Best Intentions

Unnamed colony, Mid Rim, ten years before the Mandalorian Wars…

The jungle is dark and thick and cold. Night has fallen over it and it seeps into the spaces between the leaves and then it sinks deep into the ground. The light of the bonfire drives it back in crazy slivers, but it creeps back in when the flames dance away. Somewhere above the canopy, above the blackness where the firelight can't touch, are the stars. Thousands upon thousands piercing the black space as though delicate glass had been shattered over it.

Bao-Dur watches from his perch in the lanthi tree as a handful of stars burst from their stillness, rocket across a small patch of space, and then die away. Like how the transformer on the booster sparked when Hran-Ji fused the wrong wire. The Zabrak allows a small smile to come to his face. A mistake. I don't make those.

"Bao-Dur!"

It is Lan Kee. Peering down through a tangle of branches, Bao-Dur can see his friend, a pale, plain face—like his own—peering up at him.

"It's starting!"

Bao-Dur nods once and slips down from his perch. Below and to his left, toward the orange glow of the bonfire, he can see dark shapes gathering and hear the low pulse of a drum. Above him, half-dozen stars are dying in cascading rockets of light. Bao-Dur spares them one more glance as the thick leaves of the lanthi envelope him. Soon. I will be out there soon.

He lands with a small thud next to Kee. "You're gonna be late," says the young Zabrak, his orange eyes like two little bonfires in their own right. His face is pale and open, and he looks to Bao-Dur as if for a sign or clue as to how a male on the verge of adulthood should look or act.

"It's my own ka'fala," Bao-Dur replies. "They can't start without me."

Kee falls into place beside his friend. Bao-Dur's shadow cloaks his smaller body completely. "Are you nervous?"

"No," Bao-Dur says quickly, but as the pair draw nearer the bonfire, as the heat reaches out to him through the jungle growth, Bao-Dur feels sweat break out on his pale face and his heart is pounding in time to the drumming that grows louder and more ferocious with each step. He runs a hand over his brow, feels the horns there—horns that are beginning to curve and sharpen—and he stands up tall.

"You are nervous," Kee says with a laugh that is quickly swallowed. His own ka'fala is only weeks away. "I will be too."

Over the last week, in the dark hours of night, when the halogens were dimmed and the only sounds in the sleeping colony were the buzzing of insects and the hum of the condensers, Bao-Dur and Kee huddled together to discuss their impending ceremonies. Kee feared that the tattooing would hurt too much and they he would shame himself as a male when the time came. Bao-Dur didn't fear the needle's bite; it is the shaman's drink—the seraq—that kept him restless long after Kee had fallen asleep. What would Uk'ran Doth see when they shared the cup? What future would the old Zabrak decree for Bao-Dur? While Kee spent a week pinching his face and trying not to flinch in preparation for his ceremony, Bao-Dur prayed to whatever god that would listen for the shaman's seraq to tell him that he was a Builder. That's all I want and nothing more. Please, just that, and I will bring honor to my colony.

Now, as Bao-Dur approaches the ring, he admits to himself that he is scared. There is nothing wrong with being afraid, he thinks, so long as the fear doesn't control you.

His father had told him that three years ago, when Bao-Dur was twelve years old and his horns were only stubs erupting from his pale gray and hairless scalp. The next day his father had walked into a fuel storage shed three seconds before it exploded. Someone, the security vids showed, had accidentally left a plasma torch lit and resting on a leaky gas drum.

That was a mistake, Bao-Dur thinks now, as he walks to the edge of the ring. I don't make mistakes, father. And neither will Doth's seraq. The shaman will decree me to be a Builder and when it comes my time to venture off the colony, I will go to Coruscant or Corellia or some other large, industrious planet and I will make ships—freighters and starships and security systems and anything else that needs to be built with two hands. I will be the greatest engineer the Republic has ever seen.

A little humility? says a voice in his mind. It is Uk'ran Doth, the shaman, sitting across from Bao-Dur, his black hair streaming behind him and streaked in silver. The older Zabrak's eyes look calm but dangerous, and Bao-Dur hides his fear by meeting those eyes without blinking. It is said Uk'ran is a Force-adept—one who never trained in the ways of the Jedi. By day, he is a surveyor, a terraformer, but on nights such as these, he is their shaman and holy man, who uses his Force abilities in the rites of ka'fala.

"All I achieve will be done for the honor of my colony," Bao-Dur says aloud to answer Uk'ran's unspoken thought, and he stuns the ring of Zabrak around them with this breach in protocol. The drumming and chanting pauses for half-a-breath and then continues when Uk'ran laughs. "I'll consider it your last indulgence of youth."

