A nauseous wave hit Tobal in the stomach as the being walked into view. The voice, the walk, the feel all screamed to Tobal that this was Mat, yet the force told him otherwise.
"Mat..." rasped Tobal. He gripped his blow tightly, an arrow stil nocked. "I ... ... I saw you die."
The being turned his gaze from Jiren, and looked with piercing eyes at Tobal. " ... Death. Yes, I have met her. Glorious." It grinned at Tobal. Its lower lip was missing, making the grin look like a hideous open-mouth laugh.
Tobal felt like someone had ripped his heart out, and was parading it before him while it beat its last. The months of guilt over his flight had built up a massive burden in his mind, and it all came down at once.
Falling to his knees Tobal cried out. "I saw you DIE!"
"and ... and I saw you run..." said the being, his voice low and husky. "I saw you run in ... fear, yes, fear." The reanimated Mat dragged out the last word fear, making it extend into a low hiss. The word seared its way into Tobal's mind. Fear, yes, there had been fear. He squeezed his bow tightly, and gritted his teeth as the memory of that day overwhelmed him, unbidden and uncontrolled.
The dead Mat began to speak again, this time the words were directed at Jiren, but Tobal did not hear the words. He only heard Mat's cry as he had launched himself at Xireon, and the blue light that had appeared at his hands.
Tobal continued to squeezed his bow tightly. He felt the anger of that moment so long ago, the anger and the passion that had overwhelmed Mat in an instant, the feelings that Mat had been warned against time and time again by every Master at the academy. He felt the surge of power in Mat, and the leap toward the Sith Demon being. He felt the darkness.
Standing slowly, Tobal raised his bow. Tears clouded his eyes as he drew the arrow, and pointed the barbed tip at Mat's grinning face.
"I saw you draw upon the darkside," he choked out, tears beginning to flow. "I saw you forsake all the teaching Master Backblade taught us. I felt you willingly forget."
It was like a bad dream. A dream in which everything was warped and twisted, and you couldn't run because the air itself grabbed at you, while your legs refused to move. Tobal, his bow bent to its full extension, blinked once. His eyelid fell slowly, covering his silver eyes for a brief moment. Then, as his pupils reappeared, he loosed his arrow.
The being that stood before him, the being that looked like Mat, felt like Mat, and sounded like Mat, but yet was not Mat, flinched as the bolt began its short journey, and gasped as the bolt struck him in the chest. And then, time seemed to explode.
"You fool!" cried Master Jiren.
Mat, the arrow protruding from his back and chest, pulled out a set of his own sabre's. "Yes, fool," hissed the creature. It then leapt toward Jiren, his sabre's a long red blur.
An explosion of sparks and electric whine assaulted Tobal's ears as Jiren deflected the blows Mat threw with an imperceptible ease. Mat fought with all the ferocity Tobal remembered him using back at the academy, but this time there was something more. There was a movement, an urgency that told Tobal that this Mat wasn't just playing to win anymore.
After a few moments of testing out his opponent, Jiren caught one of Mat's sabre's in a cross-link of his own, and with a twist Mat was freed from one of his weapons. The sabre flew across the sewer, and before it deactivated, carved a neat slice in the duracrete wall.
"You cannot defeat me!" crowed Mat, as he leapt backwards, out of the reach of Jiren's swining blades. "I now control a power you could never imagine, Tobal. I control something far more powerful than what your Jedi friend here is capable of even comprehending!"
With those words, a blue glow surrounded Mat's hands. He raised them, and Tobal felt a surge of electric power as Mat created lightning.
Jiren, however, had been expecting this. The lightning emanating from Mat's hands pooled into a ball before Jiren, and before Mat could protest the action, the ball was returned to its master.
"Get up, you fool," hissed Jiren to Tobal, as he strode by the dumbstruck Shadow. Matrim lay further down the sewer line, a smoldering heap from his own lighting.
Tobal followed Jiren silently, his mind still racing to catch up with what had happened.
"He has embraced the power, or rather, weakness of the Dark Side," said Jiren, as he shook his head. Standing over the still twitching body of Mat, they surveyed the damage. His entire chest was horribly burned, and only a little of Tobal's arrow remained. What was left of him was clearly decaying. In more than one place whole chunks of flesh was completely missing, leaving only sinew and bone behind.
"The Dark Side gives power, but in return it sucks you dry, it removes your very life force from you. It is not a fair trade by any standard."
"I see," said Tobal.
The body twitched.
And twitched again.
"I doubt you do, Tobal," said the body with a wheezing, cracked voice. The body twitched some more. "You were always such a simpleton." With a great expulsion of air, the body heaved itself up. Tobal and Jiren stood back, weapons at the ready.
"Do ... you th--think you can defea--t me, you pitiful ... foo.. fools?" gasped the creature. It chuckled. "Master is so pleased to .. heh ... disa--disappoint you."
With that the creature turned, and ran. Tobal, about to give pursuit, was stopped by Jiren.
"What is it?" asked Tobal. The two Jedi were sitting inside the warmth of Tobal's Infiltrator, the Shadow. On the small, circular table in the middle sat the cube Jiren had found.
