CHAPTER 1: A New World Order
Kalaador. The Crown Jewel of the Mid Rim. The mention of its very name evokes the visions of its splendor. A planet rich in resources, culture, and its share of history, Kalaador was said in the same breath as planets like Coruscant, Corellia, and lost Alderaan. But what is most striking about the planet was not its towering crystal spires, nor its warm, amicable people. No what separated Kalaador from the rest of the Empire was that of its relative autonomy.
When the Republic crumbled into dust, the ruler of Kalaador at that time, King Silas XVI, had negotiated with the soon to become Emperor Palaptine to secure a measure of independence from Imperial rule. This contract was one that Palpatine agreed to with one condition; Should the Empire ever need Kalaador for any reason, she would answer the call without fail.
Under these conditions, did Silas agree. Little did he know that only a few decades would go by before the Empire exercised its condition.
* * *
Loud, echoing footsteps resonated down the halls of the Royal home, the Crystal Palace. They belonged to not one person, but two. King Silas XVII wiped a few beads of sweat from his brow as he hurried down one of the Palace's many corridors. The small, balding king's mind was usually on affairs of state or planning the next planetwide festival, but today, his mind was solely on the imminent arrival of what the comminque had described as, "an Imperial Emissary".
An Imperial hasn't been on Kalaador in, my goodness, fifty years, he thought as his journey carried him onward to the landing platform of the Crystal Palace. Suddenly his panicked train of thought was derailed by the sound of his daughter impatiently clicking her tongue.
"Daddy, why do I have to deal with some stupid foreign dignitary? I could be out riding my golura right now. Can't you handle this on your own?", she said.
Raa'chel Kalaador was the king's only daughter. Slender and athletic, with wavy blond hair that caught the early morning light from Kal, the system's only sun. Wearing royal vestments of bright lavender, she could have easily outstripped any other girl's beauty for five solar systems. Her soft brown eyes flashed with the light of innocence. She carried an air about her, however, of haughtiness and arrogance. Aside from that drawback, she was almost flawless. The only other detriment to her calm beauty was that her face was currently contorted in a mask of digust.
Silas sighed. He'd had this conversation twice today already.
"I explained this to you over breakfast, my dear," he spoke in a strained voice, "An emissary of the Empire is one who carries the will of the Emperor himself with him. All members of the Royal Family must greet the diplomat with a show of goodwill-"
"I know this already, Daddy, but that still doesn't explain why we're even bothering! The Empire has no jurisdiction here. Whatever this emissary has to say for that slug, Palpatine can-"
Silas immediately whirled on his daughter, his face shining with sweat and worry. "Whatever your opinions of Palpatine are, you will keep them to yourself while his emissary is here! It is with Palpatine's good graces that you and I are not living under the whims of a territorial governor!" He calmed himself and said, slowly, "I know you don't care for the Empire. I also know why, but that does not mean that you will act less than your station. You will act like a proper princess in the emissary's presence. Do I make myself clear, Raa'chel?"
Raa'chel sighed herself. Acting like a proper princess was something she did only when it would make her father happy for a few minutes. "As clear as the crystal on my brooch, Father."
"Good. Now, the emissary awaits. Come."
With that, they resumed their course toward a life-altering meeting.
* * *
The copliot fidgeted nervously in his chair for the third time since touching down. The pilot of the Imperial shuttle Epsilon shared those same feelings of agitation. It had been a solid ten minutes since the shuttle had landed on the platform adjacent to the Crystal Palace, and five minutes since the Royal Family had appeared at docking level doors. The whole of the palace seemed very distant from the conditions inside the shuttle, as if the shuttle itself was merely watching the passing of Kalaador's time on a holoprojector.
Finally, the copilot spoke, "Sir?"
The pilot started suddenly, and looked at his companion as if just now seeing him. Finally he replied, "What is it, Ensign?"
"Is he going to disembark? The Royal Family is looking impatient."
A cold, hollow voice emanated from the rear of the ship's cabin.
"Let them wait."
The pilots looked back into the ship's cabin, staring into the inky darkness that seemed to envelop the cabin in an almost unnatural manner. It was considerably colder back there. The pilot then seemed to find his courage. "Yes, My Lord. My subordinate meant no disrespect. H-he-"
Once again the voice came. "I do not care about your excuses for your underlings, Captain. The Royal Family is inconsequential. They. Will. Wait. Or do I need to make a better statement?"
The pilot blanched. He knew what one of Lord Vader's minions were capable of. Quickly, he stammered, "Uh, no! No sir! We await your direction, sir!" The copilot immediately chimed in, "At your command, sir!"
"Good," came the voice, "Now, wait, and I will give you instruction."
