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Master Darach said that it was a simple task. That he had received a message about someone potentially smuggling artifacts — Sith artifacts — from Korriban. They were the closest Jedi to respond to the problem. A simple, quick run to help check on the errant pirate before leaving him for the authorities to deal with.
But nobody was expecting the Sith Empire to return, and certainly not in the form of a fleet, manned by an army, with Sith and soldiers alike.
There is no way for everyone to survive that, not with only two Jedi, a few troopers, and a smuggler; with the element of surprise on their side, the Imperial fleet is likely enough to defeat the entire Republic military.
It is not a game of victory, but of survival, and not one that everyone can win.
Satele winces as an explosion rocks the entire station, tossing the two troopers accompanying them to the ground. Pausing, she turns to glance at them. One is on the ground, unmoving, and she can feel his life drain away through the Force, faster than any kolto could remedy. The other throws off his ruined helmet before pushing himself to his feet. As he straightens, their eyes meet and, though he does not look much older than herself, determination is clear in his expression as he nods.
“Satele!”
Shaking herself, she pivots in time to deflect a blaster bolt, though her distraction is enough that it ricochets off of the wall instead of reaching her target. Her grip on the hilt of her lightsaber tightens as Master Darach turns to give her a look.
Focus.
And yet, when she leaps back into action with her master, she cannot help but imagine the young soldier at her back and hope that he lives.
They are outmatched.
That much is evident from the start. The two Sith have years of experience on her, enough so that even raw instinct is not enough; the younger one, the apprentice, manages to disarm her in a matter of moments and only Master Darach’s quick thinking saves her from certain death. And though he is holding his own well-enough, he cannot last against the two forever.
They can only hope that their attempt to escape on the smuggler’s ship is successful.
“Come on!” The corporal’s shout arrests her attention and a sudden, fierce spark of hope lights in her chest. They may not be able to hold off the Sith from invading, may not be able to win this fight, but they can survive. They can warn the Republic, can live.
It is lost the moment she feels Master Darach’s hand on her shoulder, strong and warm and comforting. A goodbye. “Go, Satele,” he says, his voice gentle but determined, commanding. “You must walk a different path.”
For another second, she hesitates, a protest rising to her lips but it fizzles away as he turns, running away from her, away from their only method of escape. Her arguments will not stop him, will only cost them both precious time.
She glances back at the ship, at the two Sith waiting for him, and then at the lightsaber in her hands. It is a small thing, perhaps not even enough to save him from those two, let alone the entire Imperial Fleet, but it may yet buy him some time. And he has more need of it than her.
“Master!” She flings it toward him, watches him jump up and snatch it out of midair, and turns away before he can land; she does not need to watch to know how it will end, to know that there is no other ending. To know that she will never see him again.
Instead, she takes off towards the ship and the corporal still waiting at the end of the ramp. It is already dangerously out of reach, and she leaps towards the ramp, augmenting it with the Force.
For a second, as it passes by, too fast, too high, and she can't quite reach, her stomach plummets.
And then a hand closes over her wrist, fingers firm as he pulls her up, hardly blinking at the dizzying drop below. As the ramp eases shut behind her, he releases her with the faintest hint of a smile.
A sudden shaking — a collision or perhaps an attack from the waiting fleet, she realizes vaguely — sends him stumbling into her and he audibly curses, then apologizes, his expression oddly bashful.
Before she can respond, the smuggler is yelling from his position in the cockpit — “On those guns! Now!” — and the moment is broken.
She does not see him again until they have made the jump to hyperspace, Master Darach’s death leaving aftershocks that are still rippling through the Force, through her consciousness.
The smuggler, Nico Okarr, agrees to return them to Coruscant with the stipulation that he be absolved of all charges upon arrival. For a moment, she wonders if the corporal will protest but instead, after a brief hesitation, he glances at her, clearly deferring to her judgment.
“Agreed,” she murmurs. “The Republic and the Jedi Order should know that we are at war.”
Okarr snaps a salute sloppy enough that she cannot tell whether it is sincere before returning to the bridge, leaving her alone with the trooper. He says nothing, only watches with eyes filled with so much sympathy that she cannot meet his gaze.
From behind her, the smuggler calls, “It’ll be a few days still till we arrive. No need to just stand there blinking at each other.”
The corporal offers her a small smile before retreating, leaving her to find a quiet place to meditate. She does not leave the room, but finds small trays of food left for her every few hours, and has a sneaking suspicion that she knows exactly who they are from.
And, inexplicably, it eases the grief enough to allow for a small smile.
They are dropped off at the spaceport with all due haste and almost immediately, Okarr is gone, pulling out of the spot as though he is worried they will not keep their word.
The corporal shifts beside her, discomfort dancing across his features. “Where to?” he asks at last.
“Where do you need to go?” Her voice is a little hoarse from lack of use but, to her relief, he says nothing, only offers a thoughtful look.
“The military offices, I suppose. Will you be returning to the temple?”
She considers for a moment. “The Senate should be informed. I believe they would be more receptive if we inform them together.”
Relief flashes across his face so quickly that she wonders if she imagined it. “Lead the way, Master Jedi.”
At the formality, she cannot quite suppress the smile that tugs, unbidden and unexpected, at her lips. “I am not yet a Jedi. Just Satele will do.”
“Satele.” Her name sounds warm, right, on his tongue, and it is suddenly hard to look him in the eyes. “And I'm Jace. Corporal Jace Malcom.”
“Jace,” she repeats. It suits him, she thinks faintly. Strong and confident. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
And, she realizes as she takes his proffered hand and warm fingers close around hers, in spite of the circumstances, it was.