Implosion
Reverent as imonastic warriors of Old, the caped crusader kneeled before his anointed commander. Both master and servant were clad in the obsidian robes of their order, but only the servant bore the marks of office--adamantium armor and carmine blade. He was the ultimate instrument of justice, destined to purge the Galaxy of heretics. This executor was bequeathed thousands of titles from Menace of Mecha to Seraph of Sadism, but only one title was worthy to this warrior--the Dark Lord of the Sith.
His kneeling persisted for minutes as his master meditated from his shadowed throne. This exercise may persist for hours, but nobility required deference to the chosen master; duty was paramount to demonstrate loyalty and obedience. The populace mat condemn the servant of witchcraft in their supernatural novices and deface his monuments at the science museums, but no one dare accused him of failing his master.
Well, that was--until yesterday. Obi-Wan was one with the Force, but his Padawan survived. This entity rescued wayward princesses and piloted waggling starships with inherent resourcefulness. Intelligence was lacking on this being, but it served the Rebel Alliance. This entity reminded the formal pupil of himself, as if Obi-Wan selected someone with his adeptness to spite him. Now, he would pursue this Force presence that burned bright as the Cron Cluster since it revealed itself. Obi-Wan had concealed his pupil well, possibly in the Unknown Regions, but that Padawan would have the fate of its Master.
Still, the master meditated with the Force. Past, present, and future--all coalesced in his vision. His temporal sense evaporated as the body decayed, The fossils of bone and muscle were but the mouthpiece of the Dark Oracle. Today, the body withered beneath its cowl. The spirit was swallowing his skin, no matter what midi-chlorians regenerated. When would the spirit consume the master? The servant had no inkling, but the spirit profoundly stirred him to improbable acts of greatness.
No, he was not stirred; he was shaken. He was not amalgamated with the darkness. He lay on the counter like memorable masses without substance. He felt like his Padawan self again, desperate to absorb power for the sake of power.
There was doubt, and doubt was dangerous. How he doubted the stability of his master! Here, here sat the Emperor at the fulcrum, but he did not balance the Galaxy. Jedi pariahs wandered out of the wilderness, throwing their weight to upset order--the order enforced by the servant. He had maneuvered to prevent Tarkin from influencing politics, even submitting to the egotistic autocrat to dissolve the Senate. The campaign proved successful, but how had the Emperor responded? He crawled out of seclusion to listen to the spitfire Princess Organa accuse Governor Tarkin of abusing Imperial funds for his own projects. The Emperor had swerved to his servant to whisper-- "Amidala lives!"
Now the servant must appeal to his master to suspend conversations with the Force. For all the grandeur, for all the glory of its shadowy splendor, the Emperor forsake the present reality--civil war. The Rebels were not isolated fervors; they were plague upon the Galaxy! Quarantines did not contain them. Ban Jedi deification, execute social scientists, suspend Republican professors, blacklist independent journalists--none of these traditional cures were functioning. Unconventional means were necessary, but not Death Stars. One must yield to the masses by giving illusionary freedoms, but the corrupt legislators prevent that with their sprawling bureaucracy.
All this needed to be communicated subtly. One does not command the master; one seduces him by making him believe it was his idea. The servant knew this for he had learned this flirtatious art from the master of masters.
Yet, the master was no more. He had metamorphosed from the enigmatic Emperor who waved to the masses outside his castle, who attended dinner parties thrown by secret Separatists, traveled the Galaxy to inspect libraries and museums--with his executioner at his side. Now, he speculated like the Ancient Ones of Old. Only the Force mattered in the cycle of existence. He had no time to contemplate hidden Jedi, least of all to embrace obsessive passions likehonor that were worms that deprived energy from mental stability.
Honor? Why it anchoredall reality!For the servant, it had chained him to Shmi, Obi-Wan, and Padmé. Now, itchained him to the Emperor, but the yoke was being severed. Yes,he was reeled back by the master from time to time to reminesce of their shared exploits. On these occasions, old excitement glittered in lizard eyes like Adegan gems, only to drift away as the Dark Side sought to see unseen schemes. Again, the servant became another tool--the most perfect tool of the darkness. That was the most recent compliment from the master, but he admonished his servant to unleash his emotions in more constructive ways.
Now, there could be no more love for noble deeds on the winding path to power.How hollow, how petrified did the servant feel as he seem to kneeled more from custom than from ardor; he could no longer deny his chivalrous perceptions were one-sided.
Finally, the Emperor spoke, "Ah, Lord Vader, you may rise. What news do you bear from the Senate?"
The servant demurred, but experience had taught him to speak with the vagueness of politicians, "They are silent as is possible for them, My Master."
"Oh, do not overgeneralize!" the Master glowered. "There are Separatists among their ranks who dare speak in unguarded whispers."
"My Master, what of the Death Star."
"How is construction coming?"
"It--it has been scraped."
"Very well," the master shrugged. "It accommodates my plans to one built that is more massive, more mortifying!"
The servant observed the amphibian eyes and leathery face smile, but the smiles were not for him; the grins glittered for the darkness unseen at the core of the universe.
"I have seen extraordinary sights!"
"Master, have you seen the future?"
"Ah, that is what perplexes!" the master cackled. "Future victory is clouded by miasma in the distance. My eyes do not pierce its depths, but there is great lightning and thunder. How it roars before the silence! There is but one absolute to be known--the Jedi shall threaten us yet!"
"I know, Master."
"Know!" the master hissed. "You--you presume to know?"
The servant bowed his head, "I have slain Obi-Wan this day, but his Padawan escaped."
"Your riddle does not amuse me."
"Master, Obi-Wan has taken another student even though I wasn't promoted Knight officially."
"Ha, Obi-Wan!" the master scoffed as he scanned the horizon. "He was as envious as the Jedi Council was of your potential."
"Yes, but he's defied the Jedi like Qui-Gon!" the servant pleaded. "On may assume he's no longer Jedi--"
"Assume nothing!"
"Master, what if Yoda lives?"
"I do not see him, Lord Vader."
"You can't call someone dead until you see the body, and--"
"I sense your defiance!" the master roared. "Have you come to challenge me?"
"No, Master, not when the Galaxy's in turmoil--"
"Do not tell me about my Galaxy!" the master roared, and the Force reverberated in his voice. "I have senses, which is more than you. Depart from my presence until I summon you."
The servant bowed, "As you wish."
Truly, the master was not his to possess, lost to the unfurling darkness blinding his senses. Yet, he may be found if the servant reeled his master back. This quest would be like discovering treasure buried in the Dune Sea, but the servant would not accept Dark Side slavery. He, although servant, was destined to dominate the universe with the imperious master.
The servant had the spark of hope, but his infrared vision blurred behind his ominous mask. His foreboding tread scoffed the floor of the audience chamber like the steps of brooding children. The gargantuan doors opened at his approached with welcoming arms; on retreat, they slammed with finality behind him.
Authoress Note: Story originally written in October 2005.