The shaman stands up and raises his arms wide to the side, his smile and laughter dying. The black fabric of his ceremonial cloak is lost in the shadows behind him and he appears like a disembodied head, hovering in the orange light of the bonfire. His eyes, red and gold, are molten orbs set in the flowing black rivers of his tattoos.

Tattoos…I will have mine this night. Bao-Dur's eyes flicker to the needle resting at the shaman's feet for a moment. The apparatus looks like a gun and the young Zabrak swallows his fear as Uk'ran begins to speak.

"We are, as ever, a spacefaring race," intones the shaman to his Zabrak. "But while our paths lead us ever outward and away from Iridonia, we will never forget the rites and traditions that began at the birth of our people, and so shall continue until our deaths. Now, for these few moments, let the Old Ways hold sway over all that is new. Let the spirit of the ka'fala best the cold steel of science. Let the black and deepness of space that is our calling silence its summons and leave us to the raw heat of the flame and the knowing nectar of the seraq."

At this proclamation, the drumming grows louder, the flames higher, and the rest of his tribe intones the ancient chants in ever-rising tones. The meaning to the words has been lost over the countless millennia since their inception, but the devotion and loyalty to those lost and ancient Old Ways is instilled deep in the heart of every Iridonian. Fierce and proud, they are made strong by their tradition, and so face the uncertainties of space exploration better than any other race.

Bao-Dur knows these ideals are what he is supposed to feel of his people, and why the trappings of all things civilized are left behind for these nights. He feels it in the chanting of his people that sounds in his chest like another heartbeat, and he sees it in the eyes of Uk'ran Doth who is resuming his seat. We will break you this night, and build you again, and you will be ready.

Bao-Dur nods. "I will be ready."

He kneels across from the shaman and after Uk'ran drinks from the plain, plasteel cup, the older Zabrak passes it to the young. For all his fear and apprehension, Bao-Dur takes the cup willingly and without hesitation, drinks his share of the seraq.

"And now, Bao-Dur uk'Ban, we shall find which destiny belongs to you."

Bao-Dur nods and regrets it for his head suddenly weighs ten kilos. The simple act of nodding tips him forward and he tastes the clean dirt of the forest floor.

The seraq takes hold of his nerves, his skin, his bones. He feels as though he is melting from the inside out and soon all that is left of him is his vision, blurred and dim. And then he understands: His body is somewhere below him now, puddled onto the forest floor amid the soil and leaves, and Bao-Dur is in the depths of the seraq, swimming in the liquor, his eyes stinging as the visions come.

There is Uk'ran Doth beside him, his dark face closing in like a horned firaxa looming out of the deep.

"Let us see…"

Bao-Dur cannot speak, cannot move. He can only watch as the visions unfold, and listen while the drums pound like thunder and the chanting voices of his tribe rise like screaming lightning, and then he sees…

A starship humming under his feet. A tired-looking officer in Republic gray is chewing a stylus and scanning a datapad. "They say you're the best." Bao-Dur shrugs. "I can handle that." "Oh yeah? Well, repair that tattered connector before we make planetfall and we'll see." He smiles. The connector is fixed before the hyper-space jump is even over… "…do you read, over?" The corporal glances at him. "No answer." Bao-Dur grimaces as more of the starship's paneling ruptures and peels off the engine room wall like a silver slab of dead skin. "Try again," he growls, struggling to hold it but it slips and the razor-sharp edge gets away from him and slices his arm above the elbow. His arm slides to the floor of the engine room and even amid the chaos of their dying ship that is screaming towards Malachor, Bao-Dur hears the soft thump of it falling away from his body and spilling his blood, so much blood…. "Do it, lieutenant!" the General cries, even as she falls to her knees on the grated floor. "I order you!" Bao-Dur nods once, quickly. He's been in the service too long to not obey an order once given. The deck of the ship is dark from damage sustained by the Mandalorian attack. Only bursts of light, red and orange, from the battling cruisers and droids outside reveal the black paneled box in his hand. Those, and the yellow-green light of his arm. But Bao-Dur needs no light operate his invention. He keys the combination in with deft fingers and depresses the silver system drive bar without hesitation. The General screams and writhes just as another blast rocks the cruiser. Bao-Dur crawls to her, holds her in his lap, shakes his head. "A mistake," he moans. "It was a mistake…"

Bao-Dur's eyes fly open and he sees the cold black night and the silver stars hanging over him. The colony is silent, the drums turned off. The young Zabrak struggles through the aftermath of the seraq to sit up, and he looks to Uk'ran Doth.

