Imperial City, Coruscant


The sun was setting on Imperial City. Commerical towers and residential rises blocked one another for the dominant position against the day's last assault. Shadow embraced all one meter at a time as dusk took its place over Life. Hues of orange and yellow painted the artificial surface of the most populous planet in the Empire-Proper.


" I hate this time of day," muttered a tall, stolid fellow as he glanced from a high-paned window out onto the world of receding light.


" Sir?" asked an aide seated, eet up, before the desk of His Grace, the Viscount Ierin del Forza.


The standing gentleman nodded dismissively and gestured towards the desk with his slender cigarette holder. " Have you seen my orders?"


" I have indeed. What a mission!"


The Viscount let loose a short bark of a laugh. " What a mission! You have no idea. I knew I would be returning somehow, but I didn't imagine it to be this soon."


" Are you anxious to get back, sir?"


Del Forza drew in a sharp breath. " I am. The Emperor Chadd has messed things up nicely and I get to to tidy things. Mikael - summon Admiral Desaria."


" Desaria, sir?"


" That is what my orders say. Go."


The aide snapped to attention, clicked his heels, and bolted towards the door. Before he could leave, however, he heard his superior's reproach: " and keep your feet off of my desk!"

...Prior to Endgame...



A shudder went down her body that was not caused by the rather cool air circulators. She pulled the plush comforter (an apt name for the cloth) closer to her face trying to bury her growing fear.


"Jenice... You will be fine.." the voice, soft and yet with a faint twinge of confidence.


Her mind was furious at her emotional reaction.


Is this how you want to be seen?! it chided and yet, even so, she could not bring herself to even think about an answer for what he had asked.


In itself, it was nothing to be worried about.


Simply traverse the spacelanes to meet one of the most powerful conglomerate executive directors in the galaxy!


Easy, Jenice! A cake-walk!



And yet, her fear was not of the unknown, though (truth be told) she hated unknown variables. That is what helped her to survive for so long.


Because she knew where she was, she knew what to expect and because she knew that it would end.


She had been rescued early on in the New Order's bid for control over Muunillist. Grand Admiral Hyfe and a certain Colonel Simon Kaine had defeated the machinations of her father and of his corporation rendering his power impotent. They did this by making him give up his source of pride, the symbol of his collected achievements, the Towers.


And they gave them to me..


For, after it was all said and done, she was still her father's daughter. Even her time spent as a plaything for those powerful men (both friendly and rivals to her father's company) had proved to further her education.

For men in power needed an audience.


Men in power loved to talk.


She heard the steady exhale of his breathing...

Except you..


But to face another powerful man, even one who would perhaps not ultimately hurt her, would still change her in ways even she could not understand.


Until it happened...


She felt his presence behind her as he moved quietly.


Would you?... would we?



Her mind drifted to her task.


Meet with CEO of Vinda Corporation. Get Vinda to devalue the Corporate Sector Authority's credit. Such a move would allow the Empire to step in and inflate a floundering Cryonics Industries economy giving the Empire access to much needed galactic industries.

Tenloss wouldn't know what hit him until it was too late.

And having control of the galactic industries would go a long way for the Galactic Empire.

Foundation, he had called it.


A lot would ride on her actions. Her fists tighted, clenching the comforter.

She had never been outside of Muunillist's orbit. And now she was to meet with Seth Vinda?


And quite honestly, nevermind how he reacted...how would I react?


Would she gouge the man's eyes out if the man had a playful flirt with her?

Her lips curved in an unexpected smile. Now wouldn't that set his plans back?


As he breathed in quiet rhythm, she exhaled sharply. This experience would changer her. Perhaps change them.. but for the better or worse was yet to be seen.


"I'll go.." she whispered quiety.


Not because the plans of the Empire depended on her... not because she would be venturing off into a realm her father played in, not because she was promised anything..

but, quite simply, because...


..because he asked.



She felt a hand on her shoulder and she slowly turned to look at him.


She half expected, half feared to see the signs of a victory won in his eyes, but she saw none.


Instead, his gaze, still intense, seemed to see things about her that even she could not fathom.


He knew how this was hurting her...


He knew how hard this would be...


..and there was something else there.


As she felt a hand brush away a strand of hair, she saw that spark.



That faint hint of ..


Pride.


She buried her head in his chest and whispered again..


"I'll go.."

Imperial High Command, Coruscant

Present Day...



The sun had finally disappeared below the sheen of metal covering the Imperial City skyline. Lights popped on one at a time until the entireity of the land was filled with a synthetic aura to replace the gone natural luminescence. Spires seemingly pushed out from the surface of the metropolitan planet were wrapped in flashing beacons warning any traveler of their dominating presence.


The Viscount Ierin del Forza, Grand Inquisitor of the Empire, stared out from his 119th storey window into the traffic beyond Command's perimeter. It moved on, unending, as if some divine force propelled the masses onward through the winding steel valleys. War, blockade, disaster - they had all failed in interrupting the flow of commercial traffic and persons through the clouds. He almost marvelled at the collective will to move. Were some one to tell him the congested skylanes imbued purpose, he were likely to believe him.


Such were the thoughts of a fanatic too possessed by intelligence. Until, however, some one dared disturb the sultan of internal security throughout the Empire.


" Your Grace," bowed an aide after entering the room. " Admiral Desaria is arrived for you."


Del Forza needed not turn to see the olive-clad officer standing ahead of the Inquisitoriate attache - the reflection proved ample enough viewer for the Viscount's eyes. " Leave us."


The aide clicked and bowed low, turning and speeding from the chamber with great yet precise speed. More than being intimidated in the presence of a superior, the aide had the presence of an officer whose legs were set on quick-march.


" You sent for me, Your Grace?"


Aristocratically, the arrived flag officer ranked above a mere viscount; in the great scheme of the Imperial hierarchy, the Grand Inquisitor outranked a Fleet Admiral.


" Indeed. Do you remember our last war with the Jutraalian Empire?"


Fleet Admiral Desaria had the urge to shut his eyes but resisted with all energy he could summon. He feared images of the questioned times would flash into being - he could not avert it. As he looked blanky forward into the night sky, his mind's eye replayed the battles, the conquests, the glory - the deaths, the lost ships, the fallen friends.


" I do" he replied what seemed like an eternity later. " I commanded a division at Hoth."


" As did I," came an almost inaudible comment - del Forza had commanded the forces covering the withdrawal of Jutraalian forces when their Death Star had met its end. Louder: " we are both going to return to our roots, then."


For all the hate Desaria had for the Inquisitoriate he could not help but feel a small amount of pity for the Inquisitor. He had endured a grueling career under Fearsons, surmounting the odds to become one of the leaders of his empire. Then he had been dragged with Fearsons into the ash heap of history as the latter destroyed his own creation. Only his entrance into the Empire had saved any pride he had left though a cloud had followed him since.


" ...we are going to Jutraalia, you and I."


" We are?" asked the aristocratic officer, promoted full Fleet Admiral only a matter of weeks before.