* * *
In the rear of the shuttle, a shape moved about the darkness. In the thin light that fought its way inside the palpable ink of the rear cabin, it could be seen as the shape of a man. Thin and supple, he wore a cloak of the deepest bloodred. This cloak was draped about a set of leather combat armor that seemed to be alive, like a second skin. The gauntled hands moved down to a small gunmetal case lying on the nearby counter. He unlocked the clasp, and lifted the lid.
Inside the case, there was a red satin lining. The Imperial Emblem, a black octagon with inner spokes, was sewn into the lining. There lay one object. Cylindrical and black, like the case, with three wicked barbs on the end, shaped as a hilt. It was the weapon of a Jedi Knight, though no Jedi crafted this weapon. It was a lightsaber.
The gloved hands of the wiry man caressed the lightsaber, as if holding a priceless treasure. And indeed, he was. Lightsabers were extremely rare. Bringing the hilt close to his face, he ignited the blade.
The lightsaber leapt forth with a blazing red light. A deep red hue pushed back the darkness of the cabin and illuminated the man's face. Long, black hair, tied at the base of the neck. Skin, sallow and corpselike. But what was most striking was his eyes. One, bright blue, like ice. The other, milky white and without irises. Dominating the right side of his face, a jagged scar, blackened and cauterized. The scar ran from his lower jar, across his white eye and finally disappearing under his black hair.
He sighed contentedly as he gazed upon his weapon. After a long moment, he spoke.
"Open the doors. They have waited long enough."
* * *
"What is taking so long?!"
If there was one thing Raa'chel Kalaador hated, it was waiting. Normally, many people waited on her. Having the roles reversed was something that the Princess did not enjoy. Silas, however, continued to pale as they both stood on the docking platform.
"C'mon! Let's get this over-" Raa'chel was suddenly cut off by the sound of the shuttle's gangplank extending toward the deck. Down this ramp came a pair of black boots, which belonged to, in Raa'chel's opinion, the ugliest man she'd ever laid eyes on. Her eyes ran the length of his gaunt appearance, and she silently laughed to herself about how funny it would be if someone as frail looking as him were to be blown off the platform by one Kalaador's sudden wind shifts.
Her internal laughter ceased abrubtly when she looked into his eyes. They were cold, unblinking. The eyes of someone who was more fearsome than he appeared.
Silas, smiling warmly (yet nervously), extended his hand in greeting. "Greetings to you, Emissary of his Imperial Majesty-"
The gaunt man ignored Silas and walked past him and his daughter, on into the palace itself.
Silas stopped, looked to his daughter, and seeing her own indignant expression, followed hurriedly after the man in black. Soon, Silas had caught up with him and continued his speech. "We did not hear your name, good sir."
The man in black kept walking at a marching pace. "That is because I did not tell it to you. I am Sabre Von Rubin, and you may end your pleasantries, Kalaador. I am here to annex your planet into the Galactic Empire."
At this revelation, there was a short beat, and then both Silas and Raa'chel erupted in confused shouts, all dignity forgotten. "WHAT?!" "This cannot be! Surely, there has been-"
Sabre's cold voice carried above the both of them. "There is NO mistake. You are aware of the Rebellion, Your Majesty?"
"Yes, but I-", Silas stammered.
"You are also aware of several Mid Rim worlds joining the Rebellion now that the Death Star has been destroyed?", Sabre continued.
"Well, yes, but Kalaador has never-"
"It does NOT matter if you have or not. Need I remind you that your father signed an agreement with my Emperor, pledging Kalaador's 'unyielding loyalty', if the Empire had need of it? Well, that time has come. Kalaador is to be the base of operations for Imperial troops in this sector. The contract is binding, Kalaador. You have no-"
It was Sabre's turn to be inteurrpted, but not by a voice. From the left of Silas came a hard, firm slap to Sabre's face. Sabre turned, slowly, as though dumbstruck that someone would dare to hit him. His eyes settled on the furied face of Raa'chel Kalaador. She was breathing shallowly.
"How DARE you!!! You come to our planet, disrespect my father, and expect us to kowtow to your deman-" It was then that Raa'chel felt the glove of Sabre's right fist clench onto her throat. Before she knew it, she was lifted into the air, choking and gasping. Sabre's twisted smile gazed up at her struggling form.
"How dare I? I'll tell you how I dare, child! I am one of Lord Vader's faithful! One of the Emperor's Hands! I am Sabre Von Rubin, and I DO WHAT I WISH!!!" he bellowed.
Raa'chel was beginning to turn blue. Silas rushed forward and threw himself to his knees. "NO, PLEASE! Release my daughter, we'll do anything you want! Anything! Mercy!"
Sabre's voice came as a dry whisper as his vice-like grip tightened further around the Princess' neck. "Beg me to let you serve the Empire."
