Singularity Case, Chapter 1

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Chapter 1
            Csaplar, Csilla, Chiss Ascendancy, 5 BBY

            The sharp tone of the steel pipes echoed through the frozen air as they haphazardly struck each other. Within the confines of the of the training arena, the reports of combat rang out like the projectile weapons of the early colonial days, and snow flurries danced about much as the two warriors who sought to land a disabling hit upon their opponents. The warriors, their blue skin showing the dark lines of sweat that was freezing as quickly as it formed, had eschewed their formal attack and defense forms for simpler strategies driven by reflex and emotion.
            Teris’andron’uruodo , Sandro as he was called sometimes, smiled as he watched the combatants from his seat, seven levels up from the combat floor. These two warriors were young and lacked the discipline that would make them proper Expansionary Defense Force soldiers, but he had to admit he admired their determination. He could remember a time when his own movements were that fast, but the decades had robbed him of such energy.
            Then again, he thought, perhaps that’s why wisdom waxes as physical strength wanes. Too many of these attacks are easy to predict.
            The warrior on the left swung his weapon, a staff made of simple steel, up at a diagonal. It was an attempt to overpower his opponent, Sandron mused. The warrior on the right, perhaps gaining a portion of wisdom on her own, took a half-step back and struck the incoming weapon with her own, moving with her opponent’s inertia and adding her own strength to the

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motion. The leftside warrior, overbalanced, tried to compensate for the additional force of his attack. Moving his right leg forward, he moved with his attack.
            Sandron could all but sense the smile of the rightside warrior as she reversed her staff’s motion, catching her opponent behind his knee and sending him sprawling onto the snow-covered sparring ground. The sound of the impact was a dull thud when it reached its observer. The rightside warrior quickly positioned the lower end of her staff against her opponents’ neck in a clear signal of victory.
            “They’ve plenty of zeal, don’t they, Sandron?” an amused alto voice asked. Sandron quickly looked to his left, tracking the voice, but the voice was familiar enough to him for him to relax his shoulders from old warriors’ habits.
            It was Senator Dala’ribis’oloun, looking resplendent in her deep green winter robe. The red glow of her pupils were dimmer than normal; Sandron guessed she had only recently arrived at Csaplar from her colony world, Loun. Her movements toward Sandron were as halting as his own, but carried the same wariness of age, as well.
            Sandrons’ smile deepened as he watched the senator walk toward him. She still held the ethereal beauty he remembered. Her long hair, held up in a practical knot behind her head, was still so black as to have blue highlights, complimenting her dark blue skin. Sandrons’ own hair had nearly lost all of its’ original black; the gray of age marked him for all to see.
            “As I recall, Aribi,” Sandron murmured, “you had used that exact same technique on me when we fought. I knew it amused me for some reason.”
            “And well it should,” Aribi said, smiling. She leaned her head toward the warriors. “That is my granddaughter, and a very apt student.”

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            “Oh dear,” Sandron said, chuckling. “That poor boy.”
            Said ‘poor boy’ was resting in the snow, and Sandron could almost hear his laughter. The victorious warrior was laughing as well as she leaned down to offer her hand and pull him up.
            “With luck,” Aribi said, her smile in her voice, “the boy will learn faster than you did.” She stood next to Sandron and rested her elbows on the rail, continuing to look down upon the sparring match. “I hope so, at least. We’ll need such warriors soon enough.”
            Sandron raised a quizzical eyebrow at her. Aribi’s voice had lost its playfulness, growing rather firm. “That sounded portentous, Senator,” he said, his own tone mirroring hers. “What do you mean by it?”
            “Oh,” Aribi breathed, waving a negligent hand toward him. “Keep your hackles down, Sandron. I was simply thinking to the future.”
            Sandron nodded. “You’re here to discuss the Naistram Proposal with the Ascendancy,” he guessed.
            Aribi nodded. “For such a minor house,” she said, “the Naistram do have merit in what they want to attempt.” She watched as the warriors below stretched before their next bout. “It would, at least, give our ‘gifted’ citizens a greater purpose if they could become Durn’Loch.”
            Sandron thinned his lips at that. The ‘gifted’ citizens, as Aribi called them, were those beings who could call upon the ambiguous power called ‘the Force’. He could recall stories from beyond Chiss Space about beings and organizations built entirely around this power; the Jedi from the Old Republic were the most well-known. Those stories were filled with moments where such beings could take over the minds of others, or cause heavy objects to simply lift and fly without effort, or call down lightning to kill whoever they wished.