" Yes, Admiral. You are your command have been detailed to aide me in my mission."


Desaria had an uncrontollable pang of dread in his stomach. Joint operations with Intelligence or the Inquisitoriate never went well.


" With all due respect, Inquisitor, the Fleet is not a transport service."


Grand Inquisitor Ierin del Forza chorttled slightly, his shoulders bouncing in his dim silhouette as he did. " Too true. But if things do not go as planned, your Destroyers will be needed in their native role."


" I would like these orders in writing." As a Fleet Admiral, Desaria felt much more secure challanging the Inquisitor, but was not repared to object without the support of fact.


" Of course. Grand Marschall Kaine's office drafted them for you in case you wanted them."


Desaria was taken aback - Kaine had known him for a long time, and the Fleet Admiral's disdain for all services non-combatant was legendary. However, if he said to go, then there he would go.


" Just what will we be transporting?"


Del Forza turned to face the Baron. " Four brigades of the Crimson Guard."


The demilitarization of the Inquisitoriate had been overseen but Desaria himself, eliminating them as a rival to the Army. They had managed to keep four brigades which they armed with disruptors - the most painful weapons in the galaxy - and made into fanatical devotees. They were an arrogant lot and to a man willing to follow any order without question. They were not the brightest bunch but by far they were the most intimdating.


The Fleet Admiral shuddered as he departed the room. Only the rain drowned out his nurmuring.







(have to finish)

The past…

Utropollus Major

This time, Macbeth said nothing to the guards as he was dragged down the dingy hallways towards the visitation area. Compliantly he allowed himself to be led into the small room with the concrete walls divided by the transparisteel, and to be plunked down in front of the one woman he was certain would be on his side; Elha. A cigarra in hand and a sullen look on her face, the woman whose sister he was on trial for raping sat with relative calm before him. The dark circles under her eyes matched his own, but her eyes blazed with a kind of bitter defiance, whereas his seemed dead or dying. “Elha,” he said tentatively.

“What do you want?” She asked. “Make it short. They said you wanted to talk to me, so talk.”

Macbeth blinked slowly. “Well, I wanted to apologize, first of all.”

“For what? For what you did to my sister?”

Macbeth sat staring wide eyed at her, the sting of betrayal again biting at the lining of his stomach. The words resonating inside his head, he choked out, “You know I didn’t do it.”

“Oh, you may not have personally been there to kill her. But this is your fault. I came to you for help, and what you got me was my sister raped and murdered. I don’t know what sort of reckless, self-indulgent quest you were on, but you fucked up. And now, my sister is dead. Whether you killed her is totally semantic.”

“What are you talking about?” Macbeth asked. “I helped you. I was trying to help you. I did the best I could.” He was babbling, unable to come to terms with this final betrayal. “I did the right thing.”

“And now Relina is dead. Is that what you wanted? You drew her in – with your words, those little smiles you were always giving her. I know she visited you without me. That’s where she was going that night, probably with more files for that bloody, bloody case.”

“You mean the case you opened?”

“And now she’s dead,” Elha repeated.

“But you know I didn’t do it,” Macbeth said desperately, pleadingly. “Look, you must have heard, the trial isn’t going well. M’krah has thirty lawyers working for him, churning out more evidence every day. Shevil has nothing – he doesn’t even want to have anything. Your testimony could save me – insert some doubt at least. I’m on the chopping block, Elha.”

“Then maybe you should ask yourself why.”

Macbeth looked sadly at his feet. “Because I helped you?”

“Because you got my sister killed, Macbeth. If I testify, then what happens? M’krah comes after me again, M’krah’s lawyers make sure he never gets charged, nothing goes away and I live with a black mark on my head until I wind up dead in an alley or poor as dirt. Maybe you deserve to hang for what you’ve done.”

“That’s what this is about, isn’t it? You’re afraid?”

Elha stood up, and glanced behind her. Immediately, two guards burst through the doors on Macbeth’s side, grabbing him and beginning to, once again, haul him away. “You’re making a fucking mistake – a fucking mistake! What the fuck are you doing – ?”



Thom Wyat stood there making pretty speeches, surrounded by a crowd of reporters, all of them hungrily scrounging for a story. Like locusts they assaulted, in tandem, a hive mind of vicious greed pandering to the lowest intellectual denominator. The Venn Macbeth story had become something of a small tabloid fascination, destined mostly for quick slots on the evening holonews and repetitive coverage on talk shows.

Macbeth eyed him from down the hall, where he sat silently on a court bench, conveniently unrecognized. Thom had been brought onto the prosecution’s team as outside counsel shortly after the prosecution phase of the trial had ended and the defense had begun. His obvious bias – as an employee of the Vexan Corporation – had been overlooked, apparently.

Macbeth, robbed of his own defense and knowing that no other lawyer would represent him in such a public, losing trial, had calmly sat there and watched his life be ripped to pieces. DNA evidence, written and verbal testimony, all scarcely refuted by a reluctant Shevil. And so now Thom Wyat preached from the top of his pedestal to a legion of cameras. “Today, we will see justice done. I am confident that the integrity in the hearts of the fine men and women on that jury will see to it; I am confident they will not let such a dangerous man as Venn Macbeth slip through their fingers.”

Questions were shouted and replied to with inconsequential answers. Macbeth just looked on with casual anguish, knowing as always this eventuality was out of his hands. There was nothing to be done, nothing at all. When the reporters, bade by the courthouse guards, dispersed, Macbeth approached his old friend. Why, he would never know; perhaps he wanted to feel the knife in his back driven deeper. Thom looked at him like he was dirt. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know,” Macbeth answered truthfully. “Why are you doing this? Why are you part of this?”

Thom didn’t respond.

“You lied to me. You knew all along.”

Thom still didn’t respond for a while. Then, as a lovely young family – a handsome father, attractive wife and young daughter – strode through the sliding transparisteel doors of the Plato District Courthouse, he looked back at the man who had once been his friend. “See that?”

“Yes.”

“Children are great. I have two of my own now, you know. How are the wife and kids, anyway? They been to see you at the jail?””

Macbeth gritted his teeth.

“No? Probably best for them, keeping their distance. Shit[/i] seems to circle you like a storm, Venn. Wouldn’t want them to get caught up in it.” Thom looked into Macbeth’s eyes and smiled good naturedly. “Would you?”



The court reporter pounded away at her holoterminal, and the judge slammed his gavel repeatedly as the din died down and the jury returned from their hour-long recess. Only an hour. Macbeth knew what that meant. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”

“We have, your honor,” juror number one said. “On the charge of aggravated sexual assault with intent to maim against Relina Kvel, we find the defendant guilty.” Macbeth stopped listening. He didn’t need to hear this to know what lay in store. Only one word penetrated his consciousness, over and over; guilty.

Guilty.

Guilty.

Guilty.

“As explained to you earlier, you were also to reach a verdict on the punishment to be allotted Mr. Macbeth based on the guidelines of the Utropollan Criminal Code,” the judge continued. “Taking into account the severity of these crimes and the duration of the sentence, served consecutively, have you come to a conclusion on this matter?”

