ship unless in the event of an emergency; as such, if your communications technology can penetrate our hull, you should be able to stay in contact with your vessel during your entire stay.”

He could see from the posture in her nod the words did not much reassure her, but she nodded all the same. “Understood.”






"You talk in circles!" Neville shouted out, extremely angry. "Your people wrap yourselves in your technology and in your belief in your own superiority by drafting up ridiculous rules why you cannot aid a dying people! Oh, yes! I am much better off now that my children are dead! Thank you, oh wise Cree'Ar for not lifting a damned finger, so I can grow spiritually!"

Zeratul stepped forward to respond, but didn’t get a chance as Opi continued his line of dialogue.

"You seem to rejoice in the Cree'Ar's belief that the man is dying because he was fated to die unless, of course, he doesn't die. Then you celebrate your own inaction taking credit for him not dying. That may be your cultural stance but you, you! You decided to throw that away by actually taking part in our conflict? So why do you follow a system of inaction while you, on your own, saw the need to take action? Or were you on a field trip during the Invasion and you just don't really give a damn?"

“Our position is not so easily explained,” the skey’g’aar offered in explanation “We have not always acted in such ways, and in some of our relations with other species, have seen disastrous results stemming from our untimely intervention.”

"Your stance seems, to us, to be a simple avoidance of responsibility mixed into a belief system,” Jerra said, joining the conversation. “As a race you have the freedom to do what you will. Help...don't help, as you see fit. But don't tell us how wonderful we are because you decided not to help in our greatest time of need!"

“"If anything, they attacked us because of the Cree'Ar anger over the Yuuzhan Vong's attack on them centuries ago, an attack that evidently wasn't fated because you are still acting in response to it! Your own revenge, over what was fated according to your belief system, in chasing the Yuuzhan Vong out of your galaxy and into ours resulted in our being attacked!" Bint offered.

“Cause and effect is more complicated than that,” Zeratul stated, “but if blaming us soothes any of your wounds, then blame us as you will.”

"Stop it!" Scipio shouted out to her contingent of scientists. "All of you! We are not here to judge the Cree'Ar's beliefs. We are here to meet them! Zeratul, in his own way, was trying to convey the admiration his people have of us."

Zeratul bowed his head slightly. “I apologize if I was misunderstood.”

"I wonder," Qin remarked softly, almost quietly enough to pass the skey’g’aar’s earshot. "Zeratul has lived among us for quite a long time. I think he knew exactly how we would react." When he turned to Zeratul though, his voice was louder. "Whatever your reason, please know that while we have been victorious and have gained a certain strength in that victory, it is still a raw wound and we still feel the effects of the two Invasions because we are wise enough to realize that we have lost as well."

“I understand,” Zeratul said in response. “It was not my intention to open that wound. Allow me to clarify something as well; when the Yuuzhan Vong invaded your world, there were four of us in your entire galaxy. Only four. We had no ships. We had no weapons beyond simple blades. Could I have brought you technology through which you could have defeated the Yat'a'leg'a'lora? Yes. And what then? What if you chose to move beyond your world, and subjugate the worlds beyond? What if you used that technology to persecute those amongst you that you feel are unworthy as subjects of your government? These were unacceptable risks. We did not know your people. We did not know your ways. Only by studying you in war, and then again in peace, did we come to see the truth of what you represented. That you could be trusted. That you were honorable. But from the briefest introductions, giving you a technological advantage through which it may be possible for you to dominate the stars… that was too much of a chance.”

He turned slightly, looking directly at Neville, the most emotional of the contingent. “With every sinew in my body, I hate the Yat'a'leg'a'lora. If it were possible to call in a battle fleet to remove them from this galaxy, I would have done so. But though our empire is vast, it is also distant. The space between your galaxy, and the one in which our battlements were stationed, spans hundreds of years, even at our accelerated rate of travel. Your suffering was not a result of our choice to allow you to suffer, but simply because our options were to technologically advance your species by centuries, or do nothing. Either choice presented a high amount of risk, but the fact that you are standing here proves that you were capable of standing on your own.”

