The First Chronicle of Kallig

Chapter One: The Arrival

3643 BBY: Imperial Transport Inbound for Korriban

Sha'al tried not to fall asleep, tried not to dream, but he could not stop the memories. He was the only passenger in the transport, the lights were dim and it had been a twenty hour trip. His eyes slipped closed, and he drifted off into his past. It was five years ago, just after he'd turned 18 years old on Korriz. Lord Medriaa had just perished under mysterious circumstances. His father, Rikel, had been one of Medriaa's doctors, his mother, Meena, one of his administrators. When Darth Angral had taken over Korriz, he had all the servants who resisted the changes he was making enslaved. Meena had objected to the removal of so many competent administrators, and he recalled vaguely the destruction of Lord Medriaa's statues. An hour she asked Darth Angral to reconsider, their whole family had been pummeled out of their home and into the street. They were stripped of their clothing and dragged naked through the city gate until they reached what had used to be the Blurrg pens, but were now used for the increased slave stock. The pens had been cleaner when they were used for the Blurrgs, although they had smelled just as bad. His head bounced against the bulkhead, and he eyes flashed open, from the turbulence he suspected they were beginning their descent into Korriban's atmosphere. He slapped his face to try and fend off sleep, but to no avail, his eyes closing once more. He saw his father's face, round and covered in black stubble, his thin upper lipped covered by his bushy moustache. They were repairing an astromech droid for Angral's son Tarnis, who would be leaving soon on some sort of classified mission. He'd noticed that Tarnis had been standing in front of a mirror, practicing different accents. As they were finishing up, his father stumbled over a hydrospanner Sha'al had forgotten to pick up and fell on his hip with a sickening *crunch.* Rikel told him not to worry, that it wasn't his fault and that he'd be fine, but the dread and guilt merely built as he helped his father limp back to the slave huts.

His father had died the following month, the slave drivers did not allow give him time to heal and so a small strip of cartilage that had peeled inside the hip joint broke free and poked, and pinched and stabbed him. He was in constant pain, unable to sleep more than an hour a night. His father lost weight quickly, folds of skin hanging from his neck and arms, his midnight black hair turned grey and dark puffy bags formed under his eyes. The end came on the hottest day of the year when his father had slumped against a tree, drenched in sweat. He did not cry; he just lay on top of his father, his head pressed into the chest of what he used to call "Dad." A dozen or so minutes later Barso, the worst of the slaver drivers had roused him by whipping him until he ran from the tree. Hours later, after he had finished his labour for the day, he arrived "home" at their hut, which housed fifteen slaves and was scarcely big enough for three. "Mother, mother, father—" he could not force the words out, his eyes water and his knees shook. He did not need to finish the sentence for his mother to see what had happened on his face. She had dreaded the inevitable for days, nay weeks now and she knew the sorrow on her son's face could only mean one thing. "No!" She gasped, her eyes instantly wet. The other slaves barely glanced; someone died almost every week lately, "it's the heat," they'd say as if they were being blamed. Except it wasn't the heat, it was that shutta Barso, under Medriaa the slave drivers who were cruel to the slaves to the point of reducing productivity risked becoming slaves if caught. But Angral was busy with some project involving something called Godera, and didn't bother to police Korriz. I can't blame him, until I was a slave I never cared about they were treated either.

Meena could not stop sobbing; she wrapped her arms around herself and rocked back and forth. "Mom! Mom! Mom we've got to bury Dad before the Sleens eat him," She did not respond to him. "Mom! We can't let the Sleens eat father's corpse!" At the used of the word corpse she wailed louder. "Mother, come! Come with me!" He tugged at her, but she would not budge. He tugged again and she fell onto her side. She continued wailing and rocking back and forth, although she was not able to rock much on her side. "Mother, m— Meena, listen to me. I must bury father. She still did not respond, "Mother, I know how you worry when you can't me or fath—" he stopped, suddenly aware of how difficult it was to accept reality. He sucked in his cheeks and bit them until just before drawing blood, using the pain as a distraction to stop himself from sobbing. "I don't want to worry you! Please repeat what I've just said! Please!" She stopped wailing, and relative silence of the hut compared to the awful din just a moment before made Sha'al even more uncomfortable. She whipped her head to look at him and her eyes seemed…. off. Something was wrong – more than just the obvious – her pupils actually appeared to be stretched like a Cathar's and there was a crimson red-orange tinge around her pupils invading the chestnut irises he knew so well. "Bury! Bury! Bury! Buried alive! All of us! We've been buried alive!" He bolted and ran through the open door, knocking one his fellow slaves down the wooden stairs. As he ran through the sparse yellow grass a strap on his right sandal tore and so he kicked them both off. The wailing resumed and faded as the hut disappeared into the distance. He tried not to think about his mother's eyes – that wasn't the Meena he knew.