“We have, your honor. We, the jury, find that in accordance with section…”

And once again, powerless to stop it, Macbeth slipped into a trance. He knew, too, what this would be. The response was expected, engrained into his mind over the weeks preceding. It was only to be expected for a man who had only tried to do the right thing.

Death.

Endgame Finale




The man in the black and gray uniform of the 256th watched from the orbit of his aging warship at the vision before him. The once symbol of strength and order in the galaxy, Coruscant lay open and bare before him…ready to submit.

He watched as the embers of the Republic were stamped
out, the hourly reports coming in over the temporary military holonet system.


He had done the impossible and retaken Imperial Center.


I've retaken home..


He knew he had been born on Coruscant and had remained
there until he was about five years old...but the images he held of that time were few and sometimes indistinguishible.

It was here that his mother sacrificed her life so that he might live.

It was here that his father betrayed the secure world of a young Simon Kaine.

He did not care that his father had betrayed the Empire.. no.. his father had done something far worse.


He betrayed my mother...


He betrayed me..



After so many years of fighting..first for the simple (or not so simple) matter of survival, then for acceptance, and later for domination..


...After decades of conflict the young boy had grown into a man who had learned the art keeping his own counsel.


And yet, looking at the his old home, nearly forgotten, once buried emotions threatened to surface.



The lost answer to his life-long question that he never really expected to find seemed suddenly relevant.


And yet, even as the question rose within his mind, he knew that he would never.. could never... have the answer.



Why?



What motivation started my journey?




"General? Incoming transmission. Eyes only." came a voice behind him.


"From?"


"Grand Admiral Hyfe and Grand Admiral Zell."


Simon felt the old emotions within him subside as new ones surfaced.


They three had been through quite a bit, having fought and bled together.



The Empire will not be the same after this..




He knew that while his operation signaled the 'endgame' for the Republic, the Empire was also coming to a crossroads that would either ultimately destroy it or cause it to transcend the deadly cycle that seemed to have gripped it.



It apparently seemed to be a cycle that only he saw. He and those of the 256th.

Perhaps it was because they hadn't come from under the umbrella of the usual political wars between the Imperial Senate on Bastion (under Darth Exceron) and the Military High Command.


He and his had fought for survival after the death of Palpatine, etching their way from the world of Sotel, where the grave of his father was located. They faced and overcame obstacle after obstacle as the Empire lost planet after planet to the Rebel Alliance's New Republic.


And then hope seemed to die when Ysanne Isard lost Imperial Center.


What she was thinking in letting a virus loose on the capital was lost to Kaine but then, he was not one to mull and complain over the actions already played out.


Rather, he adjusted strategy with actions currently in play to bring about the desired result.


Just as I am doing now...



For while the conquest of Coruscant and the deathblow to the Republic went a long way in the war to reaffirm Imperial supremacy, his goal went farther...


much farther..


"Tell them, I'll be a minute." Simon ordered sending his officer on his way.



His gaze remained fixed on the captured Coruscant though what he was seeing was something out of the past...



The flaw in the Empire...


"But what happens if those in power, who design the laws, change them at whim… Does that not break down the progression of protection for the New Order?"



Why had Hyfe wanted such people destroyed?


It was as if they posed some... personal threat to him.



It was a question that shouted from the far reaches of the General's mind.


All he had were suspicions and even then, he knew of no course of action that would have been appropriate to take. At least, he knew of no course at present.


All he knew was that the cycle was going to turn full circle.


Emotion clouded his mind as he felt a twinge of regret.

Dammit! We have fought and bled together!
We've triumphed over impossible odds!


He set those troubling thoughts aside for the moment as he turned and headed towards the Galactus' strategy room. Engaging the comm system, revealed were the irritated look of Grand Admiral Hyfe and a rather triumphant look of Grand Admiral Zell.


"My friends," Kaine paused to delivery a shadow of a smile, "I bring you greetings from Coruscant."


Hyfe's eyes flashed at the news... hungrily.


Zell simply laughed at his screen and took a drink of something probably strong from a glass resting out of holographic range.


Then Zell asked a question...

the question..


"So, Kaine. You hold 3/4's of the Imperial Fleet on station there. You have blocked all hyperlanes into the Core.

What are you going to do?"


As if to emphasize Zell's question, Hyfe asked, "What about the Regent?"


Kaine looked at Hyfe, "Our suspicions were correct, Grand Admiral. Exceron was found located within an Imperial Intelligence holding facility. His condition was not good, barely alive in fact. He is in no condition to remember his own name let alone continue in his office."


Zell whistled at that. Surprisingly, Hyfe's notorious scowl did not appear. Rather, he had another look. One Kaine could not quite put his finger on.


"So the grand old witch did it? Tried to run the Empire through Imp Intel. How did we ever run this operation by her?"


"By using her own resources, infiltrating her current operations and changing their perimeters to effect the results we wanted. She spent the entire time playing catch up." Simon answered looking intently on both of them. "As for
what I am going to do? I have ordered Admiral Desaria to start offensive measures against the remains of the Republic. By the end of the day, the Corellian System will be under blockade and will remain so until they surrender."


Zell's smile turned into a smirk, as if Kaine had not answered the Grand Admiral's inquiry which, in fact, he hadn't.


"I mean't, Kaine, the entire galaxy will know that we have captured Coruscant very soon.. A major military operation right under the noses of the Jutraalian Empire and the Galactic Defense Intiative."


"Supreme Commander Isstal." Hyfe muttered with disdain.


Kaine smiled for it was Hyfe that coordinated attacks with the Jutraalian Empire against GDI.. effectively keeping both foreign powers busy while Endgame went down.


It also kept the Imperial High Command (such as it was) busy as well.


"With Coruscant under our control, I expect the Imperial Leadership to move to the Core." Kaine answered drawing Daemon up short and Zell's eyes narrowed.


Kaine could only imagine what orders Hyfe was relaying to the Ebony Vigilance, the Empire's ESD of Hyfe's own Sentinel Fleet's First Division.


Kaine stopped whatever movements the Grand Admiral may have been engaged in with his next words, directed to him.


"I would appreciate knowing when Regent Hyfe will be coming with the rest of the leadership?"


Daemon Hyfe did indeed stop his activity and Zell's expression remained neutral.


Hyfe stared at the General for a long moment before answering. "What prevents you from declaring yourself Regent and taking power?"


Hyfe was, if nothing, direct.


"My Lord," Kaine started, inclining his head slightly, "I've a fleet to run and a galaxy to tame. I cannot effectively do that from the Palace."


That word caught Hyfe's attention.


Palace..


Yes, he had definitely caught Hyfe off guard and instantly regretted that he had. What orders was Hyfe drafting for his fleet before I mentioned this?


And, with that action, options began to form in the General's mind. Options he would not have thought of otherwise. That the Grand Admiral had already had his mind set on making Kaine an enemy.



But none of that showed.


