Chapter 48

Coruscant, Coruscant System

Corusca Sector

The sun was rising over Coruscant, twilight’s gloom lingering over a new day upon the bleak, gasping heart of the Republic. It was once thought that even amidst the greatest conflict the galaxy had seen in a millenia, the blazing soul that was Coruscant never faltered in her relentless march onwards.

They were proven wrong. For the first time in one thousand years, her relentless march had faltered.

Coruscant was dying.

It has been a month since Coruscant was struck by a freak storm from Foerost, and the world has yet to recover. Coruscant Prime, their system’s feeble star, was little more than a whimpering white spark over their heads, like a flickering street lamp on a rainy night. Because Coruscant’s orbital mirrors that once reflected and amplified her sun’s paltry strength, were gone, shattered to a fine crystal mist that traversed the overcast sky, catching what little daylight there was left and refracting it into an ephemeral aurora, lit ablaze as it descended through the atmosphere, one layer at a time.

A shadow over Barriss’ head, and what might have once been day in the Senate District was suddenly engulfed in a nocturnal gloom. The planet’s industrial arcologies were still churning out smoke and ash in an endless cycle of activity to manufacture new construction materials to repair the damage Galactic City had sustained. The raiders had focused on bombarding military sites such as the Coruscant Flight Academy, Clone Barracks, and the Centre for Military Operations, but when those targets were built upon an accumulated millennia of subterranean infrastructure, there was no limiting the damage done.

There had to be permacrete to rebuild the shipyards, and duracrete for the arcologies. There had to be I-beams for the structural supports. There had to be transparisteel and clari-crystal to fix the shattered facades of glittering skyscrapers. And there had to be an endless amount of them to restore Coruscant to her former glory.

Even if that meant killing what’s left of the sun.

Barriss breathed out. Mist escaped from her lips.

It was cold.

There were no seasons on Coruscant. Her orbital mirrors had always ensured the right temperature and climate globally, all-year round. But they were gone now. And now winter has been introduced to a world with no seasons, one that might never end.

The grief was nearly unbearable. Living on the surface, one may forget that they were walking and talking over the heads of billions, trillions of souls trapped in the Underworld, one-hundred thousand years of accumulated civilization. With power shortages and rolling blackouts thrashing even the rich cityscape above, how must they be living below, with neither heat nor light? Suffocating to death was more likely, and it would be a mercy.

The grief was unbearable. It was a chill, constant presence that clung to her skin like frost. It poured out from the smokestacks in the industrial parks, snuck its way through the cracks in broken tiles, and screamed through the underworld shipping portals, hoping for anybody to listen. It was present on Atraken, it was present over Columex, and it was present on Coruscant. That was war. It brought grief to all, without reprieve. To fight for either side was to make grief your trade, and the galaxy your market.

Barriss breathed out again. She tried to catch the mist curling from her lips, but it escaped through her fingers.

The grief was unbearable, and it was screaming. And everybody pretended not to hear. It was easier to curse the flickering candle, wilfully ignorant of those who lived in complete darkness.

Barriss stood in the centre of the training grounds, surrounded by ornate tiling and wilting leaves of ashen gold. The ancient tree that stood there was once a comfortable presence, for all who called the Jedi Temple their home, but to Barriss, it was a sad, lonely thing. The only one of its kind for leagues around. It was dying now, too, along with Coruscant. Along with the Jedi Order.

“Barriss,” a familiar voice awoke her from her self-induced reverie, one she had thought she would give everything to hear again, “How long have you been here?”

“Master Luminara,” Barriss now felt nothing but a kindling of relief that her Master was alive and well, “It eases me greatly to find you in fine health.”

“As do I, Barriss.”

A silence lingered. It has been a year since Barriss last saw her Master, and there were too many things to say, so much so that they lodged in her throat and refused to come out.

“…I’m sorry,” Master Luminara said finally, honestly. The wind was biting, but neither of them noticed, “I know you think I failed you. I cannot blame you. I think so too. There is no need for words at this time. Maybe our relationship will never be the same again… but let it be known I have never been prouder.”

“I kept your teachings close to heart, Master,” Barriss wanted to cry, but her eyes remained stubbornly dry. Maybe that was a good thing. “I return thanks to them.”

“No…” the Jedi Master murmured, “Give thanks to the Force. Welcome back.”

Barriss bowed her head, and for a brief moment the wind could not reach her, “I admit myself back under your tutelage, Master.”

When she raised her head again, she found her Master smiling, a mix of pride and sadness.

“The Council wishes to speak to you, Barriss.”

That was neither affirmation, nor denial. Returning into the warm embrace of the Jedi Temple, Barriss was once again struck by the sense of unfamiliarity. The Temple she returned to was the same as the Temple she left. The once vibrant halls were now empty, and the few Jedi who remained drifted through the galleries and chambers like ancient ghosts, absorbed in their own worlds. Their footsteps echoed loudly.

“The Temple…” she murmured, unable to hold it in.

“Fewer and fewer Jedi remain with each passing day,” Master Luminara folded her arms into her robes, “Despite our every attempt to distance ourselves from the war, it drags us right back in. Every time we suffer a defeat, Strategic Command demands more Jedi Generals to make up for our losses. Every time we win a great victory, Strategic Command demands more Jedi General to maintain our successes. With our reputation already leery, we cannot afford to say no. And with the rest of us preoccupied aiding relief efforts across Coruscant, including facilitating the evacuation crisis in the northern and southern poles… this is the result.”