When he got to the tree he froze, in the dark he did not see his father. His legs shook, more from grief than hunger, but not eating lunch or dinner was only compounding the situation. His mind raced even faster than his heart. "The Sleens must have already taken him… taken all that we had left of him, away from us!" he whispered, catching his breath. He knew that Sleens are more much territorial and aggressive after a meal; he knew he should be on guard but he couldn't muster the energy. From somewhere in his mind he heard his voice, soft and childlike, I wish they'd eat me too. "NO! Despair is death! Never, ever surrender to despair!" his voiced carried far beyond the trees, to the gravel path from the city where two flashlights lit the ground. He was repeating a lesson he'd learned even before he was a slave, and had seen proven many time since then. You could see when someone had quit living; it was as if they just stopped being there. He was the best in the slave camp at predicting who would give up next. No, he corrected himself, not predicting: knowing. He had some special skill at reading the hearts of others. He could touch someone in the grip of a powerful emotion and feel a small flick of whatever they were experiencing.

His eyes adjusted to the moonless dark and he saw his father. His body was slightly bloated, but unmistakable. He heard a faint buzzing and saw flaws walking over his lips. He swatted them away and a newly born maggot ended up on his hand. He almost screamed in anger at how the maggots were violating the dignity of his beloved father, he ground his teeth together, stifling the obscenities he wished to bellow. That these things would make a meal of Rikel was unthinkable, and yet… burying him in the soil would do nothing to prevent this. "Wormfood, buried or not, we're all wormfood sooner or later." Coming to his senses he realized that in his haste he had forgotten to take a shovel to dig a grave. He would have to run back to the hut if he couldn't find something to use. He heard voices faintly in the distance, "Barso you sure that piece of crap is rotting out here? I smell something mighty awful coming from the pond." Sha'al sunk on his belly, and flattened himself as much as he could without making a noise. He didn't recognize the voice of the slave driver with Barso, but he didn't need to, they were all cruel, stupid, cowards. "I keep telling you, you little schutta, it was one of those trees, and as we haven't a minute to waste, if we want some meat to feed to ma' Akky." The idea of Barso's pet Akk Dog eating Rikel made Sha'al's stomach churn, he could taste gastric acid rising, and for grateful he'd missed lunch and dinner. Barso's flashlight flickered, "Fierfek it! The damn thing was just recharged a month ago!" Barso stomped his feet, the greasy slave driver having a temper tantrum like a small child. "Let's go Barso, the Sleens are coming," said the other slave driver. Barso followed his slightly less stupid associate back to the city. Sha'al exhaled sharply; he hadn't realized he was holding his breath. He'd have to dig the grave with his bare hands in the dark. He dragged his father next to a spot where the ground seemed relatively soft and got to work.

Hours later as the sun rose he had just finished the grave, some of his fingernails had peeled back and his hands were red and brown from the blood and dirt. He would not get back to the huts in time to start the long work day, and he would be punished for his lateness. But he vowed that no slave master would ever find where he'd buried his beloved father. As he lifted his beloved father into the grave, his eyes teared up as he viewed him in light of dawn and– an extra-large wave of turbulence slammed his head into the bulkhead again, waking him. "ATTENTION NEW ACOLYTE. YOU HAVE ARRIVED ON KORRIBAN. PLEASE EXIT THE TRANSPORT," the robotic announcement was followed by the shuttle lights turning on for the first time in twenty hours. He shivered as he set foot upon the birthplace of the Sith, he hadn't realized how cold he was until he felt Korriban's warmth.

Without strife, your victory has no meaning. Without strife, you do not advance. Without strife, there is only stagnation.
–Uthar Wynn. 3956