"Lupercus?" Hyfe asked, his eyes watching shrewdly.


"The Sith have not reported back from Naboo as yet. But early reports suggest that their operation has gone perfectly. We've not found any Jedi resistance on Coruscant at all, Lord."


Daemon Hyfe seemed to relax. "I will be on Coruscant by the end of the week. Bastion will be retired as the capital."


"The men.. the 'citizens' will be pleased to hear that Lord." and Kaine had him.


It was sickening to watch.


Hyfe added magnanimously, "Rest assured General, you may have any position in the Empire your heart desires.."


Kaine inclined his head again, "You honor me, Lord."


"Expect First Sentinel at week's end, Hyfe out."


Hyfe's transmission went dark and Zell remained watching the General through an amused expression.


"There are reasons for your actions, boy" he finally let out and Simon stiffened in an affronted expression that seemed not to fool the older Grand Admiral.


Azrael Zell waited.


"Evidently, in light of this recent operation, Hyfe shares my same concern over the disposition of the Naboo Sith Order. There is nothing in place to ..counter.. a coup should Lupercus decides to act."


"You mean should Lupercus Darksword lose hold of his own ambitions?" and Zell laughed. "Do not double talk me, Kaine. I am NOT one of your dupes. Lupercus will not enact a coup because he is doing what he enjoys right now..and that is killing Jedi. Hyfe will be in power and safely cocooned by the Imperial High Command for the Sith to be of any threat to him."


Then Zell leaned forward, "And by you submitting to him as Regent, you remove suspicion from yourself, especially in light of this entire Engame Operation, and set Hyfe's mind to the monumental task of leading the Empire. So..."


Kaine shrugged, "So everyone is in their perfect, respective places to do the most good for the Empire."


Zell barked out another harsh laugh. "Until, General.. Until..." and he left the implications to the imagination and unspoken.


He wagged a finger at Kaine before signing off, "You have truly become a dangerous one. Make damned sure you know what you are doing."


And with that, his hologram faded out.


And Kaine stood there for a minute.


Until...


He truly becomes consumed... As Palpatine was.


He finished Zell's thought and perceived for the first time that the aging Grand Admiral had seen it too.


"Perhaps it won't come to that." He whispered. "Perhaps He is stronger than we all realize."


And yet even his words seemed hollow.


The next year will either vindicate or damn Him.


Hell, it may damn us all..


I am not the only one dangerous, Zell...



Kaine's thoughts drifted back to a student's question of
a few years ago as options formed and dissolved in his mind at the very true observation..


“..but ultimately, of what use is the law?”


Kaine's eyes hardened.



If my suspicions are correct, then the force is growing strong in Him.


"..and I'll give you one guess how that will affect Him." he murmured to himself.

Mechis III, Relquite Tower

Captain Warth lay on the floor of his cell with a sad resignation in his stature. He'd been put through a living hell now, as was visible on several areas of badly bruised flesh. The beatings had become almost a daily habit. The black uniformed ISB agents would enter and start slowly, before going into more painful activities. It had been like this ever since they had rescued him from the remains of Trachta's former command ship, Barbarossa II. After a few weeks in medical bay, he found himself in a dark cell and guarded by droids and black suited ISB men. He knew he was still on Mechis III or at least somewhere within the Mechis Cluster because that was where the vicious cybernetic Commodore was king. He ruled his worlds with a iron fist while furthering his own ambitions and those of the Bureau which he had spent so much time rebuilding. Now though, the door slid open and Warth listened as only a single person entered. The door slid shut and Warth looked up slightly to see polished black jackboots. His eyes then traveled farther up to the black ISB uniform and then to the pale skin, metal speaker grill, and glowing red photoceptors of Commodore Trachta. Warth just began to sob, knowing that the end had finally come.

"You think me cruel," Trachta said very calmly as he looked down at the man who'd been broken from the constant tortures.

"You think perhaps that I am nothing but a heartless machine."

Trachta actually let out a laugh after saying that. His vocabulator made it into something cold and metallic. Warth just looked up at the cyborg who had been his superior officer.

What have I done to deserve such cruelty?

"Even now, you must think I'm a droid masquerading as a human," Tractha said as he lowered himself down on his knees and looked into Warth's face with those soulless photoceptors.

Yes, Warth thought coldly. He would have answered Trachta verbally, but the last beating had broken his jaw.

"The point of the matter is, you failed. You're worse than Admiral Ozzel ever was. As such, I've punished you worse the Ozzel recieved. He was merely choked to death. You. I've broken you. Spirit. Mind. Body. All broken. However, I want you to know that I do not do this for pleasure."

Trachta slowly reached for his holstered blaster pistol and removed the flap that held the weapon in place. He kept his hand on it but continued to stare at Warth.

"I'm doing this because what you cost not only my protectorate, but also the Bureau. The loss of a Command Destroyer is unforgivable in how long it took me to get it built in the first place," Trachta said icily.

"However, I am not without mercy. Your suffering is over. I release you," Tractha said as he stood up and drew his blaster.

Warth just looked up into the barrel of the blaster and then saw a flash before embracing sweet oblivion and an end to his suffering. Trachta stood over the dead Captain's corpse and looked down at it. Some might say he looked upon it sadly, though it was impossible to tell with his emotionless features. With his final duty done to Warth, Tractha exited and left it to the cleaning droids.

Five Days Later, Imperial Center

Trachta sat boredly in the conference room in which sat the directors of the Commission for the Preservation of the New Order. At the head of the table was a regal looking old man with a large white mustache that matched his off-white uniform. He almost looked like a Grand Admiral minus different rank insignia. While everyone here was still officially part of the Imperial Military, some of them looked like they didn't belong. Several women sat at the table and only one of them looked like she had ever seen any combat. As he thought about, Trachta wondered how out of place he looked amongest the other. All of them wore either the Navy grey or Army olive green. Trachta, as always, remained in his black ISB uniform. He metally chuckled at that realization as he continued to listen the man in white, Director Molave.

"... and so we must push up our efforts to draw more adolescents to the Empire. Manpower is the backbone of this government and we need all the loyal new recruits we can get. Director Yutha, please report."

One of the women who looked to be more of a civilian than any sort of military officer coughed and then entered a datacard into the table, causing everyone's view screen in front of them to display statistics.

"Our ad campaigns across Imperial as well as neutral worlds is going well enough. Recently, we've seen an increase in adolescents joining any one of our many Imperial Youth Bureau. They're all also still very maleable mentally. Most of them easily accept our indoctrination programs, though the few troublemakers we've had have been reported to the Imperial Security Bureau," Director Yutha said as he nodded in Trachta's direction.

"Very good, very good. What do you have to report Director Grare?" Molave asked calmly as he turned towards the other woman who also looked like a civilian.

"Morale has been high lately, minus the few terrorist incidents. Most members of the Imperial Military still believe highly in the New Order and its cause. Those whose loyalty seems to be wavering have also been reported to the Imperial Security Bureau."