"I am not entirely sure, but I have a suspicion,"
For a few more minutes they sat, looking at the cube. Tobal felt a small tickling in the back of his mind, the only indication that Jiren was using some form of the passive force to investigate the cube. Then, without warning, the cube simply fell apart. Tobal flinched as he felt a static burst in the force, like a surge of power. Jiren didn't move.
"What was that," blurted Tobal. The cube lay like some child's toy, open and in six pieces. A small bit of rock lay on top of one of the pieces.
"It felt like ... like ..." he stammered on, his gaze riveted to the stone. Ever so slowly, he began to move his face closer, and closer to the bit of rock, until his nose was but a few decameters from the stone.
It seemed to glow, to him. A faint aura of ... something ... was around the rock. "It's beautiful," he whispered, as he reached out to touch it.
"No!" said Gash, with a firmness of vlice that made Tobal stop in his tracks.
"Do not touch it."
Tobal sat back. He was about to repeat his question, asking what the rock was, when Jiren held up a palm for silence.
"This stone is imbued with the living force. A very great amount of the living force... W--" Jiren appeared ready to continue, but he stopped. Tobal looked at him questioningly. Gash locked eyes with Tobal, his face flat.
"A great many years ago, Tobal, a Jedi was killed. This Jedi was the only man alive who knew the location of a great planet. After his death another Jedi followed the killers, only to find that what he had feared the most had come about. A powerful Sith had found a source of ultimate power. After a great battle the Sith was defeated, and the source of power sealed.
Years have passed, and this source of power has been discovered, hidden, and discovered anew several times. Battles have been waged over this planet, but every time the planet has been protected from evil.
Jiren paused, and Tobal felt his stomach begin to slowly sink.
"It's been found, hasn't it."
Jiren looked Tobal in the eye. "This rock comes from that planet. Your friend Mat, was he strong in the force?"
"He was strong," said Tobal, biting his words off. He felt a tear form in yis eye. "But not as strong as he was today." Jiren nodded, as if he understood.
"I fear Xireon has found this source of power." The Jedi Master nodded at the stone. "And he has begun to utilize it already.
"How can you know," asked Tobal. He too looked at the stone. "It is just a stone."
Jiren didn't reply right away. Instead he stood, and began moving about the cabin of the Shadow,, touching various control panels. The ship rumbled, groaned, and then began to lift off.
"How can you know?" repeated Tobal.
"I have been there, my young friend," said Gash after a short pause. He sighed, and seemed to slump a little. "I've been there," he repeated. Both Tobal and Gash stood in silence until a sensor began to beep. Another craft was leaving Khar Shian.
It was dark. It was always dark. Tobal stepped forward through the dank night air, his sabre humming like a pleased cat, and casting a dull blue light over the rough ground. He could sense that Matrim was nearby, but it was not the Matrim he remembered, it was a new Matrim. A dark Matrim. A Matrim who was rotting from the inside out.
"I know you're there, Tobal," said a voice that sounded more dead than alive. "Come to accept your destiny, I suspect." It laughed.
Tobal glanced to the right, and to the left, and the continued forward. His sabre hummed with more intensity as he let the surging, coursing blade rotate through the air. The stench of this place was strong, and it was with difficulty that he ignored it.
"I can feel your hatred."
Tobal crouched slightly, and ducked under a low jutting of rock. His left palm caressed the wet stone as he came under, feeling the roughness. The friction reminded him that this was real, and not the dream it felt like. He had tried, for quite some time, to cut through the fog that surrounded his vision, but he had been unsuccessful. When Jiren had left to find Xireon, he had told Tobal that Matrim would try fogging his mind, but the young Shadow had brushed the warning off. He had always been stronger than Matrim...
"Yess... closer.. closer my old friend."
Tobal squinted slightly as he tried to see through the thick veil of opaquisey before him, but it was as impenetrable as if it were solid wall. He felt like he was walking through brackish water. He tried the crude technique Master Jiren had showed him back aboard the Shadow, but he couldn't tell whether or not it had done any good.
"Closer, to your death........"
The disembodied voice dragged the last syllable out long. A warning went off in Tobal's mind, and he brought his sabre up in a defensive position. Matrim had always begun to lisp and slur when he got confident. He lost control of his accent.
A whirring beam of red materialized to Tobal's left, and before it had fully come into existence was swigging forward to the attack. Tobal pivoted, and let his arms move of their own compunction, guiding his own blade to the defensive.
"I have waited so long for this dayyy..." said the voice. Tobal could now see Matrim, or what was left of the man. He was now dressed in a long flowing red robe, and his face was tattooed in an exotic red and black pattern. He had filed his teeth.
"So long has your image tormented my dreams..." Their blades screamed as they bound for a moment. Another red blade appeared from the fog, and Tobal wrenched his own weapon free from the bind to deflect it.
"At last I shall be free.... yesss..." And then Matrim attacked.