His eyes flashed as he himself became emotional. “If you wish to condemn me for not having faith in you, then condemn me. If you wish to hate me for not doing more, than hate me. If you wish to wrap yourself in anger, then wrap away. But I did what I felt was right. I came and I fought. I shed blood across your sand. And I am the reason the Cree’Ar are here now. If I had brought my brothers and we had all died together in the face of overwhelming numbers, there would be no reports of your courage, or valiance, in the face of the Yuuzhan Vong.”

He then turned back to the stars. “And in that event, your first encounter with The Cree’Ar Dominion would be very different.”





Silence then fell over the shuttle. The emotions slowly wafted away, but tension remained thick.

"I would trust that your Kal Shora will realize that we are not coming to him as supplicants but as invited equals,” Scipio told Zeratul.

Zeratul bowed his head in reply. “You will be our honored guests. The terms by which you remain with us will be yours to set. We will not hold you against your will, or force you to do that which you do not want to do. You will have free reign… with certain exclusions.”

Qin clapped his hands, drawing Zeratul’s attention. "Well, with that in mind, I need to ask one thing: What do the Cree'Ar consider evil?"

“Evil is not something one can offer a blanket explanation towards,” he answered back. “Consider, if I were to slide a blade into your chest and pierce your lung. Would that be evil? Perhaps, perhaps not. Why was the action taken? Was it a reaction, or response to provocation? Was there a moral justification? The definition of evil has to be made on a case by case basis, in consideration of the evidence of the situation. That is why we have spies; to better understand the people around us, how they operate, and how they define concepts such as evil, and justice. One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter. Your individual bias in the situation can cloud your judgment of such definitions as well. Some evil, however, can be defined instinctually; you see it, and it turns you cold. Some evils are self evident, and nothing can make them right.”

"Is this view is held by all castes?" Opi asked.

“That actions must be analyzed in the context of their situation, and with relevant information, before being deemed evil?” Zeratul countered. “Our military sometimes acts on instinct, but they act within the terms and tenants of war. Such is different, and not based on concepts of evil. Evil is for different men to define than soldiers.”

"I mean,” Opi continued, attempting to clarify his question, “will what your priests consider evil mean that your military and other castes think the same?"

Zeratul nodded. “We all follow the path that Borleas lays out to us. The priests hear his words, and all the others make them happen. What happens in war does not often concern the priests, and is such kept amongst the military, but the overall directions and actions of our people as a whole must continue us along the path. So, though we all live within different chapters, we must all follow the same rulebook.”

Bint continued the line of questioning by asking, "How many castes are there in Cree'Ar society?"

“Cree’Ar specifically, or within The Dominion?” Zeratul asked. “Each of our member races maintain their own individual societies. The answer to your question is complicated.”





Terra Nova turned to Vejuun, "What does your partner do when you are out entertaining younger space-faring cultures?"

Vejuun turned back to face her directly. “I’m sorry, my partner in what?”

“Vejuun,” Zeratul said, drawing his attention. “The a’par’a.”

“Oh, yes,” the little creature remarked, remembering one of his primary purposes. He reached inside a pocket in his clothing, pulling out a handful of devices. He counted the scientists, diplomat, and flight crew. “These devices here…” he said, holding one up, “are capable of providing a direct interface between your ears and your brain. It will allow all spoken words in our native languages to be translated back into Basic. Not many of our crew are capable of speaking your language.”

“If you are uncomfortable with our technology interacting directly with your brain,” Zeratul said, “we will have The Nexus translate for you. It will, however, delay things.”

“The other device,” Vejuun said, “is for oxygen. Not all areas of our vessel have oxygen; it is more efficient for us to keep certain sections of our ship in a vacuum. If you wish to wander freely, place one of these against your neck. It will enter through the skin and form an interface with your throat and convert the carbon dioxide you would normally exhale into breathable oxygen. It will close your throat whenever you enter an area without atmosphere.”

“If you are not comfortable with that prospect either,” Zeratul stated, “then do not attempt to step through any area protected by an energy shield. It won’t hold you back; it’s simply to keep the oxygen back. If you try and step through it, hold your breath.”