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            Dangerous people, Sandron thought. The Ascendancy had adopted a policy of monitoring these individuals when they were found. In the past, Sandron knew that the Jedi, or perhaps some other group, sought out these individuals and took them away. What became of them, Sandron was never certain, but there were always rumors. The Durn’Loch, on the other hand, were active members of the Ascendancy. Those individuals could, if House Naistram was successful, use their ‘gifts’ for the betterment of their people.
            “What do you think the Ascendancy will say?” he asked.
            Aribi grinned at him. “What I think is ultimately immaterial, Sandron,” she said. “I am from a minor House, tasked with the governing of my worlds. Your own House is the military arm of the Ascendancy. I’d daresay your opinion would carry more weight.”
            Sandron tilted his head to the side, acknowledging the point. “If Naistram could prove the effectiveness of their program,” he said, “then their House would rise and gain power within the Ascendancy, ever ready to answer the call to service. If they fail in their task, those ‘gifted’ beings would become targets of their own people. They’d be known to us, and we’d be aware of their potential power and threat.” He was silent for a long moment before the statement could be drawn out. “They’d have to be destroyed.”
            “So,” Aribi finished for him, “they need to succeed and become tools for the Ascendancy or die.”
            Sandron nodded. “Essentially, yes,” he said.
            The warriors on the ground floor had taken up their staffs, bowed to each other, and began circling again. The ringing of weapon strikes would soon echo throughout the arena again.

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            “If what I’ve heard is true,” Aribi said quietly, “then Naistram will get its chance to prove itself. The Moáctan are on the move again.”
            The words hung heavily in the air between the two, and Sandron could almost feel the cold of his surroundings.
            “When?” he asked.
            “Three weeks ago,” Aribi said. “We received reports from our patrols at the border. One known outsider ship, the Duroon Wasp, escaped pursuit and left Chiss Space from one of my colonies. It was carrying the Moáctan, and I believe they traded our navigational data to the trader for transport.”
            Sandron narrowed his eyes to slits, thinking. “How did they escape in the first place?” he asked.
            Aribi sighed. “The same way as last time,” she said. “Devoted followers. Some new converts released ‘Lord Moáctan’ and his inner circle, secured transport for them, and defended them during the escape.”
            “And now the Duroon Wasp has the coordinates to Csilla,” Sandron said, suddenly tired. “We have to get that data back.”
            “Agreed,” Aribi said.
            Sandron gave her a suspicious look. “You’re telling me this to ensure I’d support the Naistram Proposal before the Ascendancy,” he accused.
            Aribi shrugged. “The Ascendancy exiled one of our greatest military minds nearly twenty years ago,” she said. “All because we cannot accept striking first to protect our territory. The Moáctan are the vanguard of the same threat Mitth’rawn’uruodo wanted to protect us from. If

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the Moáctan are not stopped from whatever they’re planning, Chiss Space will face more threats than it can handle. We’ll need every tool at our disposal to compensate for our own shortcomings. The Naistram House could be a very useful tool, and the Nuruodo House would never discard such a useful tool, again.”
            Sandron sighed. “For a member of a minor House,” he said, “you’re very adept at manipulating a major House to fulfill your wishes.”
            Aribi smiled at that. “Thank you, Aristocra Teris’andron’uruodo,” she said. “Whatever my people need to survive.”
************************************************************************
                “Try again, Zino!” Venna said, stifling a laugh. “I’m sure you’ll get it this time!”
                Zino grimaced over his shoulder at his fellow trainee, who was standing atop a raised platform at the far side of the exercise yard. Kost, the third trainee in their class, stood beside her with his arms crossed, his red eyes glowing with restrained humor.
                “It’s an advanced technique, Zino,” Kost said. “Only a Journeyman Durn’Loch can manage the ability.”
                “First time for everything,” Zino grunted, wiping sweat out of his eye. Csilla may be frozen over on the surface, but the training ground was several levels below ground and heated.
                “Have the system reset the program, Venna,” Zino called out, setting his feet in preparation.
                The exercise yard for the Durn’Loch was designed to be multi-purpose, for trainees to use their various abilities in specific encounters. At its base program, it was a simple, flat-tiled square fifty meters across with smaller squares marked on the floor for individual trainees. With a more complex program, the yard would add elevation to the floor, forming hillocks and valleys. If a trainee proved to have greater

