Jedi Insurgency 127

After finishing his call with Isard, Corvus finished his tea with a satisfying gulp. Naboo really was the place for rich layabouts with too much money to spend. He could see why someone would fall in love with the place. Theed was like taking the most calm, serene, peaceful small city from Earth, and transplanting it to be surrounded by nature.  Crime was nonexistent, and the majority of the population-despite some minor differences-agreed on most issues. It would be a crime to bring war to such a fair planet, yet the fate of the galaxy was a heavy burden to bear. 

The Empire may be reeling in shock due to its economic woes, but it was still a behemoth worthy of respect. To conquer Naboo, he had decided to go the democratic route. Now that Padmé had returned to life, the seat on the Senate was all but secured. Obi-Wan no longer needed to fulfill that role, and could be free to continue acting as a General of the Republic. 

Although his initial meeting with Padmé was less than ideal, Corvus didn't really care about her accusations. History was often unkind, and since he had hoisted the mantle of Revan, he had to carry any baggage that came with that name. Whilst the mask was a great tool for unification, and would serve him well when interacting with the Mandalorians or Sith-such as Plagueis, it was also a detriment in the case of old school fundamentalists like Padmé or Thrawn.

A principle of life was that you could not please everyone. Corvus could walk up to Padmé, and demand an apology for the way she had acted towards him. But such a hostile action would likely distance both her, and Obi-Wan. As a Jedi Shadow, naked aggression, and open displays of violence seemed like the kind of low-brow interaction that a Sith Warrior would engage in. No, it was good enough to know that ultimately, they were on the same side, and both fought to restore the Republic. People work with others that they loathe or detest all the time, having a bunk coworker was part of the human experience. Crashing out over a disagreement would be the height of childishness. 

Corvus was also willing to leave the headstrong Senator a small amount of leeway. The lady had just come back from the dead, and who knew how fresh her memories of Anakin choking her out were. Perhaps to Padmé, such an event felt like it was only minutes ago? 

Ultimately, it wasn't worth his time or effort to worry about, or stew over someone else's opinion. At the end of the day, Naboo would join the fold, and his objective would be complete. Next to bluffing Plagueis away, and the threat of an intergalactic bioweapon, one prissy mom was the least of his worries. 

He had other matters to consider, such as how long it would take for his fleet above Eriadu to rest, rearm, and repair. Or how Poggle the Lesser & Rahm Kota's joint assault on Sullust was going. The Jedi were gathering on Illum in preparation for a journey to Tython, and Bail Organa was organizing cells of resistance. Tann, meanwhile was wrecking havoc in the galactic north, whilst the CIS were still under siege, or in Geonosis's case, rekindling the factories of war. This new phase of the war was ever changing, and a small victory on Naboo was but one facet of a much grander stage. 

A win was a win, and Corvus wouldn't allow one small bump in the road to dampen his spirits. Besides purging Naboo of the Blackwing virus, and resurrecting one of Naboo's greatest champions, he had unleashed a new headache for Palpatine to deal with, and gaslit his pawn in the ISB to go into a frenzy. Once he revealed concrete evidence of Plagueis, both Palpatine & Vader would be pulling out what sparse hairs remained in a volcanic rage. He imagined that over the next few days, Palpatine would be malding over Vader’s behavior. The fledgling Sith Lord would likely try to rush to Naboo asap. But after his disastrous defeat at Eriadu, and need to repair himself after tanking that pointblank explosion that blew up Eriadu City's shield generator, he was likely already under house arrest. Corvus could only wonder at the poisonous lies, and sweet words that Palpatine was whispering into the cyborg's ear. From Palpatine’s perspective, this last week must have been one clusterfuck after another. His greatest executor failed, the ancient Jedi, Revan, emerged victorious, and now the bitch who he wanted dead more than anyone else had returned! This was not his week! 

Thinking about it like that, who cared if Padmé got pissy with him? The fact that she was Vader’s weakness, and Palpatine’s greatest source of ire was cause to celebrate! Even now, Corvus couldn't help but grin like an idiot as he imagined the look on that old prune's face! He imagined that he'd kill ‘Darth Sipholis’ via high blood pressure before he leveled to max, and had a go with his lightsabers! 

During this moment of extreme schadenfreude, he decided to make another business call. This time, his intended target was the vile gangster wannabe that he had slain, and resurrected on Coruscant. It was the green skinned, humanoid-reptilian, Falleen trillionaire, Prince Xizor! 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Prince Xizor reclined in the shadowed opulence of his penthouse suite, the Coruscant skyline glittered with a thousand neon lights, and the passing traffic of a million shuttlecars. In his hand, he turned a lightsaber over and over, its polished hilt gleamed under the soft ambient lights. The weapon caught his reflection, and showed a flicker of cold emerald skin and narrowed, pitiless eyes. He glared at this-simple in appearance-small metal canister with quiet, poisonous hatred.

