Chapter 4: Shame

Jarlina searched the Imperial database for the symbol, but could find nothing. The symbol was similar to those depicted in ancient Sith legends and the design was certainly old enough to date back to the Sith wars, but she had no conclusive evidence. She glanced over her shoulder furtively and stood up. "I shouldn't do this, but here goes. Probably doesn't work anymore anyway." Her heart raced inexplicably as her finger edged toward the black button. She held the blade at arms length and pressed the button. She jumped when she heard the weapon's snap-hiss and felt the radiance of its emerald blade so close to her skin. She swung it in a slow arc as far as her arthritic joints would let her and turned it off. She consulted her old files. Based on the blade color, she had an answer. Sith weapons were traditionally red. While the blade bore a symbol of the Sith, its emerald color was a hue wielded by the Jedi of the Old Republic. The Sith markings were not original and should be removed. Even with its slight flaws, she possessed one of the last lightsabers in existence. A private collector would pay millions of credits for such an artifact. She set the weapon down and began the process of stripping the paint away and sampled a small amount to be analyzed. The analyzer chimed and displayed the readout. The design was painted in blood. "What other secrets are you hiding?" she whispered.

The weapon saw shame in the arms of a wandering thief.

Only hours after the Temple fell, an old, sway-backed Devaronian climbs into the rubble over the bodies of the dead taking anything he can stuff in his worn satchel. He steps over the body of a small woman with long, black hair. In her ourstretched hand is a lightsaber. He looks over his shoulder and smiles, his pointed teeth gleaming. "I wonder how much I could get for this?" he says. "You won't be needing it anymore, my dear." He tosses the weapon into the sack and props himself up on his cane. Climbing out through a hole in one of the walls, he dislodges rubble and hears the boots of clone troopers. "Stop right there!" They caution. The Devaronian shrugs, turns and uses his cane to boost himself out of the window and into the street. He runs home even on his bad leg. The cane acts more as a theatrical device anyway. It helps him when he panhandles on the lower levels of Coruscant. He fairly dances into the shanty he shares with three other riffraff. He spins the human woman Mathil Tannik and picks up the small Chadra-Fan, Stait, who sqeals in protest. The Ithorian known only as Strike sits rather sullenly in the corner, his enormous head bobbing mournfully.

"You're late." Mathil announces.

"Yes, but I have such treasures to show you."

"Did you bring food?" Stait squeals.

"With what I have in this bag, we can all live like kings."

"True happiness does not come from wealth." Strike rumbles.

"Thank you, professor. I'll remember that the next time I pay your bar tab."

The Devaronian's horns turn deep maroon in excitement.

"Well—let's see it," says Mathil in her clipped accent.

The Devaronian pulls out a small bust of the finest keldspar crystal, a few blaster rifles, and the lightsaber.

"I am not impressed." the Ithorian intones.

"This still isn't going to put food on our plates," the Chadra fan utters slipping in and out of basic.

Mathil picks up the weapon and glares at him. "Strockma, what have you done?"

"I've just eased our situation a little."

"Where did you get this?" she asks pointing the weapon at his chest.

"I took it and everything else from the temple. Wasn't much to steal."

"You took this off the dead?" she asks wide-eyed.

"We have to get rid of it. It isn't right," the Chadra-Fan sqeaks.

"If you get caught with it, you'll bring the Empire down on us all," the Ithorian shouts.

"I'll get rid of it as soon as I find a buyer," the Devaronian reassures. "You won't have to smuggle anymore, Mathil won't have to dance, and Stait won't have to sell death sticks. We can all go legit."

Midnight passes and still Strockma clutches his treasure, his arthritic three-fingered hand drawing it from the pillow to caress its cold surface from time to time. He carries it outside into the black Coruscant night, hardly tranquil but somehow filled with promise as if each passing vagrant was saying, "Here is Strockma our King." He isn't alone. Sitting in the broken windowsill is Mathil, her long arms clutching her knees. In the moonlight, her skin glimmers faintly with body paint.

"What are you doing out here?" she asks. Her voice is thick with weariness.

She turns to face him and sees what he is too slow to conceal.

"Are you still carrying that thing?"

"Only till tomorrow my dear."

She jumps from the window and crosses to face him although her chin barely reaches his chest.

"You didn't have to do this. We were managing just fine."

He raises his voice now. "I did this for all of you. Do you think I like living in here while the upper class live in luxury on the upper levels? Do you think I like seeing you degrade yourself working in jizz joints?"

"Yes. I remember how lucky I was that you found me. I also remember being arrested when I was seven for selling glitterstim. I remember nearly getting shot when I was your lookout. Remember, it's you that made me what I am. No one born on the lower levels leaves."

Her face flushes crimson even under the layers of makeup. She reaches up and slaps him. He bares his needle-like teeth derisively. Strike hears the heated argument and lumbers out followed by Strait.

The Ithorian's voice is resonant. "What's going on out here?"

Mathil steps back and sweeps her long black hair over her shoulder. "Nothing. I'm going back to the club. At least I know what I'm dealing with there."

"Wait," the Devaronian calls. He turns to face the two beings glaring at him.

"She'll be back."

"What happened?" Stait pipes.

"She's jealous. She doesn't approve of my latest..aquisition."

Strike sighs causing his enormous chitinous form to droop. "There are some boundaries that should not be crossed."

"That's hypocrisy, friend." The Devaronian chuckles to himself.

"You fool," Strike says, "Mathil's brother was a Jedi. When her parents died, he went to live in the temple and the poor little thing was thrown out on the steets."

"I didn't know. She never told me."

"You never bothered to ask. I suggest you take that thing and get rid of it—NOW!" The Ithorian suddenly draws himself up to his full height.

The Chadra-Fan claws at his leg. "Yes. Get rid of it or don't come back at all."

"Fine. I'll leave. I would have given you some of the profits but now…"

"GO!" Shouts Strike. The Devaronian gathers his belongings and stumbles into the dark night heading for the upper levels of Coruscant.