Tobal had never seen a man move with such ferocity, such pure hatred. The two sabre's that Matrim wielded didn't stop moving for a moment. Like a constant red blur they struck, struck, and struck at Tobal again. Backpedaling, the young Jedi managed to keep his own single, blue blade moving fast enough to keep his enemy from causing damage, though several blows had been close.
"Do you feel it, Tobal?" The creature spun, and slammed both blades parallel into Tobal's. "That feeling in your gut, deep down, is the feeling a mouse gets when the cat catches it...." The creature laughed as it changed the momentum of its attack. No longer were the blows fast, they were now slow and calculated, but coming in synchronized, keeping Tobal off balance.
Tobal gritted his teeth, and tried to disconnect his mind from his arms. He always fought faster when he didn't think about what he was doing. But the fog, it was so ...
Back and forth across the cavern they moved, Tobal always on the defensive, Matrim always attacking. The former Shadow Jedi continued to speak, mocking Tobal, assuring the young Jedi of his approaching demise. But slowly, Tobal began to realize that...
"Why do you not speak, Jedi? Did the cat get your tongue?" the creature laughed again, in a hollow echoing laugh that Tobal now recognized as being augmented by with the Force. Instead of replying, Tobal decided to test his realization. When Matrim moved in for another strike, rather than simply deflecting the blow Tobal swung his humming weapon with violent force. His blade connected, and swatted the offending weapon out of the way with ease. Mat staggaed slightly, his momentum jolted. Again he pressed the attack, and again Tobal struck hard in reply. Again the attack was diverted, and now Tobal began to press the offensive.
His dual sabre attack makes him weak, thought the Jedi. Inside the anger he had toward Mat began to burn.
"You hate me... don't you t-Tobal," said Mat, with a stutter. Tobal didn't reply.
"You want to k-kill me, old f-friend. Yess..." The former Jedi tripped on a rock as Tobal's blade whipped past his face in a blur. He fell.
"Kill me, Jedi," said Mat, his face twisted into a grin.
The blue lighting began to build around Tobal's right fist as he stood over Matrim, his left hand extending his lightsabre. It would be a just death for Mat. The lighting increased, the power surged, and Matrim was dead.
He had been right, thought Tobal, as he clenched his fist, the blue flicker dancing across his knuckles. There was true power here. Tobal drank it in, laughing, as he walked to where he felt Master Jiren and Xireon. He would let them kill each other, and then he would take this power for himself.
His laugh echoed hollowly through the cavern.
With a start Tobal awoke. His taught chest glistened with sweat, and his hair was damp. He looked around, quickly. Master Jiren was sitting with his back to the young Jedi, and the red hue of controls gave the room a faint glow. They were still aboard the Shadow. He lay back in his bunk, and sighed.
"Sometimes, Tobal, Jedi can see the future, or the past."
Tobal turned and looked at the back of Jiren's head silently.
"Sometimes the visions come true, and sometimes they provide enough warning to prevent their events from ever happening."
"How do you know this," whispered Tobal.
"I went that path once, Tobal. It is something to be avoided at all costs." Jiren turned his seat, and looked at Tobal with a piercing gaze. "I have a guilt in my mind that I cannot sooth, a debt to the galaxy that I cannot repay."
The two Jedi eyed each other for a few moments. Then Jiren smiled slightly. "I didn't answer your question, did I. It's something that comes with time, and experience my young friend. With patience you will be rewarded."
For a moment Tobal thought about this. The he sat up on his bunk, and looked Jiren square in the eyes. "Back on Ossus you spoke briefly of the Shadow Jedi, and how a few had been unstable. Tell me more."
“A few,” Gash repeated, smiling slightly to himself. “I fear that you don’t understand the dilemma of the Shadow Jedi. If a few were merely unstable, that would be one thing. But the Shadow Jedi…”
“If I don’t understand,” Hadul interjected, “then enlighten me.”
Gash fixed Tobal with an appraising look, then decided to continue. “It may not be what you want to hear, Tobal, but your order is the product of one too many arrogant, foolish Jedi. Arrogant, foolish Jedi whose powers had made them think they were gods.”
“That’s not –” Tobal began, but Gash promptly cut him off again.
“I do not reserve this judgment for your order alone. The Rogue Jedi Order stems from the very same misconception – the same conclusions drawn from a truly myopic view of the universe.”
“What do you mean? What conclusions?”
Gash smiled a little, and looked out the viewport at the stars beyond. “When I broke from the Jedi Order – only a few years after my redemption from the dark side – I did it because I did not believe that the Jedi took an active enough role in galactic affairs. At the time, I had gained quite a bit of prestige in the New Republic. I was a High Admiral; I’d go on to become the Supreme Military Chancellor.
“My head was occupied by military and political matters, Tobal, and in my minds’ eye, I saw the rising threat of darkness. The Sith, regrouping and rising again in their many factions; the slow rise of Daemon Hyfe’s military leadership to power within the Empire. The whispering evil of Grand Admiral Thrawn, just beyond my perception – the shadow of a fear.