Interlude

Aboard the Scion


The Captain started to sweat as he and the others reviewed the footage sent over by the contact team.


"They are deliberately pissing off these aliens!" he growled, wiping his brow with a cloth pulled from a convenient pocket. He was understandably nervous. While contact responsibility ultimately fell to Ms. Arien, the responsibility to bring everyone home was his and being surrounded by a technologically superior race and outnumbered to boot would make any captain nervous.

But he was not just any captain. He was the captain living out the hypothesis whose actions posterity would muse over saying how they would have done things different were they in his shoes.

"Or they are deliberately pissing us off," Lyrian mused as he jotted down some notes on a small pad of paper either not noticing the Captain's nervousness or simply ignoring it.

"You need to get yourself a datapad, Theorist," a younger scientist remarked, changing the subject and making touches to his own screen.

"My method will not lose power," mumbled the older man as his eyes went back to his notes.

Already, copies of the footage, angles and sensor scans had been made to impatient departments waiting for any information on these new and mysterious aliens.


Lyrian's mind was trying to wrap itself around the science that could bring these beings across the gulf of emptiness between galaxies. There were only a handful of races that could do it...well, no, that was not true. Any one of the galactic governments had the ability to send envoys or exploratory ships to other galaxies. They just needed the will, funding and well, damn.. the desire.


No, what these Cree'Ar had done was something different.


They arrived with a force and resources enough to operate with complete autonomy.


"Theorist!" an aide came running up drawing Lyrian from his thoughts.


"What is it!?" he snapped, hating to be interrupted.


"The Scanning Pit is having trouble answering your queries regarding the gravitic anomolies."


"What is the problem?"


"Apparently, the information you want falls outside the operating parimeters of the sensing equipment."


"Outside the detection threshold, eh?" the old man mused. "Well, son. The answer is obvious."


"Theorist?"


"Build a better sensor package that can detect what I want! I am surrounded by imbeciles!"


The old man moved on instantly forgetting the jaw-gaping aide. The bridge on the Scion was not placed as high as was traditional for a Victory Class Star Destroyer which allowed for travel from the bridge to lower-levels without heavy reliance on elevator lifts or steep staircases. Instead, the Scion was designed to incorporate wide corridors and gently-sloping ramps to accomodate the elder crewmembers.


A vessel for the geriatric Lyrian thought sourly. But, it wouldn't do to have a famed scientist fall down a flight of stairs from every old jostle the ship made and break their hips. Oh no, the Captain would have a heart-attack for sure. And Lyrian hated bacta tanks. The thought of floating about in a tank of bacteria in order to get better always made the old man cringe a little. Despite what people said about it's synthetic properties, he always thought of the goo as some alien pus that people swam about in trapped like fish in aquariums.


He waves a hand over a panel as he made to the bottom of the ramp as it chirped alerting him to someone wanting to talk to him via hardlight. Some other new-fangled thing that made more problems than it solved in his mind. Such technology was touted to make walking almost obsolete for those that had trouble doing so since the elderly could move about and interact through holographic avatars. However, it was not completely embraced by the older generation. Lyrian, as well as others, did not like conversing with an artificial facsimile of someone who resided three decks above. Even if the program captured all the person's nuances, the elder generation disliked the idea that the program would not be able to feel all the thumps and bumps the former used to keep youngsters on task.


Where was the fun in thumping a hologram?


Hardlight was blurring the lines between reality and pseudo-reality in Commonwealth culture. If the hardlight husband had sex with an intern, could the husband himself be held accountable by the wife? Even if the hardlight husband was an exact replica of the thoughts, emotions and make-up of the husband, the man could simply open his arms wide proclaiming, "Hey, wifey-dear, it wasn't me!"


Of course, why a husband would want his hardlight copy to have all the "fun" made such morality discussions pointless in Lyrian's mind. Eventually the cheating heart of the actual man (or woman) would probably manifest itself in the end with action. Those that played with fire were bound to get burned.


But to prove it? The legal system was still working itself out on the finer points of Commonwealth society.


Just goes to show the Cree'Ar weren't the only ones whose lives could be led around by their noses by technology.