"Yes anything! I beg you, let us serve! Let her go, you're killing her!" Silas cried.
Sabre chuckled maliciously and dropped Raa'chel to the floor. He pointed a gloved finger at the pair of once regal family members and spoke, slowly. "This planet is now, mine. Any more insubordination by your citzenry will result in my bomabardment order being given to my Star Destroyer, Iron Hand. This lovely palace will be last, so you may listen to your subjects' death screams!"
Silas cradled his coughing daughter in his arms. Her color was just now returning. Sobbing, Silas nodded his head, slowly. "We will comply. Lord Von Rubin, I give you full control of Kalaador."
"Good. Very good. Now, where is the throne room?"
Kalaador. The Crown Jewel of the Mid Rim. The mention of its very name evokes the visions of its splendor. A planet rich in resources, culture, and its share of history, Kalaador was said in the same breath as planets like Coruscant, Corellia, and lost Alderaan. But what is most striking about the planet was not its towering crystal spires, nor its warm, amicable people. No what separated Kalaador from the rest of the Empire was that of its relative autonomy.
When the Republic crumbled into dust, the ruler of Kalaador at that time, King Silas XVI, had negotiated with the soon to become Emperor Palaptine to secure a measure of independence from Imperial rule. This contract was one that Palpatine agreed to with one condition; Should the Empire ever need Kalaador for any reason, she would answer the call without fail.
Under these conditions, did Silas agree. Little did he know that only a few decades would go by before the Empire exercised its condition.
* * *
Loud, echoing footsteps resonated down the halls of the Royal home, the Crystal Palace. They belonged to not one person, but two. King Silas XVII wiped a few beads of sweat from his brow as he hurried down one of the Palace's many corridors. The small, balding king's mind was usually on affairs of state or planning the next planetwide festival, but today, his mind was solely on the imminent arrival of what the comminque had described as, "an Imperial Emissary".
An Imperial hasn't been on Kalaador in, my goodness, fifty years, he thought as his journey carried him onward to the landing platform of the Crystal Palace. Suddenly his panicked train of thought was derailed by the sound of his daughter impatiently clicking her tongue.
"Daddy, why do I have to deal with some stupid foreign dignitary? I could be out riding my golura right now. Can't you handle this on your own?", she said.
Raa'chel Kalaador was the king's only daughter. Slender and athletic, with wavy blond hair that caught the early morning light from Kal, the system's only sun. Wearing royal vestments of bright lavender, she could have easily outstripped any other girl's beauty for five solar systems. Her soft brown eyes flashed with the light of innocence. She carried an air about her, however, of haughtiness and arrogance. Aside from that drawback, she was almost flawless. The only other detriment to her calm beauty was that her face was currently contorted in a mask of digust.
Silas sighed. He'd had this conversation twice today already.
"I explained this to you over breakfast, my dear," he spoke in a strained voice, "An emissary of the Empire is one who carries the will of the Emperor himself with him. All members of the Royal Family must greet the diplomat with a show of goodwill-"
"I know this already, Daddy, but that still doesn't explain why we're even bothering! The Empire has no jurisdiction here. Whatever this emissary has to say for that slug, Palpatine can-"
Silas immediately whirled on his daughter, his face shining with sweat and worry. "Whatever your opinions of Palpatine are, you will keep them to yourself while his emissary is here! It is with Palpatine's good graces that you and I are not living under the whims of a territorial governor!" He calmed himself and said, slowly, "I know you don't care for the Empire. I also know why, but that does not mean that you will act less than your station. You will act like a proper princess in the emissary's presence. Do I make myself clear, Raa'chel?"
Raa'chel sighed herself. Acting like a proper princess was something she did only when it would make her father happy for a few minutes. "As clear as the crystal on my brooch, Father."
"Good. Now, the emissary awaits. Come."
With that, they resumed their course toward a life-altering meeting.
* * *
The copliot fidgeted nervously in his chair for the third time since touching down. The pilot of the Imperial shuttle Epsilon shared those same feelings of agitation. It had been a solid ten minutes since the shuttle had landed on the platform adjacent to the Crystal Palace, and five minutes since the Royal Family had appeared at docking level doors. The whole of the palace seemed very distant from the conditions inside the shuttle, as if the shuttle itself was merely watching the passing of Kalaador's time on a holoprojector.
Finally, the copilot spoke, "Sir?"
The pilot started suddenly, and looked at his companion as if just now seeing him. Finally he replied, "What is it, Ensign?"
"Is he going to disembark? The Royal Family is looking impatient."
A cold, hollow voice emanated from the rear of the ship's cabin.
"Let them wait."