“My masters told me that the Jedi were not soldiers, that our mission was different. I wouldn’t listen. I called a council of the Jedi, and called anyone who would come with me to Yavin IV, where I founded the Rogue Jedi Order. I fractured the Jedi Knights that day; I broke the order right in two.”
He sighed. “The Force, as you know, is not simply two polar opposites – light and dark, good and evil – but a spectrum, a series of grays connecting the two extremes. I believed that by taking an active political role in the galaxy, by breaking from the old teachings and performing military actions that some might call… darker, in their nature, we could stem the tide of the rising darkness in the galaxy. I thought that I could balance the darker elements of the Force with the light.
“And for awhile, it worked. My coalition of Republic and Rogue Order defeated Grand Admiral Thrawn. We faced the Empire and held our ground, for a time. It seemed that I was right in what I did. The gambit had paid off.”
“What happened?” Tobal asked.
“The Order was fractured, drawn between two personalities – Leia’s and mine – that could not be reconciled. The Jedi receded from public view, their numbers increasingly few, took weak to defend the Republic from obvious threats.
“The Empire struck unexpectedly, took Coruscant in a flash. The Jedi were nowhere to be seen.
“Chadd Fearsons fell from the Order once and for all, and caused the Republic untold harm when he formed a tenuous alliance with the Empire.
“And in time, the Republic receded. The Empire crushed us again and again, besting my men. I did what I could, but even that was not enough. And where were the Jedi? My Jedi? Organa’s Jedi? Fractured, still fractured. Nowhere to be found. We could not even see the threat of the Wrath Virus and Tilaric Brel’s New Empire. That war crushed the New Republic once and for all.
“I thought that I could balance the light with even bits of the darkness. I was wrong.” Gash looked away from the stars. “Arrogance. And look at how much it has cost.”
“And you're saying that the Shadow Jedi are the same, because they also seek to balance the darkness and the light?” Tobal asked.
“Yes. That is one way to put it.” He paused. “To call your master, Chadd Fearsons, impetuous, irrational, unstable, is an incredible understatement. He was perhaps the rashest student I have ever seen – more than even some Sith. That said, he was also enormously gifted – the rare student with more power than he was able to even comprehend.
“He built his ‘Rogue Empire’ on impulse and daring, relying on his tremendous abilities and raw instinct instead of sound planning or anything even remotely resembling it. People were drawn to him, to the power that seemed to circle him – and he exploited that to the fullest extent. As, I admit, I sometimes have.
“In time, he came to understand his own gifts. He left his first master, Leia, and then he left me. Another mistake on my part – I never should have trained him. As brash as he was, his talents came to make him even more arrogant. And somewhere along the line, he convinced himself that he could balance the two sides of the Force – and that he could train others to do so, forging your order of Shadow Jedi.”
Now the Jedi Master’s voice took on a severe turn. “As I said, the Force is not two polar opposites, but a spectrum. Occasionally, throughout the history of the Old Republic, there were rogue Jedi – Grey Jedi – who operated outside of the boundaries of the Jedi Order, balancing the two sides of the Force with some degree of effectiveness. Most looked on them as misguided, to say the least.
“I should be clear that the number of Grey Jedi who have effectively balanced the two sides of the Force, in ten thousand years of Jedi, I could probably count on one hand. And I couldn’t name any to you.
“The thing about the dark side is that it corrupts you. It eats you up and spits you out. Once you have a piece of its power, it draws you in, deeper and deeper, and for every bit of its power you take, it takes a part of you, until there is nothing left – only the darkness.”
“That isn’t what I was taught,” Tobal interrupted. “The sides of the Force are just tools to be used – the corruption of the dark side can be resisted.”
“On this matter, I’m afraid,” Gash replied slowly, obviously measuring his words, “my experience greatly outweighs yours.”
The knowledge of the Jedi Master’s Sith history weighed in the air before them, and Gash let it hang there, diffusing Tobal’s other objections silently, before he continued.
“Chadd Fearsons thought that he could do – and teach others to do – what thousands of years of Jedi Masters, each more wise than he could ever have hoped to be, could not. And where is he now, I wonder? I wonder.” He let the question dangle.
“The ultimate justification for the Shadow Jedi, I suppose, is that by mastering darker techniques – by allowing yourself to be corrupted, even ever so slightly, by the dark side – will allow you to accomplish things you otherwise might not, serving, then the greater good. The evil of that corruption is negated by the good you accomplish. Whatever your definition of good may be. Suffice to say it is better for the galaxy.”
Tobal nodded.
“I would propose to you, then, a scenario.”
“Alright.”
“You are a Jedi, and the leader of the planetary government of an isolated world. A series of attacks weakens your planet greatly, and you are offered,” Gash said slowly, “by means of a premonition – like the one you just had – a simple choice.
“On the one hand, you may cling to the light side, and remain a Jedi. Your forces will be outmatched, your men killed, and your planet conquered.
“On the other, you may give in to the dark side, become a Sith. The darkness will grant you the foresight and power to lead your men to victory. Along the way you will make some questionable decisions that will lead to the death of some of your men; later on you will harm a few people in your wickedness. But two decades later you will be dead either way and, overall, the galaxy will be much better off. What would you choose?”