Five months.

Five months had passed since the birth of the Galactic Empire. Five months since the fires at the Jedi Temple had blackened the horizon.

Five months since the incident. 

Xizor’s rage had cooled with time, distilled into something far more refined than mere fury. Patient like a Fondori raptor, he knew that the time to act out had not yet arrived. He was not angered by Palpatine’s new order; such things were the natural evolution of power. No, his hatred was reserved for the one man who had dared to unmake him, and then remake him again.

Revan.

That cursed, enigmatic Jedi of legend had risen from the ancient past to infect the galaxy once more. Revan, who had slain him, resurrected him, and then-insult of insults-patronized him, like some street urchin tossed a credit to fetch his Master’s drink. In all his years of existence, Xizor had known that the Falleen were the most superior race in all the universe. Their pheromones dominated the lesser species, their intellect, and calm rational allowed them deeper thoughts than those swayed by emotion. It was with cold calculus that he had decided on patience. 

His decision to wait weighed heavily on his pride, yet the potential benefits of a chaotic new regime, and a Jedi insurgent running rampant through the galaxy outweighed the sleights that Revan had slapped him with. At least for now. 

In the months since that most vexing day, Revan had become a name whispered on every world. He had split large chunks of the Galactic South from the Empire’s grasp and, through some twisted irony, turned himself into a hero for the miserable wretches infesting Coruscant’s undercity. To Xizor, he was no savior. He was a contagion, and worse still, his employer.

The Prince of Falleen took a slow sip from his glass, the liquor biting pleasantly against his tongue as his thoughts curdled. Revan's orders had been clear: recover any surviving Jedi, any remnants of that dying breed whom the Empire wished dead. Xizor had obeyed, though every command from Revan tasted like ash. Detaining the robed fanatics within his hideouts scattered across various worlds, he made sure they were well fed, and kept in good conditions. Those Jedi he had so graciously rescued, however, were not free to go. Not until Revan kept to his end of the bargain. 

That masked man had promised him glory, dominion over the Black Sun Syndicate itself! 

A dream Xizor had held since he was a child had been promised to him on a silver platter. Exactly how this Jedi was aware of his ambitions eluded him to this day. Yet it was obvious as to why Revan had chosen him to be his executor. Social connections, wealth beyond measure, that robed homeless human had good taste. 

…Yet in five months, there had been silence. No contact. No reward. Nothing but the echo of that promise, gnawing at him like a wound that refused to close.

Victory buoyed Revan's name to the top of the headlines. His actions at Malastare were extraordinaryly popular amongst the anti-slavery crowd, but those with brains knew that the Gants were all show, no force. Conquering Malastare was a trifle, hardly anything worth scoffing about. Eriadu had shut those naysayers up real quick. That fortress world protected by the Tarkins had fallen without a single shot fired, and then, when the Empire’s propaganda department had been ready to release a glowing piece, praising its newest hero, Darth Vader, the siege had come crumbling down, and the newspapers remained silent! 

It was such an event that made Xizor confident in his gamble. That cooperation was not impossible in the face of benefits. Furthermore, with his vast channel of contacts, he was aware of something that the public were not. That Kamino was nought but ash and twisted steel beneath the waves. 

If it came to light that the number one source for elite combat troops had been obliterated, Xizor wagered that the Empire would lose more than a quarter of its supporters overnight. It was to such a grand, ostentatious display of military might, and guile that Xizor could only begrudgingly admire that damned Jedi. His persistence, and cunning were truly inspiring. Where he had been close to releasing the captured Jedi into Palpatine's custody, securing a seat at the table so to speak, Xizor had stayed his hand. The memories of his swift demise, and resurrection had come to the fore. 

Those sickly sweet promises of immortality…the most recent reemergence of Padmé Amidala after her long absence. Xizor was no fool, he could see this long term, malevolent signal from a million miles away. This action of Revan's was both promise and threat, a carrot and stick worthy of only the most powerful and influential. Worthy only of Xizor! 

He swallowed his drink hard, then slammed the glass down upon the armrest.

“Five months.” Xizor said listlessly to himself. 

Glancing at the holoprojector directly across from him, he stared at it for a solid five minutes-like he had every day since that day-yearning, hoping. Yet it was not to be. Sighing to himself, Xizor was going to press a button-summoning his droid for another drink-when suddenly, the holoprojector began to beep. 

Only one being in the galaxy possessed this frequency.

Xizor’s slit-pupiled eyes narrowed.

Revan.

With a calculated motion, he smoothed his tunic, straightened his posture, and set the lightsaber aside, and out of view. When he answered the call, he did not bow. Instead, he settled back into his throne. A predator’s calm graced his features, and he regarded the incoming projection with the disdain of a master addressing his servant. 

If Revan wished to speak, let him.

This time, Xizor would not kneel.