What did he see? Please, gods, let it be that I am Builder. Please…

The shaman's gray face is deathly pale and he regards Bao-Dur as though the younger were a stranger, an outworlder…something other than an Iridonian.

"What—?"

"Sssh," Uk'ran admonishes and appears to regain some of his composure. "What was revealed, was revealed. What will be, will be and there is no power in me to undo it. You are, Bao-Dur uk'Ban…a Builder."

Bao-Dur is so relieved and elated, he does not notice the sliver of fear that cut across the word, nor the unsettled manner in which the shaman turns to retrieve the tattooing needle. A Builder…Bao-Dur marvels, inwardly turning his head and smiling at the place in his heart where his father lives. I promise you…

"Come forth, Bao-Dur," the shaman says, and again the young Zabrak misses the note of reluctance in the elder's voice. "Come so that I may mark the future I have foreseen onto your face; so that all who meet you shall know what you are."

Bao-Dur nods but this time he caught the cold, heaviness in the shaman's last words. They are laden with meaning Bao-Dur cannot guess at, for while he sensed the seraq had shown him much, like a dream that slips away at daybreak, he remembers none of it.

He goes to the shaman and kneels before him. The chanting begins again, this time softer, and the drums are set to low, steady pulses. The pain is sharp and biting but Bao-Dur ignores it as best he can. He sends his mind out and above and into the space above where stars are falling out of their niches to die in hails of brilliant sparking light. In front of him, the shaman's breath wafts over his face as the older Zabrak leans over to carve his skull with ribbons and diamonds.

Soon, I will be up there, Bao-Dur thinks. A Builder. I will make great things, father. Great things that the worlds will remember always and I will bring honor to our colony. I will—

An abomination.

It is the shaman's thought, unbidden, unknowingly heard. Bao-Dur's eyes fly open and he looks at Uk'ran Doth, intent on his work so that he does not see the young Zabrak, now a man, staring at him.

A travesty. Such a machine... And yet I cannot act. It is not my place to meddle, but dear gods, how…?

Uk'ran notices Bao-Dur now, knows that he is hearing him. He ceases his tattooing and the biting pressure relents.

"Shaman?" the young Zabrak whispers. He tries to keep the pleading tone out of his voice but fails. "I am a Builder. I will bring great honor to my colony." He swallows hard. "Won't I?"

The shaman sets aside his needle and captures Bao-Dur's gaze in his own. "Yes, a Builder." He grasps Bao-Dur's face in his hands, his gaze alight with sudden fervor and his words tight and gasping. "But by the Force, Bao-Dur uk'Ban, be careful. Be very, very careful."

Later that night, when the chaotic flames of the bonfire have been exchanged for the civilized purr of the heating units; while the chanting, drumming Zabraks have said their goodnights and returned to their dwellings with proper domesticity, Bao-Dur lies stark awake. His face and scalp throb with every beat of his heart and his hands long to touch the black lines that now traverse his face. But of all that Uk'ran Doth did that changed his life in that short span of hours, it was his final words that stick in Bao-Dur's mind like nettles. His joy at revelation that he would be a Builder is blunted by the uncertainty and distrust he witnessed in the shaman's eyes.

He pulls out the small hand-mirror that Shayl, with a blush and a giggle, had given him at the end of the night. He stares into it intently, poring over the black striations of his face and scalp. What did you see, shaman? And where is it on me?

But the black lines and the diamond on his brow look like nothing but the tattoos Bao-Dur has seen on other engineers. He let's the mirror slip out of his hands and closes his eyes, hoping to force sleep to come and cover over his throbbing skin and racing thoughts in a soothing blanket of nothingness. No matter what the old male saw, I will prove myself worthy, Bao-Dur insists and the thought brings him comfort and rest. He begins to drift away, a small smile on his newly-marked face.

Sleep digs in and takes hold, but so too does a cold shard of fear as Uk'ran Doth's words come back to him. Be careful…

Bao-Dur shakes his head and let's go of the fear. "Whatever he saw was a mistake," he murmurs. "I don't make mistakes. All I do will be for the good and honor of the colony. I swear it."

And then sleep carries him, dreamless and quiet, into the night.

END

A/N: I know zilch about Zabraks despite research on the various sites, but that they are a proud, loyal people and one of the great spacefaring races in the universe. As to the rites of malehood—if there are any—I found nothing to refute or condone this version of things. So if it is incorrect, my apologies, but I couldn't find anything else with which to work from.