“I would become the Sith,” Tobal replied. “But –”
“As would I,” Gash interrupted him. “If only things were that simple, there would be no real problem. I think you were about to state the problem with that scenario, Tobal?”
“—you couldn’t possibly know all of that.”
“That’s right. Your premonition was just that – a premonition. Like I told you before, sometimes the future can be changed. Sometimes it will turn out differently. But even the most powerful Jedi Master, even the most powerful Sith Lord, could never give you a complete outlook on the future.
“Most Force sensitive individuals, I believe even you would agree, are not able to effectively balance the dark side with the light. Your friend, Mat, was not. Xireon only brought out the darkness already latent in him. In training students to do balance the two sides of the Force, you are effectively exposing them for the rest of their lives to the lure of the dark side. You are setting them up for failure.
“And not just their own failure. When they fail, many of them will fail spectacularly. What if one of those you train became the next Dark Lord of the Sith? How would you feel about your order then? How many thousands would die before you would admit your reasoning is flawed?
“And this is the failing of the Shadow Jedi. In deciding to take on the challenge of balancing darkness with light, you are presuming so much that you could never expect to know. Perhaps the hold of the dark side over you will only be slight. Perhaps the good you accomplish, hurling your lightning and choking your victims, will outweigh the toll you know it will take on your heart.
“Or perhaps you will become the next Dark Lord of the Sith, and murder billions.”
Gash shrugged and chuckled. “But how could you know? And ultimately, Tobal Hadul, we must all make our own choices, given what little information we have to go on. I believe you will realize that someday.”
The Jedi Master looked out the viewport again, and as his face was bathed in the light of the twisting stars, he showed his age for the first time since Tobal had met him. “Hopefully I will, too.” He stood, and it was gone. “But we’ve talked long enough. Good night.”
Sitting there, on his small bunk, Tobal thought about the things Jiren had spoken of. He knew that the Force was composed of a Lightside and a Darkside, and he also knew that what separated them was a rainbow of shades. His forehead twisted. He knew this, did he not? Or did he only know this because ... because someone had told him? Both Jiren and his Shadow Masters had taught him this, yet childhood memories of his parents said otherwise, that there was no in between, you were either being good, or being bad.
The young Jedi turned restlessly, and tried to shut the thoughts out of his mind. He needed sleep. But the thoughts would not go away. He knew. How did he know? Because Master Backblade, Fearsons, and many more had told him so. How did he know they were right? Tobal sighed inside himself. This line of questioning would only lead to more questioning, self-doubt, and ultimately then, failure.
Slowly his eyes began to droop, and sleep began to come. Then...
He sat up. Those words... those words were things taught him on the Corruptor. He was justifying his line of thought; justifying his trust in his Masters with the very words they had taught him. That, that he knew was not right. "You cannot self-prove, Tobal, everything requires external evidence and support". Those words floated slowly His father had taught him that. His father... a man who had abandoned him. NO! He did not know that for certain. Self-proving was a stepping-stone for downfall, everything needed external evidence and extrapolation.
Tobal shook his head. He could feel Master Jiren's eyes upon him, but he ignored the sensation, and tried to focus on clearing his head. So many conflicting thoughts raced around in his mind, and there was so little time left to gain rest.
How did he know Master Fearsons had not been right? Master Jiren had said Fearsons was unpredictable, rash, and foolish. How did Tobal know Master Jiren was telling the truth? By Jiren's own confession he had once been a Sith. But, many Shadow Jedi had fallen to the darkside, and subsequently been executed for their failure. That in itself somewhat confirmed Jiren's idea that Shadow Jedi were more apt to fall away from the Light. But, what was the Light? Shadow's sought to balance the Light and the Dark, they sought to dip from both bowls at once. What was the Light? Was the Light absence of all aggression, completely? Was it possible to fight without anger, fear, and hatred?
Feeling his body exhausted, Tobal tried to force himself into a meditative state. As he struggled to do so, he remembered his dream, and the failure he had committed therein. No, I will not...
It is all futile.
He saw the burning about him. Detached, he saw himself amongst the burning. Confusion was on the face, his face.
He looked about. He remembered. This was the night he had burned men. A failure of the body, his body. A failure in control.
He looked about again, slightly confused. It was the shuttle that he had discovered. His mother had just left, telling him to stay there. He remembered what had happened, he had pushed something. And left his mother, who had risked her life to save his. Another failure.
Tobal twitched as he lay in his bunk, his mind digesting his past failures and disgraces. Had he been more talented in the passive force, he might have felt the intrusion of the Dark Side, an intrusion not unlike that of a hacker, testing the security systems of a protected computer.
Xireon stood there, on one of the catwalks of Coruscant, basking in the waves of filth that flowed through that desperate world. It was a filth not composed of the things people disposed of, but the things they clung dearest to; themselves. Coruscant was a planet filled with the lonely, the desperate, the alienated, the trapped; its platforms of cityscape were layers of bitterness piled upon bitterness, wrapped around a profoundly diseased heart.