*


"Viper," Lyrian barked out upon entering the other's expansive rooms. Practical Applications always beat out Theorists any day, unfortunately. It was a source of much contention with Theorists but Lyrian pushed that irritation aside in favor of his query.


Old Viper turned around.. or rather, swiveled around, from his bench seat at his workstation.


"Crossing the galactic gap." Lyrian elaborated. "What can you tell me?"


"Never been done..." Viper started to which Lyrian waved a hand at a monitor presently showing a Cree'Ar warship.


"..by us." Viper concluded.


Lyrian grunted. "Why not?"


Viper shrugged, "The only race we knew that has done it was the Yuuzhan Vong. We had no desire to travel to a galaxy where religious fanaticism was the order of the day."


"There are other galaxies," Lyrian pointed out but old Viper grunted at that.


"It's always easier to blaze a trail already traveled than to carve out your own. The only trail we know of is to the fanatics and, quite frankly, it's too far to travel to meet more fanatics."


"So now they come to us to spread their gospel!"


"The Psychiatry Department made an interesting initial observation," Viper started. "They said their logic in terms of their purpose and religion seems circular, but not with an intent to deceive. They seem to feel it is genuine."


"So they believe their own bantha poodoo as much as imperials," snorted the Theorist.


"Their technology is sufficiently different enough to..." Viper's comments trailed off as his computer beeped.


By the tone of the beep and Old Viper's frown he could see the computer had not presented the man with an answer he liked.


"Clannus Prime's Whore!" Old Viper swore. He turned to the Theorist, "Just what in the hell do they use to make those wonderful wormholes?"

Zeratul raised his hand at the latest round of questions. "Questions about our policies on breeding will need to wait until someone more... suited for such discussions can be chosen," he said, not wanting to enter into such topics.

The shuttle had now reached the point where it's momentum halted. "The docking bay will guide your ship the rest of the way with... your words for it would be tractor beam," he stated. He gently set a hand on Zander's shoulder. "Any input from you will be countered by the vessels' generators. You no longer need to make any."

The Cree'Ar had bays aboard each ship that served many purposes; primarily, they were input and feed bays for materials brought aboard ship from the ground. They were not often used when in open space, but in this case, it seemed the most logical way of getting the shuttle aboard. The Cree'Ar did not use shuttles; did not have fighters in the traditional sense until they arrived in this galaxy. Thus, the concept of docking bays was alien to them.

All the same, as the bay doors began to spiral shut, forming what would eventually become the floor the shuttle would come to rest on, the shuttle could be considered, unofficially, to be docked.

Zeratul turned to Scipio. "It may be wise to test your communications; our hulls are designed to shield out certain types of electromagnetic radiation for the safety of those inside. I do not believe your communications will be effected, but I cannot guarantee that either, as we have no experience with your specific technology."

Outside the shuttle, Zeratul saw one of the doors to the feed bay open, and saw a trio of individuals emerge. "Kal Shora has sent us a delegation to greet us," Zeratul told them. "If you open the shuttle doors, the room will have been repressurized and reoxygenated by now."

Zander turned to Scipio who nodded, and he opened the doors to the shuttle. Zeratul moved quickly, eager to stand in the much taller and spacious feed bay; unaware of how effected he had been by the enclosed space of the shuttle. With more open space around him, he felt more... at ease. "Eptar'a'kar'a, Judicator Badaar," Zeratul said, lowering his head.

"Ta'a'z ar'a'ra'mora fo'shan, Zeratul," Badaar returned in the native tongue of the Cree'Ar.

All of the Capricians looked at Terra Nova. "He said, 'I am amused by your dressings'," she said, but then blurted out, "no! 'Armor'! He thinks that Zeratul looks funny in armor. Whoa," she then said, somewhat taken aback, "okay that is a bit weird."

"The translation device does not know your language in complete, so it will formulate translations and then refine them based on what your mind thinks," Zeratul said. "It will adapt in time to eliminate the need to reconsider as more references are provided."

"In the meantime, we won't think less of you if you stutter," Vejuun said, playfully.