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ability, the yard would include moveable objects or even simple droids for combat or infilitration exercises.
                Venna, holding the datapad for controlling the yards’ functions, nodded and tapped at the screen.
                The yard shifted its contours, the tiles moving about on small repulsorlifts and locking together with magnetic clamps. They turned from horizontal planes to vertical, forming a narrow avenue in front of Zino. Meanwhile, several droids were ushered into the avenue, populating the area as if it were a crowded street between two buildings.
                When the yard had completed its movements, Venna’s datapad gave two soft beeps. “It’s ready,” she called. “Starting the Cloak Challenge Program.”
                Zino, looking into the ‘avenue’, nodded his acknowledgment of her words. Narrowing his eyes in concentration, he willed his thoughts into sharp focus, imagining shards of glass floating before his eyes. As his focus increased, the shards lined up with each other and held, forming crystalline structures in his imagination. He could almost hear their clinking as they collected, becoming diamonds that reflected the lights overhead.
                The lights going through those crystalline structures started to bend and twist, and Zino stepped forward into the mental construct.
                The diamonds moved with him as he concentrated, bending light around him, refusing to let it touch his skin and reveal his presence to anything dependent upon light for vision. As a consequence, his own eyes were denied the same light, and the yard grew darker and colder.
                Holding his breath in an unnecessary habit, Zino continued forward and walked by the first droid in the avenue.
                He could feel his nervousness grow as he prowled forward. The droid, its photoreceptors blazing in a search protocol, panned over him as it scanned for him.

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                The droids’ head slowed as it looked toward him…and continued, as if it had not seen him.
                He’d done it!
                Jubilation coursed through Zino’s body and he could not help but smile. The movement of so many unnecessary muscles made one of the diamonds in his mind crack, and his vision grew lighter.
                In an instant, the droid turned its head back to him and struck, a leg sweeping out and connecting with the back of his knee. The sudden pain startled him, and the mental constructs shattered as he fell onto his back. The droid, programmed to act as a sentry, immediately pounced on his prone from, metal fist descending to his face.
                “Hold!” Venna cried out, and the fist stopped. It was so close that Zino’s nose brushed against a metallic knuckle. He let out a small yelp in reflexive fear, but when it became clear that he was not about to be pummeled, he groaned and relaxed his focus.
                A few taps on the datapad sounded out, and the droids began withdrawing as the floor tiles moved back to their bases. Zino stayed on the ground, letting the adrenaline run through his system until his reflexes caught up with the scenario. It was a long moment before the noise of the yard had died down enough for him to hear clapping.
                Still on his back, Zino craned his head to look back at his fellow trainees. Kost was clapping, the motion slow and deliberate.
                “All right, Zino!” Kost said, smiling as he clapped. “You almost made it that time! What was that, nearly ten meters into the exercise?”
                “Eight, I think,” Zino said, reflexively honest. With an effort, he levered himself onto his side and pushed until he was resting on his knees.
                Kost ended his clapping and stepped into the yard toward him. When he was near enough, he held out a hand. “What gave it away this time, you think?” he asked.
                “I smiled,” Zino groaned. “The movement was too much for the technique, and it collapsed.”

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                Kost grinned. “Meaning you got arrogant,” he said.
                Zino scowled and did not answer, but he did take the proffered hand. Venna had approached while he was being helped to his feet.
                “Nine meters,” Venna said, holding out the datapad for them to observe. “You almost made it past the first sentry; another half-meter and you would have been successful.”
                Zino sighed as he watched the replaying of the attempt. “Sometimes I wonder if the Mentor changes their sensitivity just to mess with us,” he said.
                “You’d be correct, Tirgo’zino’naistram,” a deep and resonant voice called out.
                All three trainees hunched their shoulders, suddenly resembling truant school children caught by their headmaster.
                To be fair, Zino thought to himself, that was not far off the mark.
                At the far side of the training yard, an older male Chiss was standing in an open doorway. Holding a severe expression on his face, he put his hands in his pockets and waited for his apprentices to stop their twitching.
                “Yep, he’s mad,” Kost muttered. “He always pockets his hands, so we don’t see the twitching.”
                Zino grimaced but straightened his back and bowed to the older Chiss, with Kost and Venna following suit. “Apologies, Mentor Zuruna,” he said.
                Zuruna raised a raven eyebrow at Zino. “You apologize,” he said. “Care to explain for what you’re making this apology?”
                “Oh no,” Venna muttered. “Now he’s going formal.”
                “Shut up,” Kost muttered back, “or we’ll be peeling tubers for a fortnight.”
                “Er…well, sir,” Zino stammered. “I apologize for using the training yard without sanction, for attempting an advanced technique within the yard, and for convincing my fellow trainees to attend my