The Sith Lord – one of the few remaining who could rightfully claim that title – could feel them. He could feel the pulse of humanity, the pulse of life in general. It was a sick, ugly thing to watch. In many ways, the insight granted to Xireon by his terrible power were as much a curse as a blessing. To look into the very inner workings of the universe, into the clockwork of living beings, was to look into the heart of darkness.
“Do you feel it?” He asked the dread creature Matrim, who stood by him on that abandoned walkway.
To watch them, these horrid creatures with their loathing, their animal impulses, their vain self-obsession, their indulgence and their self-interest was almost too monstrous to describe. There was something profoundly earth-shattering about it all, something profoundly detaching and wounding. “I don’t understand the question, master,” Matrim replied.
“Of course you don’t feel it,” Xireon muttered. “You are a tool, an animal, a wild thing like them all. A slave to so many things, death among them.”
“Yes, master.” Coruscant’s trappings of glory – its buildings, its bustle, its economy – were not glorious at all, but terribly emblematic of life in the galaxy as a whole. Destructive, vain, excessive and self-indulgent. And both literally and metaphorically, that supposed glory hypocritically masked a core that was ruptured by its own dark animalism.
It was a symbol of the nature of all sentient beings. Cursed by their own nature, buying wholesale into their tawdry delusions. Empty people living empty, unconscious, wicked lives, danced about the universe like a marionette doll on the end of its strings. “He approaches,” Matrim said emptily.
Xireon turned, looking for a moment at the beast he had created from the Shadow Jedi. Looking into the thing, beyond the trappings of the flesh, was looking into darkness – emptiness, cold unfeeling animalism trapped in itself. “Do you understand what we are going to do to this young man?” Xireon asked the thing.
“Yes, master,” Matrim replied. The funny thing was that, with all of the Sith Lord’s power, no part of the rituals Xireon had used to raise the Jedi from the dead had altered his personality. For all intents and purposes, Matrim was the same being he had been before his death.
By killing him, by enslaving him, all Xireon had done was strip away the layers of soi-disant humanity that had surrounded the animal beneath. Matrim remembered his past and understood the present, and, in some ways, possessed free will. But he was bound to serve Xireon, caged in his own mind by Sith magic. He was a slave to the will of his Sith master. “And do you have any qualms about it? Any concerns?”
Obedience was easy, while disobedience was painful. This was the reality of Matrim’s existence, and it was all that kept him in his servitude – and all that was required.
“No, my lord,” the thing replied. “I only wish that your bidding be done.”
“Lovely,” Xireon smiled beneath the scarf about his face. “You are truly a despicable thing, beast.”
“I’m not –” Matrim began, but was silenced by a simple glare from Xireon.
“Not what? Not despicable, or not my beast?” Xireon inquired malevolently. Matrim simply remained silent. “Answer, beast. I don’t recall striking you dumb. I can feel your anticipation, your love of the hunt. Do you argue that you are not a beast?”
“No, my lord.”
Xireon laughed at this. “No, indeed. Funny how quickly all of that wisdom, all the trumped-up moral codes and contrived rationalizations are so easily swept away by replacing the complications of the universe with a simple choice; obedience or pain. Like all animals, like all trained beasts, you not only obey, you embrace obedience. If I believed human beings had the capacity for adherence to anything but their own impulses, I might call you a traitor. As it is, you are simply my tool.”
Matrim did not reply. To do so would mean treason against his master. He swept all thoughts of dissent away, slipping into the easy, waking sleep of obedience. “He is nearly here,” Matrim said, unnecessarily updating Xireon once again.
So many things were determined by simple happenstance. A being’s homeworld, their genetic makeup, their – genealogy. All of these things and so many more came together to forge the guts of a person; the mechanisms that made them move.
Everyday, a young man in his early twenties named Ateros would walk across this very bridge on the way to his second of two jobs. He had been born on Coruscant to a single mother, a woman his father had left before he had even been born. With has father had gone the better parts of his mother, and in the wake of his passing all that remained was a bitter, cold, empty woman who drank herself to sleep each and every day.
Since his earliest days he had had to scrape together a meager existence from what skills he had available to him. His magnetic, natural charm and considerable intelligence had left him a number of options, but few of these options were entirely enough to support both his gradual crawl from the hole and his mother’s continued descent into it.
And so, every day, he made his way to his second job at exactly the same time, taking exactly the same route, trying with all his might to make something of his life. This much had been determined by circumstance.
Unfortunately for him, Xireon mused in his mind, a drastic change in his life was about to occur, based on another element far beyond even his meager, human control.
This element was, of course, that his father’s name – which his mother had never told him – was Gash Jiren.
Ateros stepped lightly across the cold metal ground of Coruscant, glancing up at the sky. The environmental controls in the sector must have been malfunctioning again; clouds gathered ominously above, blocking out the sun. He was already late for his second job – but then, he was late every day. This mattered very little. His employers were not the kind who cared about punctuality, nor were they in a field of work where caring about punctuality made practical sense.