Tractha mentally chuckled at that. He, as well as the ISB, was practially second-in-command in COMPNOR. The Imperial Security Bureau dealt with all security matters and its ever growing ranks of black suited agents where pushing it back up in power almost equal to Imperial Intelligence. Trachta was sure that agitated the hell out of Ysanne Isard, which just pleased him even more. He hated that woman. She was a cold hearted, power-hungry @#%$ and everyone knew it. She also liked having the ear of anyone more powerful than herself so that she could get influence over them. If she wasn't so high up, Trachta would have gladly arrested and executed her. The Empire didn't need people like her in High Command position. However, that also turned Trachta's attention to Director Molave. He was just as corrupt, but in a more general sense. He took credit for everything that one of COMPNOR's bureaus or agencies did. That irked Trachta the most because COMPNOR wouldn't have the power base it currently did without him. The Imperial Security bureau was the eyes and ears within the Empire, ferreting out the treacherous and unfaithful. Corruption was going down in the Empire because most high up Imperial officials feared that one of those close to them might be a ISB agent just waiting for them to slip up so that they could arrest them...

"Director Trachta, what does the Imperial Security Bureau have to report?" Director Molave asked, snapping Trachta out of his track of thought.

"As you all know, our training programs on Talus and Tralus have gone exceedingly well. The agents from those worlds are currently some of the best among those newly trained. We've been putting efforts into fighting the corruption of the terrorist organiztion known as the Galactic Liberation Front, who have so kindly been terrorizing the Empire along with several other governments and organiztions. While I'm sure Imperial Intelligence is doing their best to hunt them down, we must also worry about them internally. They could have agents anywhere, thus I'm having all ISB agents going through loyalty test also to gurantee none of them get any wrong ideas about the Empire."

"Fine, Director Oth?" Director Molave said somewhat dismissively as he turned to the woman who had the looks of having served in the military.

Two Hours Later

Trachta stood within his office in the Imperial Security Bureau Headquarters on Imperial Center. He looked down at the cityscape, which stretched as far as his photoceptors could see. The meeting had gone along well, minus Director Molave's apparnet comtempt for Trachta's reports.

"Where would the rotten old bastard be without me," Trachta said in icy tones.

"Director of Waste Management?" offered Captain Rhom, Trachta's recently aquired second-in-command.

Trachta chuckled at that comment, mainly because it was true. COMPNOR had seen better days when Palpatine was still alive, but it had all gotten shot to hell when the old man went. Since then, COMPNOR had been a mere speck of its former self. Trachta had changed that though. With his resurrection of the Imperial Security Bureau, COMPNOR became powerful again and High Command started pumping funding into it. COMPNOR had been reborn and the High Command had sat a bureaucrat at the top to run it. Molave had originally been the director of the Empire's waste disposal agencies but had been quickly snatched up to keep COMPNOR running smoothly as it grew larger. As the ISB grows, so does COMPNOR since its is the only true military force that COMPNOR has behind it besides any COMPNOR officers that hold military positions. Now though,

"I believe its time that Director Molave retired," Trachta said very calmly as he continued to watch the cityscape.

"Sir?"

"COMPNOR needs someone who is a corrupt, bureaucratic fool. That's what Molave is, thus, he must go. Whether he goes peacefully or not depends on what measures are taken to remove him," Trachta said as he brought his gloved hand up and closed it into a fist.

"That old man has had his fun, taking credit from me as well as the other Directors for our hard work. Its obvious that the Imperial Security Bureau needs to be in charge of COMPNOR," Trachta said as he now turned towards the young Captain Rhom.

Trachta sized up the young Captain who was practially his apprentice. Rhom was a young age, even for a Captain and had originally been in the Empire's stormtrooper training program, as was evident from his somewhat muscular build as well as the way he held himself. Trachta had chosen him out of a number of highly skilled stormtrooper trainees who obviously would have become high rankers within the Empire's military forces. Trachta needed someone like that to serve as his second-in-command as well as his eventual replacement as the Director of the ISB. For now though, he also chose him because Rhom's loyalty was unwaverings, to both the Empire and the ISB.

"In the days to come, Rhom, I will require something difficult for you to do to assure that all will proceed as planned. Can I count on you?" Trachta asked.

"Of course, sir; you can count on me," Rhom answered back.

"Good," Trachta said as he turned back towards the window and looked out again. His twisted mind began to scheme the downfall of Bryan Molave and the ascension of the ISB as well as himself to the command of COMPNOR.

We must all be willing to commit certain necessary evils to ensure the survival of the Galactic Empire and its New Order

Twenty-one Days After the Battle of Hoth


" You're mad, Fearsons."


One would never have dared to even think such words when the Jutraalian Empire was in its heyday. The Emperor in his glory had the Force as his ally, its tendrils dripping into every aspect of life. Under him the watchful eyes of the Inquisitoriate, concealed in every shadow, remained vigilant in their tight control over life and limb.


It was thus a daemonic twist of fate that such a phrase would be uttered by none other than the wielder of that sword of internal security. The Viscount Ierin del Forza, Jutraalian Grand Inquisitor, stood before his Emperor and did the unthinkable - he challanged the ability of his monarch.


" I will pretend I never heard that in repayment for your service," came the deep-thundering reply from a figure with the glowing red eyes of a legend past.


Summoning what the courage only fanatical patriotism could instill, the Grand Inquisitor moved forward through the Great Hall towards his seated Emperor.


" Do not pretend - ignorance is not bliss! Pretend nothing! This is why I am here!"


The words themselves made little sense in and of themselves. Worse still, their intended recipient could ill comprehend to what they alluded. So he sat, fuming, as the one man whose loyalty he considered absolute accosted him.


" The walls are crumbling - behind them a force we cannot challange. Victory after victory will make no difference - the sacrifice will be in vain!"


" What force - " asked the Emperor, his voice low and ominous.


The Grand Inquisitor cut him off. " The Empire! I have pleaded with you to stop them, but you sit idly by. When I demand war, you wish peace. Now that we need peace, you demand war. Such cannot be the way of things."


" This is treason, del Forza."


" No, Chadd, it is patriotism. We cannot go on without a stronger policy, opinion of the galaxy be damned. You appointed me Grand Inquisitor because I was loyal. Make no mistake, I am loyal to Jutraalia."


The Viscount Ierin del Forza, having long since replaced the Royal Guards with Inquisitoriate infantrymen, stormed from the Great Hall.

Present....


Grand Marshall Simon Kaine walked past the two Royal Guards without so much as a thought. His Spartans were not far behind though they were not allowed to pass into the Regent's inner chambers.


In the room he found the Regent speaking in hushed tones to an irritated Grand Moff Zell.


"You're not dead?" Kaine asked walking up to the two, the bluntness of his question causing Zell to scowl and Hyfe to smile grimly.

"You have no idea how close that little bantha turd came to spoiling my dinner date!" shot back Zell.


Kaine raised an eyebrow at the gumption of the Grand Moff to still go through with his dinner plans. She must have been something. At least, I hope she was something.