"Ap'a Shran Badaar, et t'ap'a le'et'a'juun ap'a'ra'a'juun Sep'Ta'd'Aark," Badaar said, and then lowered his head, indicative of his desire to pause and let Nova catch up.

The Capricians waited for her eagerly. "He just introduced himself," she said.

"That's it?" Zander said. "Pretty wordy just for hello."

"Well, in full, he said 'I am Shran Badaar, and my function is as a Judicator and acting Ajutant aboard this vessel, which is named Forward Truth', but most of that is superfluous!" Nova said, defending her choice to omit the larger details.

"You're doing fine," Scipio said, reassuring her.

"Et a dar'a'mor'a'ka, pend'a'r'a, te'a'tara pend'a, pend'a'r'a mo'f'a'sho'a'zan et'a'pa'ka," Badaar offered before bowing his head again.

"He said, 'I am also here to take those who wish to go to the head'," she said, and then pondered, "no, actually, he said 'bridge'. He will take anyone who wants to go with him to the bridge, where the vessel is commanded."

Zeratul at that point stepped forward. "To save us all some translation time, I believe the other two men are here for those who wish to retire. One of them will take you to quarters arranged for you to rest in, and the other will take you to our... galley, is your word I believe. There will be food provided. It has been selected to, hopefully, meet your nutritional needs."

Vejuun then stepped forward. "I will be returning to my duties in the auxiliary science lab but, if anyone has technical questions for me, you can either ask through the Nexus or, if you desire, accompany me," he said, and nodded his head in respect of the group. "It was truly both a pleasure, and an honor, to meet you all."

"As for myself, it is my duty to make a full report to Kal Shora," Zeratul said. "I understand if none of you wish to accompany me; The High Elder Kal Shora can wait until such a time as you wish to officially greet him. However, if you do wish to accompany me, he is very interested in meeting you."

The four entities then stood waiting to see where The Capricians wanted to go.

Zeratul led Scipio and Qin into the lift. It was an outdated piece of technology; on most modern Dominion designed vessels, magnetic alternation was used to drive the platforms of their intership lift systems, but Kal Shora was old fashioned, and preferred one still pulled by a chain.

“We must ascend to the top of the vessel,” Zeratul explained. “Our ships are designed as they once were; despite technological advances, for some reason, captains prefer that they may see out on the battlefield with their own eyes. A sentiment I can only understand when not held in contrast to a desire to remain alive.”

Zeratul hit the button on the panel that began to pull the chain, causing the lift to jerk as it began to move upwards.

“It is startling, to me, that Imperial vessels tend to also put their command center in an elevated platform atop their vessel, rather than sheltered deeply inside it,” he observed. He was not one for small talk…



Vejuun keep looking over at Terra Nova until she finally had to say something. “What are you looking at?”

“I'm sorry,” Vejuun remarked back, “it's just... been some time since I met another species... like me.”

“How do you mean?” she asked, genuinely curious.

Vejuun, in reply, rolled up his sleeve. “We are... born and bred of the forests, you and I. Our evolution shares a commonality unlike the Cree'Ar.” She didn't immediately follow his thought process so he elaborated. “The Cree'Ar are interested in unity. Unity normally involves solidarity and solidarity is most easily borne through similarity. You will notice that many of the allied races of the Dominion have evolved from an aquatic ancestry... the Cree'Ar themselves were originally a race capable of sustaining themselves entirely underwater until their ambition drove them to the surface, and beyond. The Cree'Ar seek out those who are like them... how we met the Falleen.”

“The Falleen?” Nova asked.

“You've not met them?” Vejuun asked back, and she shook her head as she personally had not. “They are a similar race... one with a history amongst the sea.”

“How is it... the Cree'Ar came to find us? Why did they seek us out?” Terra asked, cutting through much of the subtlety of the conversation to ask the most important question. “What do they want with us?”

Vejuun smiled, blankly. “I cannot speak for them. I am not a Cree'Ar and I do not think as one. I have my own, more modest pursuits.”

Nova bit her lip, both disappointed and intrigued by the answer. “What sort of... modest pursuits?”