“Then the Council… what does the Council want from me?”

Master Luminara craned her head upwards, admiring the frescoes dancing across the ceiling. Barriss caught a glimpse of the interlocking diamond tattooed on her Master’s chin, wondering if there were now more of them. There didn’t look to be. In Mirialan culture, each tattoo signified a major achievement. She lightly touched her own tattoos, inked across her cheeks and over the bridge of her nose.

Her elder Mirialan noticed, as she always did; “It’s been some time since I have held a needle, but you have earned new ones.”

Master Luminara dodged her question again, yet answered it more clearly than she ever could. In all honesty, Barriss found herself unsure if she was worthy, or even ready, for what was to come.

The turbolift ride was agonisingly long. With every rumble of the carriage, the screaming in her ears faded just little more. And by the time the two of them stood in the middle of the High Council Chamber, surrounded by the pinnacle of Jedi Masters, towering above even the skyline of Coruscant…

I can’t hear the screaming anymore.

It was muted. As if the world had been muffled by something deep and unfathomable, and… pervasive; like a sudden plunge into an infinite sea, and cold, salty water clutching the skin. This… is this the ‘peace’ and ‘serenity’ the Jedi Code imposes? Has it always been this way? Then I want no part of it any longer.

How could she? How could she willingly deafen herself so uncomfortably, and shut herself away from reality like a child in tantrum?

She blinked, and looked around. The first person to catch her eye was the towering figure of Anakin Skywalker, who had obviously just emerged from a heated conversation with the Council. Then was the Council themselves. Of the twelve Masters at the start of the war, nine were left. Of the three now with the Force, Barriss had personally witnessed the departure of one of them. Master Oppo Rancisis’ seat was now inhabited by Master Stass Allie, the second Tholothian on the Council, following Master Adi Gallia. And similarly to Master Gallia, Master Allie was not known for any outstanding combat techniques, but rather her political and diplomatic prowess, making her suited not so much for the frontline as the Senate Building.

Barriss took it as a sign of the times, and evidence of where the Jedi Order’s current priorities lay.

“I bring my Padawan as requested, Master Yoda,” Master Luminara bowed as she shuffled back.

“Thank you, Master Luminara,” the Grand Master waved his cane, “And made, your argument has been, Knight Skywalker,”

Master Skywalker retreated, a deep frown apparent upon his features as he turned around, though at the sight of her it was replaced by a tug at the corner of his lip and a shallow nod.

“We have already foregone the trials,” Master Gallia lounged back, “We need every Knight we can get. What makes this different?”

“Never before have we knighted a Padawan so quickly after they had just returned from serving the enemy,” Master Windu argued, all but confirming Barriss’ suspicions, “What risks–”

“I would appreciate it if you did not question the integrity of my student before her, Master Windu,” Master Luminara interrupted calmly, but firmly, “We have meditated on this matter, and the will of the Force is clear. Any further obstruction could only be viewed as deliberate obstinacy.”

“I am inclined to agree,” Master Kenobi smiled wryly, “Though admittedly it would be highly hypocritical of me not to, considering the circumstances of my own Padawan’s Knighthood.”

“Has this young Padawan not already passed the Trial of Skill, when she fought the dark assassin Asajj Ventress and survived?” Master Kit Fisto grinned as he spoke, “And did she not pass the Trial of Courage when she chose to do so, knowing it may well have cost her life, for the greater good of the Republic?”

“The Trial of Flesh, passed when she was torn away from her Master, and fought to return, flinching but never failing in the light,” Master Shaak Ti mused.

“We have deliberated that the whole ordeal the young Padawan has suffered was her Trial of Spirit,” Master Plo Koon’s gravelly voice struck out, “She faced the mirror, asked her questions, and made her answers. Young Padawan, have you found your resolve strengthened?”

“I have.”

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“And your answers?”

Barriss looked each Jedi Master in the eye, sweeping across the Council. She could feel Master Luminara’s calm certainty, and Master Skywalker’s natural confidence. She let them bolster and she gathered to give her answer.

“The Jedi Order has failed.”

“No, I think we can all agree on that front,” Master Gallia swiftly raised a fist to interrupt any ired response, now leaning forward in rapt curiosity, “Come, Barriss, tell us how you reached that conclusion.”

“The only thing the Jedi Order has achieved by joining and fighting this war is being complicit in the spread of slaughter and misery,” Barriss clenched her fist.

“Are you saying we should have allowed Dooku’s Sith to wage this war against the Republic without consequence?” Master Windu demanded.

“We have done nothing to Dooku,” she gritted her teeth next, “Count Dooku still sits in his palace on Serenno. Do you think he cares about how many Separatists we murder? Do you think he cares about how many worlds are razed and salted? We are doing his work for him. All we are doing is pushing more people to his side. Our mistake was fighting for the Republic, when we should have been fighting to end the war.”

“Like you have?” Master Even Piell raised a scarred eyebrow, “When you decided to serve the Separatists?”

“Republic. Separatists,” Barriss said bitterly, “I thought that too. I cursed myself for it, when I realised that the only way to live was to join the enemy, and I cursed myself more when I realised I wanted to live, even if it meant joining the enemy. But what does it matter? Loyalists. Separatists. They’re people. I may have been on a Separatist frigate, but do you think I regret trying to stop a Jedi Master from slaughtering thousands of refugees?”

A pulse in the Force. Pong Krell was an accursed name to all of them, one that did more irreparable damage to the Jedi Order than any other, no matter the reasons for his fall.