"I've been trying to get him to accept the protection of the Royal Guards but he's proving ... obstinate." Hyfe remarked moving away waiting to see if Kaine could talk 'sense' into the older man.


"That's not the point, Hyfe!" shot back Zell. "An attempt at me.. ME!.. might mean that YOU are a target as well!" Hyfe snorted at the very idea. Zell caught it and changed tactics, "Besides, the way your Guards stand out, I might as well paint a target on my back!"


"Who was the assassin?" Kaine asked pulling a seat closer before Hyfe could put words to his expressions.


Zell looked up. "Would you believe a maintainence engineer?"


"You're kidding?" It seemed ridiculous. "In the Imperial District? How could they get past security? It's second to none."

Zell shrugged, "Well, the moment the bastard discharged his weapon, the internal security grids got him. He was shot up with so many chain blasters there wasn't much left of his body. It's not like the bloody things didn't work."


Simon was confused. "So he missed?"


"Not exactly." Hyfe answered for him, clearing his irritation being brought up again.

"Well, you see.." Zell started, "..as I stated, I was on my way to a dinner date when I saw Colonel Jessem. Remembering that I needed to get directions to her quarters, I naturally stopped her to ask for them."


Kaine let out a faint smile.

"The assassin was tracking his movements and had already shot when the esteemed Grand Moff halts his progress to talk with the woman... the shot hits her instead." Hyfe snaps his fingers, "killed instantly."


"So then the assassin did not know the Grand Moff personally.." Kaine concluded.


When the others turned to him, he elaborated, "the assassin didn't take into account a woman on Zell's path. Did not take into account his lechery." Kaine looked at Zell, "I am assuming she was pretty."


Zell's eyes lit up. "You should have seen her breasts.. as big as Carcasian Melons."


Hyfe moved away with disgust as Kaine chuckled.


"Damn waste.." Zell returned a little disappointed.


"We are keeping this attempt quiet. Witnesses have been sectioned away and I have Imperial Intelligence looking into it." the Regent said.

"Nothing like having your case being investigated by an organization run by a woman who wants us all dead." Zell grumbled.


"Say what you want about the witch but Isard's people are good at their jobs. And, they will answer to me!" Hyfe shot back.


"And my dead body will be eternally grateful.." the Moff quipped back.


"First, we need to find a place secure for you Zell." Kaine started.


"He can remain at the Palace.."


"I beg your pardon, Lord, but no." Kaine interrupted. "If someone or some organization is after the New Order's leadership then having two targets together is too great a temptation. And if they are only gunning for Zell, then why put the Regent in unnecessary danger?"


"Nothing can get into the Palace without us knowing."


"We thought that about the District. Now I am not so sure."


"We do seem to be dealing with some very talented people.." Hyfe concluded. "I shall push the investigators hard."


"I agree.." Simon said, silently not envying anyone with the task of investigating this. .. or the assassin had help from the inside.


"There hasn't been a blatant attempt at an assassination of Imperial Leadership since the days of Palpatine." Kaine murmured.

The Past…

Clevinger Detention Facility

Prison time was slow time. You had an eternity of time with nothing but your thoughts to keep you company. At the end of the day, each man went through his own personal hell in jail; your fellow prisoners could never fully break through the cloud of isolation that your incarceration created.

For Macbeth, the reality was that someday very soon – and which day, he had no idea – he was going die. On a date he had no control over, he would be whisked away from his cell and injected with a serum that would cause his heart to stop beating. They would watch him calmly, as he perhaps struggled against the leather restraints that bound him, until finally he stopped breathing.

It wouldn’t have been anywhere near as bad if it weren’t for the fact that he had utterly lost any sort of control over when that fateful day was come. Since the state had decided to put him to death, his continued breathing had become something of vital concern to them. He, like all death row prisoners, had been put on twenty-four hour suicide watch, his food carefully inspected, all metal implements kept strictly from him.

And so the truth of it was that he had to live every day waiting for the end to come. Logically, since he was going to be killed, he was given high-class treatment; better meals than the average prisoner, a personal cell and shower devoid of the usual sodomites and perverts. They wouldn’t grant him the right to live, or to a set execution date, but they would spend approximately fifty-thousand credits a year to ensure he stayed alive.

He was even allowed to interact with other prisoners in a special dispensation by Chief Warden Allinson. Chief Warden Allinson was a pale, brooding, ineffectual little man who treated everyone around him with total kindness and received mostly the opposite in return. The rumor was that Allinson had been promoted to his present position by a superior to spite the man who should have gotten the post, Warden Anselm, who as such hated him and encouraged others to do the same. Anselm was also pale and brooding, but distinctly more effectual than Chief Warden Allinson, and also distinctly less pleasant.

As a result of his effectual attitude toward his job – an attitude which essentially involved beatings for those unwilling to co-operate and less beatings for those that were – Warden Anselm was treated with only the highest kindness, mostly in return for surly barking. Anselm was always mean but never sarcastic. He believed strongly in truth, justice, the government, individualism, and the effectiveness of manual labor and frequent beatings. As such all inmates were expected to perform intense physical labor each day, mostly involving things that served no purpose like breaking rocks and breaking the broken rocks into smaller rocks. All inmates were also expected to show up promptly for their daily beatings, which they always did out of fear of worse beatings. Whether these things were actually effective in the correction of convicts or not was never clear to Anselm, because everyone always treated him with respect anyway.

Nonetheless, Macbeth was, on the whole, not subjected to any of Warden Anselm’s cruelty. As a death row prisoner he was treated to the best of everything the prison had to offer. Normally this wouldn’t involve interaction with the other prisoners, but for Macbeth it did. Chief Officer Allinson had taken an early liking to Venn Macbeth.

“Step forward,” Chief Officer Allinson had ordered when Macbeth had been brought to Clevinger Detention Facility. “I am Chief Officer Allinson and you will address me as sir. You will begin and end every sentence with sir. Do you understand?”

Pale, and with dark circles under his eyes, Macbeth couldn’t manage even faked enthusiasm. “Sir, yes sir,” he muttered grimly.

“You have been transferred here from the Plato District Jail. You are hereby to be known as prisoner 066321. Do you understand, 066321?”

“Yes.”

“Excuse me 066321?”

“Sir, yes sir.”

“You will be issued a uniform bearing your serial number. Your belongings will be taken into custody and returned to you when you are released from prison at the end of your sentence.”

“I won’t be released.”

“Excuse me 066321?”

“Sir, I won’t be released, sir.”

“Why is that 066321?”

“Sir, I’m serving a death sentence sir.”

Chief Officer Allison blinked slowly, staring at Venn Macbeth. This knowledge slowly worked its way through his mind, the wheels turning somewhat slowly behind his eyes. “Well then. Well then,” he said, coughing and turning back to face Warden Anselm. “What is to be done about this then? With his belongings I mean?”

Warden Anselm glared back at his illegitimate superior. “Dispose of them. It doesn’t matter,” he barked.