Vejuun's eyes wandered across her face to the slight quiver of her bottom lip. “I am a simple scientist... primarily a temporal astrophysicist, but also a student of biological sciences. I was wondering if you might be interested in allowing me to create a genetic profile of you? Understanding your physiology could help us better adapt our spaces and systems to your species needs.”

Nova was intrigued, but also not entirely sure it was a good idea. “Is there any danger?”

Vejuun shook his head reassuringly. “My reputation as a torturer is entirely speculative and has no basis in fact.”

Nova smiled awkwardly in return, not reassured in the slightest.





Opi, Bint Serro, Neville, Jerra, and Zander followed two of the Cree'Ar, dressed in loose fitting robes, a contrast to the metal armor that Zeratul had worn under his robes. The speculation amongst the intellectuals was that they were non-commissioned officers of some type; possibly lower ranking or junior officers on the vessel.

“They walk like Zeratul, and Zeratul is a killer,” Zander told them.

“He talks like a killer,” Jerra remarked. “It's a bit unnerving. He was an odd choice for a diplomat.”

“I don't think he is a diplomat,” Opi said. “You heard what he said on the shuttle. They expected us to land on their ships. I think they sent him because they had no one else.”

“They sent him because he speaks our language,” Zander said. “It's easier to have them sell us on their translation technology if they speak to us in our own words.”

“It would be easier for him to sell us on things if he wasn't so...” Neville began, but then trailed off.
Zander smirked. “What was that, Neville?”

Neville Gant just shook his head. “There's something about his demeanour that bothers me. Leaves me cold.”

Zander nodded. “Like I said, he walks, and talks, like a killer. I respect that he doesn't hide it. That would be insulting. Him presenting himself as he is means we are dealing with them on level terms. Nothing to hide, no secrets and lies.”

Opi nodded. “My only concern is that they might all walk... all talk, and all act... like killers...”
Bint Serro shook his head. “Isn't that a depressing thought... visitors from another galaxy and they're all cold blooded killers.”

Zander frowned. “Experience can turn anyone into a killer,” he said, speaking from experience. “We aren't exactly a society without a history of violence in our past.”

Neville bristled visibly. “We didn't exactly have a choice.”

Zander held up his hands, not wanting to provoke anyone. “All I'm saying is, things don't always happen like we think they should. We need to give them time so that we can get to know them. Without a full picture of who they are, any judgments we make now would be premature. If they show us nothing but the edge of a sword, I'm sure Scipio will do what needs to be done.”

Jerra nudged Zander. “Speaking of things they're showing us...”

Zander stopped, as did the rest of the procession. The two Cree'Ar had split up, and one stood at the edge of a doorway. The door seemed to be missing making it perhaps more of just an arch, but nevertheless one which broke an otherwise solid wall and allowed access to... somewhere new.

“Est'a'phant'a,” the man spoke, and the group all looked at each other, waiting for someone to draft a translation.

Zander, impatient, looked inside. “It's a mess hall,” he said.

Bint, the linguist, clarified; “eat here.”

Zander shook his head. “I'm not really very hungry.”

Jerra pushed past him, gently. “I'm famished; I had to skip breakfast to make the shuttle,” he said, then paused as he reached the counter which served as the dispenser. “What is this?”

“Our analysis of your genetic structure from scans taken on the surface suggest that these nutritional supplements should meet your dietary requirements,” the counter itself answered back, and only then did Jerra notice the interface screen he had rested his hands on.

“You don’t have any… real food?” Jerra queried.

“All meals served aboard ship are synthesized to meet the dietary requirements of those consuming them, except under special order from ranking flag officers,” the Nexus informed him.

Bint, meanwhile, had let his curiosity get the best of him. He sunk one of the small cubes into his mouth, and let it settle on his tongue for a second. Not wanting to be rude, he swallowed the cube before sharing his opinion. “It tastes slightly like dust,” he said, “and, even then, only slightly. If I were to imagine the most tasteless thing possible, this would be the result.”

Zander chuckled. “Anyone else curious to see what classes as a bed aboard these ships?” Neville nodded absently; Opi found himself wandering into the mess hall himself. “You guys behave yourselves.”