He nodded quickly to a few people as he passed them, mostly minor acquaintances. The majority of these thought a great deal more of him than he did of them. That was the sort of person he was; he didn’t make friends easily, but others found themselves compelled to befriend him very quickly. It was a useful, if irritating, quality.
As always, he was in a hurry, and it should have been apparent to even the most casual observer, as he strode purposefully down the Armitage Walkway. Ateros was always in a hurry, this much was common knowledge. He was a young man with more to do than the hours of Coruscant daylight allowed, a promising and charming kid dealt a bad hand by life. If he’d been born on the upper levels of Coruscant, if he’d been born on another planet altogether, or to a family with some amount of money, or to a family at all instead of one bitter, alcoholic witch, there was little doubt he would have become some great leader of men.
As it was it took all of his considerable ability and effort just to barely get by. There was no time to stop and talk, let alone think. That was the kind of life Ateros led, the kind he had to lead. That was just his reality and he paid as little attention to it as possible. Recalling a promise he had made to one of his employers, he quickly backtracked several steps, approaching one of the many vendors that peddled their wares along Armitage.
This one happened to be a gray-skinned alien from a planet far beyond the Core. Clad only in a dark cloak, his face appeared to be a featureless grey slab except for two centimeter-wide slits – each about two inches long, beneath which sat two coal-black eyes – and a mouth which seemed to comprise two perpendicular slits that intersected to create four small proboscises.
Every member of his species possessed the ability to see not only in the human spectrum, but in the infrared and ultraviolet spectrums as well, and while his skin appeared bland to almost all species, it was – apparently – a glorious patchwork of colors ranging across a multitude of spectrums outside the ability of human beings to see. Their language was not audible; instead it was a complex code of visual symbols and patterns communicated by the shifting of the shades of their skin.
Because of all of this, none of the words in their language were translatable. When the Empire conquered their world fifty years before, it took their species eight months to analyze the human tongue and produce a translation for the name of their world – one that was still deemed by most to be degrading and shameful. The name was “A’Coshro’ilimis”. The Empire had chosen to refer to both the planet and all of its inhabitants in all star charts and navigation systems simply as “Cosh”.
And this is what they called the alien, whose name was also untranslatable. Unlike the planet of A’Coshro’ilimis, he did not possess an entire species of linguists and cultural historians to attempt a translation.
“Cosh,” he said, extending a hand to the man warmly, persistently aware of all of the above but letting on none of it.
“Ateros!” The alien said with excitement that he could convey only awkwardly. The mouth was used only for scent and food consumption on the planet of Cosh; it took many of the species years to learn to speak Basic, for they were not only learning to speak the language but learning the art of speech in general. “My favorite human. And by this I mean, the only human I would not enjoy seeing hung upside down and beaten with a piece of Kashyyyk wood until they popped like a – ah, I apologize, your people and mine share a celebratory custom for children’s birthday parties, but I cannot recall the word.”
“Piñata,” Ateros said, smiling. “The word is piñata. Listen, Cosh, you know why I’m here, right?”
The alien’s faced did not slacken so as to indicate disappointment, but his initial buoyancy slowly deflated. “Yes, I know. The order for Quelka.” Although he made a modest profit selling sundry jeweled goods imported from Jedi space, Cosh’s real business was selling blasters, personal shielding equipment and explosives.
This was the essence of Ateros’ second job. He’d begun as an entry level errand boy for Quelka the Hutt, taking care of various sundry matters relating to the slug’s vast criminal clientele. Now, he acted as a diplomat and negotiator to the seedy underworld of Coruscant, conveying Quelka’s will and smoothing the day-to-day operation of his business.
It wasn’t uncommon, in Coruscant’s thriving underbelly, to work two jobs; a legitimate one by day, and a less-legitimate one by night. Neither of Ateros’ jobs, however, fit into the former category. By day he was a technician and slicer for a small band of mercenaries.
“The order for Quelka,” Ateros affirmed. “The price you quoted to Quelka’s runner isn’t going to fly, Cosh. And I think you knew that. We get these guns at discount. This is how it works in the Armitage district.”
Cosh sighed. “Quelka is a customer, just like my other customers. I do not find it easy to stomach losing profit to that bloated slug of a Hutt.”
“Bloated slug is a compliment to Hutts,” Ateros said. “You know that it’s only Quelka’s blessing that allows your business to operate, in more ways than one. I know it isn’t easy to stomach, but that’s the price of doing business. I’m your friend, but I can’t work magic for you. If I fight Quelka on this, I’m going to find myself thrown into a dark hole somewhere, and you’ll have to pay one way or another.”
“I know,” Cosh said. “I know. But I hate this sort of pandering with a passion.”
“I know you do.” Ateros drew closer, speaking quietly now. “But, Cosh, come on. You know where these guns are going. Every gun you sell Quelka gets shot at Imperial soldiers. Now, you can either pander to Quelka, or you can try to bleed him dry of his ability to control Armitage and let Imperial Security back in here, and pander to them. The difference is, we didn’t invade your planet and destroy sixteen of your cities.”
Cosh nodded. “You are right. It is a dirty business, but you are right.”