“No, no, Warden Anselm, that simply will not do at all. It’s Standard Procedure to keep a prisoner’s belongings and return them to him when he is released. It states in Article One, Line Six of the Utropollan Standard Procedure Code that Standard Procedure may never be circumvented, regardless of the reason. No, we simply will have to keep his belongings and return them to him when he is released. Insofar as we can assume that death is a release from our custody.”

Chief Warden Allinson turned back to face Macbeth, who still glowered. Warden Anselm was now also glowering, and muttered something that sounded distinctly like “idiot” under his breath. Allinson pretended not to hear. This would come to be a pattern; Allinson could never respond to Anselm’s degradations, since to do so and still face insubordination would mean the end of his authority. He had no choice but to accept it. “Well then, 066321, please state your full name.”

“Venn Stoudius Macbeth.”

“Excuse me 066321?”

“Sir, Venn Stoudius Macbeth, sir.”

“And you are serving a death sentence, 066321?”

“Sir, yes sir.”

“Do you suffer from any major medical or allergic condition, 066321?”

“Sir, no sir.”

“Are you a homosexual, 066321?”

“Sir, no sir.”

“And what was your crime, 066321?”

Macbeth paused slowly. He had long ago learned to go along with the process of prison life, with the inverse being much more painful and difficult. But it still pained him more to name his crime.

“Well, speak up 066321.”

“One count of aggravated sexual assault and criminal sadism and two counts of murder.”

Chief Warden Allinson was taken aback. “Are you quite sure of that, 066321?”

Macbeth eyed him coldly but said nothing.

“Dear, dear me. I must say you do not look the type 066321. No, not the type at all.”

And so Chief Warden Allinson had taken an immediate liking to Macbeth, and had developed a fastidious belief in the man’s innocence. “I simply cannot believe it, 066321,” Allinson had said to him. “I’ve encountered many criminals, and I’d like to think myself a good judge of them. And you do not seem like one, 066321. I can’t believe that you’re guilty.”

“I’m not,” Macbeth had replied. “I would never have killed anyone willingly. I had to do it – I’ve told you, the M’krah boy was raping her.”

Chief Warden Allinson furrowed his pale brows. “Well, of course you say that, 066321. Most criminals maintain their innocence. I can’t simply believe every man who tells me that he’s innocent, or my prison would be empty.”

“But you said that you believe I’m innocent,” Macbeth said, frustrated with Allinson in spite of himself.

“I do, 066321, I do.”

In accordance with this belief in Macbeth’s innocence, Allinson allowed him to have recreational time in the yard with his fellow inmates each day, as a sort of special privilege. Logically however, due to the fact that Chief Warden Allinson was such an ineffectual little man, however, this privilege quickly became a punishment.

By way of the prisoner grapevine, it became known to Macbeth that a fellow prisoner – one of the ones he had been allowed recreational time with in the yard each day as a sort of special privilege – was Kinvess Dolarin, another M’krah thug and thus someone with his suffering as an objective.

“How much?” Macbeth had asked.

“One pack.”

He’d handed the shady Yossar the packet of cigarras, who promptly took one out and began smoking. “Word is that this Dolarin is still on M’krah’s payroll. Word is he’s going for revenge.”

“Revenge for what? They’ve already got me in jail. I have nothing in the world. What more could they take?”

“Word is you know something you’re not supposed to. Word is they don’t want to wait for the state to kill you. Word is they want you shut up now.”

“Why?”

“Word is Tallon M’krah is running for the presidency.”

“Ah.”

Macbeth had attempted to speak to Warden Anselm about it. Of course, Anselm was hostile towards him; he would have spoken to Chief Warden Allinson, except that he expected doing so would result in another of Allinson’s ineffectual schemes coming to fruition. “He’s just biding his time,” Macbeth had said. “Waiting to kill me. He’s even on M’krah’s payroll.”

Anselm shrugged. “What do you want me to do about it? I have seven prisoners come to me every week complaining of threats of violence. Do you have proof?”

“Yes, I have proof. He said he was going to kill me! He told Yossar.”

“Prove it.”

Macbeth blinked slowly and turned away. He sat lying awake that night, and the those that followed. Dark circles appeared under his eyes and stubble grew on his face. And he waited. In most ways, the waiting was worse than the thing itself would be; the acid in Macbeth’s stomach ate away at the interior of his gut, painfully swelling every time the thoughts returned to his mind. Prison routine continued unabated, dragging on like an endless march of death. And each day out in the yard, during the recreational time he’d been given as a privilege by Chief Warden Allinson, he was punished by the horrifying looks Kinvess Dolarin fixed him with.

“Why do you want to kill me?” He had whispered to him once, as they passed in the yard. Dolarin stopped and fixed him with the stone-cold glare of a killer.

“You know why.”

“But I’m not…” Macbeth began tiredly. He felt the corners of his mouth turn downwards in an unintentional grimace. “If you kill me, you’ll be stuck in here for even longer. Why do it?”

Kinvess had just smiled and walked away.

And so he continued to crawl through life without sleep, a drone, dead to the world. The walls of the prison closed in with familiarity, and the world outside shrank with them until all he could see was the hellish jail and the untimely end it presented. A dead end in the future with no way out. And by the end he prayed for death, just to end it. To end the fear and the pain and the knowledge that there was no way out. He prayed that the lawyers would finally finish squabbling and he would be carted off and humanely murdered. He prayed that every day would be his last. But it never was.

The Past…

Clevinger Detention Facility

When death finally came for Venn Stoudius Macbeth, it shied away.

He stood in the yard, grimly staring at the ground, trying to pretend he didn’t exist. Out of the corner of his eye he spied Kinvess Dolarin walking towards him. Finally then, he thought, finally maybe it was over. Death was what he feared; it was the source of his misery. But it was also what he sought to end that misery. If there had been no imminent death, there would’ve been no misery and no need for death. In the end it was better this way.

There it was. Time slowed as the bulky, balding man in his mid-thirties made his way over, his dog-stupid face and eyes emotionless. Even time conspired against Macbeth; it seemed like forever while the thug made his way over, bearing death in his hands. And when he finally arrived, something unexpected happened.

He stopped, staring Macbeth right in the eye, and reached into his pocket. Macbeth just looked back at him, utterly nonplussed. A second later, he felt something being pressed into his hand, and a second after that, he found Kinvess leaping forwards in terror, shouting at the top of his lungs. And looking down, there was a knife, clutched in his own hand.

Macbeth found Kinvess on him, pummeling him relentlessly. And before he could drop the unwanted blade, he felt the crack of something thick and hard in the back of his head.

He fell slowly and catastrophically to the gravel, striking it face first. Kinvess, still screaming in horror, launched himself on top of him. Stars sparkled in Macbeth’s dazed vision and he struggled blindly against the blows that rained down upon him. Then blows of a more sinister variety – matching that which had knocked him down – began to strike him. As his vision cleared for a brief moment, he saw Warden Anselm’s face contorted in the throes of violence. He screamed for all he was worth, hollering tunelessly in the face of agony.