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attempt.” He bowed to his Mentor again, this time holding the pose and staring at the floor. “It is entirely my fault, and my colleagues are not to blame at all. I will accept any punishment you decide.”
                Zuruna did not speak for several moments. Zino held his pose, not daring to look up and see the reaction. Mentor Darz’urun’aistram was a harsh taskmaster, nearly legendary for his temper, and Zino was certain that even if he accepted Zino’s apology, he’d find a suitable punishment for all three just to prove a point.
                The low chuckle that struck his ears was the last thing he expected to hear. It rose to a rumbling laugh that brought Zino to break his bearing and look up, confused.
                Zuruna had removed his hands from his pockets and was holding them behind his back, shaking his head in his amusement. “You may relax,” he said, “all of you.”
                The three trainees visibly relaxed, looking at each other in search of understanding.
                “I know I treat you hard,” Zuruna said, “and I have good reason for it, as we Durn’Loch are mistrusted by our own people even while they look to us to handle tasks the Expansionary and Defense Forces can’t or won’t take on. But I won’t punish you for attempting to prove yourselves, especially in an environment as safe and controlled as this place.”
                “Si…Sir?” Kost asked, visibly stumped. “So, you’re not mad?”
                Zuruna’s stern expression flashed for a moment before his smile returned. “More disappointed than mad,” he said. “You’ve had free access to this exercise yard for a month, and it’s only now that you’re trying to push beyond your limits. I was expecting you to try Cloaking far sooner, especially you, Tirgo’zino’naistram. I never thought I’d ever have to tell my best students to be more ambitious.”
                “Thank you, sir?” Venna said, making the statement a question. “We’ll try better next time.”
                “Unfortunately,” Zuruna said, his voice becoming stern again, “you three won’t have a ‘next time’, as it were.”
                That statement gave all three trainees pause, but Zuruna held out a placating hand.

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                “That’s not meant to be a threat,” he said. “You three are being activated. The Ascendancy has approved of the Naistram Proposal and given the Durn’Loch missions beyond Chiss Space.”
                Zino’s eyes widened in surprise and looked to see the same expression on Kost and Venna. “Really, sir?” he asked, looking back at his Mentor. “We were under the impression that the Proposal would take weeks to decide on.”
                “Normally, you’d be right,” Zuruna said gravely. “But matters beyond your current awareness have lent alacrity to our leaders’ decisions. Ako’stana’istram, Leiv‘enna’istram,” he paused, holding out two datapads, “you are bound for the Aeten system. Details of your missions are in these datapads. Study them and make ready; you ship out in a day.”
                Kost and Venna bowed and began approaching their Mentor. Both stole glances at Zino, but one look at Zuruna’s expression aborted any attempt to make their inquiries. Zino nodded at both of them, silently wishing them luck as they took their assignments and left through the doorway behind Zuruna.
                When the door slid closed, Zino tried to hold a more stoic expression on his face, but he knew his worry was beginning to show. Zuruna stared at Zino for long, silent moments before sighing.
                “Tirgo’zino’naistram,” he said, fishing out a third datapad, “you will have a separate mission from your compatriots.”
                “I’m sorry, Mentor?” Zino asked. “I thought we were going to be working as a team.”
                “When necessary, you will,” Zuruna replied. “But you’ve had the misfortune of showing competence. You’ve a talent that put you above your fellow trainees, so you’re being given a mission that will demand more of you.”
                Zino stared at his Mentor before speaking. “What do you mean, sir?”
                “I mean, Zino,” Zuruna said, and the use of his core name grabbed Zino’s full attention, “that while the Durn’Loch is normally meant to observe our neighbors and keep them from getting too close to our nation, your showing a talent for Cloaking means you get more dangerous missions. You’re going