“That’s the kind of place this is, Cosh,” Ateros said.
“I suppose.” Cosh made a sort of snorting noise with his proboscises that might have passed for a laugh. “Though sometimes, I think that maybe you humans would think that this universe was a much more beautiful place if you could see it as it truly is in all of the spectrums of light, instead of how you think it looks.”
“Maybe.” Ateros smirked again. “Either way, I’m late. I can tell Quelka you agree to the first price?”
“Yes, yes! I agree, I agree. You have convinced me.”
“Good. Until next time.”
And Ateros returned to his hurried pace. Yet despite his rush, today, someone chose to bother him. A small Rodian, twitching slightly with every step like someone was applying electric shocks to his body, moved into his path. Ateros unconsciously tried to step out of his way, but the Rodian moved to block him again.
“Quelka’s human friend,” the Rodian rasped in its native tongue, by way of greeting. One of the reasons that Ateros had so quickly become a trusted aide to Quelka was his faculty for acquiring an understanding of languages. Though it was an incredibly ugly language, Rodian had been one of the first he’d picked up, given the pervasive nature of the green aliens in the seedier places of the galaxy.
“That’s right,” Ateros said. “And he’s already expecting me. So if you’d mind getting the hell out of my way.”
“Quelka’s human friend is mouthy,” the Rodian chastised, twitching as it spoke. Clearly, the thing was nervous. “Should not be so quick to anger those who could do him harm.”
“Yeah,” Ateros said. “Look, speaking of Quelka and harm. We can have this conversation if you want, but Quelka is going to be upset when I’m not there on time. And when he asks me why, I’m going to give him your description, and you’d better hope that you aren’t within ten parsecs of Coruscant when I do.”
The Rodian approximated what might have been a smile with its mouth and slowly moved out of Ateros’ way. “Of course.”
Tobal popped his knuckles impatiently. He was not, by nature, an impatient man, but after a while things started to wear on a man. He was standing outside his craft, his stance a confused mixture of protectiveness and restlessness. Jiren had been gone for longer than he had said he would be, and Tobal was a man who believed in punctuality. Being prompt meant people could trust you.
Once again, he glanced about the landing pad, taking things in. This world of buildings and metal, it wasn’t natural. It just wasn’t natural. His senses were all on overload because of it. The sounds, the smells, the feel was all so alien and unfamiliar. He wasn’t sure whether or not he would be able to react in time if someone attacked him.
Pah, he thought. Attack. Was fighting always on his mind? Yes, he had to admit, it was always there. It was ingrained in his nature, interwoven in his mind. He had grown up with the reality that one false step could kill him. At home, even some plants could kill.
He flexed an arm as a rather strong looking alien approached him. A potential show of strength usually made the causal confrontation vaporize. not this time, probably because the alien was almost twice Tobal's height. The beast stopped, and looked down at the diminutive Jedi before him. Except, Tobal didn’t appear to be a Jedi now. The robes had been discarded, and the soft hat he liked was hiding his long, white hair. He looked like a rather small civilian, albeit a well-built one.
“Dis here yer craft?” slurred the alien.
“Yes,” replied Tobal.
“Dis here yer pad?”
“Yes,” lied Tobal.
“Wroong. Dis hre I pad.”
Tobal raised his eyebrows. “Eh?” he said.
“I seed, dis here my pad.”
“I see,” said the Jedi. “The traffic controller…” Tobal motioned in a gesture indicating he had been told to land here. The alien made a grimace unmistakable, regardless of race.
“Traffic controller no got right too land ye here. Rent five hundred credits.”
Tobal blinked. He didn’t have that kind of money. Frowning, he moved his eyes away from the alien. A few beings were beginning to take an interest in the confrontation. He decided to try a trick he had otherwise been miserably unsuccessful in performing successfully.
He waved his hand. “You’re a nice man, and we’re strangers.”
“Five hundred creeedits.”
Tobal waved his hand again, and stretched his words. “We can stay here for a few hours…..” The alien burst out laughing. Apparently, brawns didn’t always mean a small brain behind them.
“Look, juust paay meh an ye can stay as long as ye wantsta.”
Tobal grimaced. “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t have that kind of money.” The alien smiled a bit, and reached out a hand.
“My paad,” it said, as it grabbed Tobal by the neck, and lifted. There was a slight popping sound, and Tobal dropped, gagging. “Paaay,” said the alien, his voice slurred even more than before.
Tobal could feel his temper beginning to rise a bit. That angered him even more, for control of oneself was his primary goal in life. Failure was not an option, here. He struggled to his feet, thinking hastily. A small crowd had gathered, and the low profile Jiren and he wanted did not allow for an incident with witnesses. He looked back to the alien, and shrugged.
“Look, I don’t have the money, and there aren’t any empty pads on this side of the blo--"
The alien grabbed at him again, and there was a slight popping sound. This time, it was the alien gasping in pain.
“We can do this without violence,” said Tobal, his voice hoarse from the squeeze, and his head nodding toward the alien’s now limp wrist, “Or we can make a big scene, and both go to the Imperial jails…”