Then he was under again. He felt the nightstick strike him again and again; he felt his flesh bruise and tear, felt his bones shatter into thousands of pieces. He pushed his face into the ground, fleeing impotently in a direction he could obviously not. And still the blows came, crushing him brutally. Pain overwhelmed him to the very edge of consciousness, but not enough to push him into the welcome embrace of unconsciousness. Still he was denied his sweet release. “No!” He pleaded dumbly, but still the assault came.

Then it was over. He was gone; drifting, listless, in a void of nothing, in the void of his own mind. This, at last must be death, he thought. The release denied him for so long. The ears he no longer possessed rang loudly. He expected relief to come flooding into his heart at any moment, as the realization that the pain and suffering that had come to personify his life were over, and now there was only sweet nothingness. But the relief never came. He waited and waited in the darkness, but nothing came.

Until at last the dull ringing in the ears he no longer possessed resolved itself into the vague and monotonous rhythm of speech that he didn’t understand. And slowly a realization considerably worse than death came to him; that he was not dead. That he lay face down in the dirt and mud of the Clevinger Detention Facility yard, broken and twisted, but against all odds, still breathing. Still breathing. If he could have screamed, he would have. Instead, unbeknown to the crowd he suspected surrounded him by he noise, silent tears filled his eyes.

And he heard Warden Anselm say, “I saw him draw a knife.”



The darkness that came next was corrupted by the vague knowledge – a knowledge that permeated even comatose unconsciousness – that when he awoke, he would still be alive. It lasted for a long time, as far as a person who is unconscious can tell.

When he awoke, he found himself, through bleary eyes, in a dim prison hospital ward. Outside, rain poured down. Inside, he saw a body completely incased in plaster. It was his own. It hurt to move his eyes, so he closed them. It hurt to move his mouth when he tried, so he closed it.

He couldn’t move anything else.

So he sat there. Whether anyone was aware of the fact that he was awake, he didn’t know. Occasionally, he opened his eyes and looked around. After several days like this, a nurse finally noticed and alerted her fellows. “Can you speak?” She asked.

With great effort, he unclenched his jaw. “…y-es…”

She looked relieved. He didn’t know why. “Good. You… ah… you want to know where you are, don’t you.”

His neck was in a brace; he couldn’t nod. He blinked.

“You’re in the Plato District Minimum Security Extended Residence Prison Hospital.”

“…e-extended… residence?”

“Why, yes,” the nurse said, slowly and sadly looking down at Macbeth. “You’re… oh dear.”

She called a doctor in. He didn’t know why. “Hello there, fellow,” the impressive doctor said when he came in. “Good morning.”

Macbeth blinked.

“Tell him,” the nurse whispered. Evidently she did not know that the incident had not affected Macbeth’s hearing.

“Ah… yes. Well, sir, unfortunately, during that – incident, you were… your neck was broken. You are paralyzed from the neck down. Bacta won’t help – the nerve endings are much too damaged. I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do. You’ll find that it is very difficult to speak, because the muscles in your face do not receive the proper amount of energy. I suggest… well I suggest you just rest for now, fellow…”



Nurse Anasthella wheeled the chair through the blissful summer day, whistling quietly. Macbeth didn’t have the energy to tell her to stop, but the bloody whistling drove him nearly insane. Anasthella was totally and completely tone-deaf, and didn’t seem to know it. “Isn’t it a lovely day?” She asked in her sing-song voice. Macbeth didn’t answer. He couldn’t be bothered. It was a lovely day in any normal person’s estimation of course, but he hardly cared. Even his execution – the one thing that might have held hope for a release from his shattered body – had been halted by the state, in accordance with laws against killing the disabled.

Anasthella was pretty, and had an amazing body; Macbeth had heard other inmates bemoaning the fact that she was married. This only made him hate her more. The secret pain of paralysis was to be a man robbed of your sexuality, but not the urges that came with it. A normal person would think that the fact one’s sexual organs did not work would be a minor thing in comparison to being quadriplegic, but a normal person wasn’t quadriplegic and couldn’t even begin to understand. Sex was a part of human life, Macbeth reflected; to have any possibility of having it robbed from you – but the desires remain – created an inestimable bitterness.

Macbeth hated everything. He hated the pretty nurse Anasthella for being pretty; he hated his fellow inmates – who he thankfully saw little of – for having use of all four of their limbs. He hated Tallon M’krah from a distance for doing this to him; he hated the world for being happy. He was a mute, shell of a man, damned to live out the rest of his fucking life a broken slave, lost in private agony no one could understand.

“We’ll go to mass, then,” Anasthella said. The local religion of Utropollus – Mercism – was a mish-mash of Force-based philosophy and monotheism. Macbeth didn’t have the strength to tell her how much he hated this, either. He’d never put any stock in religion, but now he felt especially repellant to it. If there was a god, Macbeth hated him most of all. For subjecting him to so much, for denying him even death, in reply to an attempt to help someone else. The threats of hell and damnation in reprisal for this hate didn’t scare him. It only made him hate god more for his arrogance in believing he could subject him to anything worse than his life up to that point. Thou shall not kill, thou shall not steal. If Macbeth could have moved his arms or legs, he would have killed and stolen if only to spite a dead god that had never loved him.

In the distance, he saw a shuttle craft set down. The same one as before; it flew regular missions to the prison, and was piloted by a pretty blond woman. Macbeth hated her, as well. Prodded forward by Anasthella, the chair slid slowly towards the chapel – until they were halted by Warden Vexim.

“Ah, hello there. Anasthella, is it?” Warden Vexim knew very well who Anasthella was, since like at least two other wardens he was fucking her. “Could I have a word with Venn?”

“Of course,” she said warmly, and strode off to hit on an attractive male nurse who she would probably begin fucking as well within a few days.

Vexim crouched in front of Macbeth. The prisoner fixed him with a dark stare from his eyes, which still sparkled with intelligence. “You feel up to talking, today?”

“…say what you came… here to say.”

“Good.” Vexim smiled good-naturedly. “The state has selected you for a very special honor. We’ve just received our final shipment of some very valuable – and very experimental – medical equipment. If you so desire, you are to be the first user of it. I believe that your selection was in part due to the… unfortunate circumstances surrounding your paralysis. Perhaps in apology for Warden Anselm’s actions.”

“…what… what is this ‘equipment’?”

“A new, experimental method of allowing quadriplegics some level of functionality. It involves the planting of a colony of nanites at the base of the brain, with which you will be able to control computer equipment remotely, allowing you full speech capability and the ability to manipulate machines that will assist you in your daily life.”

“…what the fuck does it matter? I’ll… still be a cripple in a chair.”

Vexim blinked and looked down. “I am offering you a chance at some level of independence and interaction with the outside world. Wouldn’t you like that?”

Then Macbeth remembered. And he replied, “yes.”

Thou shall not kill, thou shall not steal. If Macbeth could have moved his arms or legs, he would have killed and stolen if only to spite a dead god that had never loved him.

[b]END OF PART 1