Opi had stepped up to the terminal. “If you would allow,” he said, and the two other scientists stepped back. “Uh… hello! Hello computer? Can you hear my voice?”

“We can,” the Nexus answered him back.

“I had a question,” he said, trying a theory. “You said previously that all meals served aboard ship are synthesized to meet the dietary requirements of those consuming them. Can that syntheses… the process of creating the nutritional supplements… can it be… altered, or enhanced, to prepare food of a different aesthetic quality?”

“Yes,” the computer answered back.

The three scientists then grinned at each other, eager to experiment…





”Don’t stare,” Zander remarked, quietly but still forcefully.

“I’m sorry, they’re just… fascinating,” Neville Gant replied. “Their skin seems to… well, all creatures have pores, but their pores seem to be able to intake oxygen directly… if that’s the case, and they can process that oxygen and put it into the blood stream locally instead of through a central nervous system…”

“You sound like Qin Lin,” Zander said. “Aren’t you supposed to be a geologist?”

Neville stuck his nose up. “Well, take me to their home planet then.”

“Maybe; for now, I’d rather just put you to bed,” Zander said with a smirk. The Cree’Ar they were following stopped, and gestured to one of the doors. "I guess we've reached the quest quarters."

Neville Gant walked into the room and looked around. "Not much in the way of furnishing," he said. The room had a bench, the top of which was about knee high, that was more or less just a piece of metal fastened to the wall. It had no cushioning or leg support. At the center of the room was a circle of stone, inside of which was filled with what looked like red, rocky dust.

"Doesn't look very comfortable," Zander said, taking a seat on the bench. The Cree'Ar both looked each other, gesturing to him as if he'd done something amusing. "Not for sitting?" the Caprician asked, and one of the two Cree'Ar walked forwards. He lifted his leg and curled his foot onto the piece of metal, then reached down and began making motions of wrapping something around his ankles. "Footrest," Zander said, kicking his foot onto the sheet and then grabbing the laces of his shoes. The Cree'Ar nodded.

"Zander!" a startled cry caused Zander to turn. He saw Gant, and he saw the red material he had thought was dust wrapping itself around the scientist. He raised his weapon, but the Cree’Ar grabbed it and forced it back down. Zander didn’t like that, so he threw an elbow, knocking the Cree’Ar back. The other Cree’Ar looked almost confused. “Wait!” Gant shouted. Zander turned to him, then turned back to the Cree’Ar he had struck.

Gant stood up, and tried to walk between Zander and the Cree’Ar. “I’m okay,” he said, then turned to Zander. “We’re okay,” he added, and Zander lowered his weapon. The Cree’Ar, using his hand to check his face for damage, made a gesture neither of them could understand, and then the two of them stepped outside, allowing Gant and Zander the room.

“Mind telling me what all that shouting was about? I just elbowed one of our hosts in the face,” Zander said, annoyed.

Gant turned from him to the circle of stone and then back again. “The bed is alive,” he told Zander. He read the soldier and pilot’s expression so he continued. “When I laid down on it, I felt the red… whatever it is, start to wrap around me, and try and warm me. It caught me offguard. But I think it could sense my surprise, because it let me go almost immediately.”

Zander looked at the stone ring with curiosity… “A living bed, huh…”





“…holding Coruscant would be a more difficult challenge. The bulk of the Imperial fleet is actually divided amongst the various territories under regional governors and Moffs. The Center itself is comparably lightly defended.”

Kal Shora looked up and saw that Zeratul and the Capricians had arrived. “We can continue this discussion later,” he said, aware that they would likely have not understood the words from his tactical advisors. “Zeratul, I trust the party has been well looked after so far.”

“To the best of my abilities, not being a diplomat,” Zeratul returned to Kal Shora, in their own language. He then turned to the Capricians. “Scipio Arien and Qin Lin, this is Kal Shora, High Elder and High Judicator of The Dominion.”

Kal Shora walked forward, placing himself within arms reach of the contingent. “Eptar'a'kar'a,” the Cree’Ar said, bowing as he did so.