The pilots looked back into the ship's cabin, staring into the inky darkness that seemed to envelop the cabin in an almost unnatural manner. It was considerably colder back there. The pilot then seemed to find his courage. "Yes, My Lord. My subordinate meant no disrespect. H-he-"
Once again the voice came. "I do not care about your excuses for your underlings, Captain. The Royal Family is inconsequential. They. Will. Wait. Or do I need to make a better statement?"
The pilot blanched. He knew what one of Lord Vader's minions were capable of. Quickly, he stammered, "Uh, no! No sir! We await your direction, sir!" The copilot immediately chimed in, "At your command, sir!"
"Good," came the voice, "Now, wait, and I will give you instruction."
* * *
In the rear of the shuttle, a shape moved about the darkness. In the thin light that fought its way inside the palpable ink of the rear cabin, it could be seen as the shape of a man. Thin and supple, he wore a cloak of the deepest bloodred. This cloak was draped about a set of leather combat armor that seemed to be alive, like a second skin. The gauntled hands moved down to a small gunmetal case lying on the nearby counter. He unlocked the clasp, and lifted the lid.
Inside the case, there was a red satin lining. The Imperial Emblem, a black octagon with inner spokes, was sewn into the lining. There lay one object. Cylindrical and black, like the case, with three wicked barbs on the end, shaped as a hilt. It was the weapon of a Jedi Knight, though no Jedi crafted this weapon. It was a lightsaber.
The gloved hands of the wiry man caressed the lightsaber, as if holding a priceless treasure. And indeed, he was. Lightsabers were extremely rare. Bringing the hilt close to his face, he ignited the blade.
The lightsaber leapt forth with a blazing red light. A deep red hue pushed back the darkness of the cabin and illuminated the man's face. Long, black hair, tied at the base of the neck. Skin, sallow and corpselike. But what was most striking was his eyes. One, bright blue, like ice. The other, milky white and without irises. Dominating the right side of his face, a jagged scar, blackened and cauterized. The scar ran from his lower jar, across his white eye and finally disappearing under his black hair.
He sighed contentedly as he gazed upon his weapon. After a long moment, he spoke.
"Open the doors. They have waited long enough."
* * *
"What is taking so long?!"
If there was one thing Raa'chel Kalaador hated, it was waiting. Normally, many people waited on her. Having the roles reversed was something that the Princess did not enjoy. Silas, however, continued to pale as they both stood on the docking platform.
"C'mon! Let's get this over-" Raa'chel was suddenly cut off by the sound of the shuttle's gangplank extending toward the deck. Down this ramp came a pair of black boots, which belonged to, in Raa'chel's opinion, the ugliest man she'd ever laid eyes on. Her eyes ran the length of his gaunt appearance, and she silently laughed to herself about how funny it would be if someone as frail looking as him were to be blown off the platform by one Kalaador's sudden wind shifts.
Her internal laughter ceased abrubtly when she looked into his eyes. They were cold, unblinking. The eyes of someone who was more fearsome than he appeared.
Silas, smiling warmly (yet nervously), extended his hand in greeting. "Greetings to you, Emissary of his Imperial Majesty-"
The gaunt man ignored Silas and walked past him and his daughter, on into the palace itself.
Silas stopped, looked to his daughter, and seeing her own indignant expression, followed hurriedly after the man in black. Soon, Silas had caught up with him and continued his speech. "We did not hear your name, good sir."
The man in black kept walking at a marching pace. "That is because I did not tell it to you. I am Sabre Von Rubin, and you may end your pleasantries, Kalaador. I am here to annex your planet into the Galactic Empire."
At this revelation, there was a short beat, and then both Silas and Raa'chel erupted in confused shouts, all dignity forgotten. "WHAT?!" "This cannot be! Surely, there has been-"
Sabre's cold voice carried above the both of them. "There is NO mistake. You are aware of the Rebellion, Your Majesty?"
"Yes, but I-", Silas stammered.
"You are also aware of several Mid Rim worlds joining the Rebellion now that the Death Star has been destroyed?", Sabre continued.
"Well, yes, but Kalaador has never-"
"It does NOT matter if you have or not. Need I remind you that your father signed an agreement with my Emperor, pledging Kalaador's 'unyielding loyalty', if the Empire had need of it? Well, that time has come. Kalaador is to be the base of operations for Imperial troops in this sector. The contract is binding, Kalaador. You have no-"
It was Sabre's turn to be inteurrpted, but not by a voice. From the left of Silas came a hard, firm slap to Sabre's face. Sabre turned, slowly, as though dumbstruck that someone would dare to hit him. His eyes settled on the furied face of Raa'chel Kalaador. She was breathing shallowly.
"How DARE you!!! You come to our planet, disrespect my father, and expect us to kowtow to your deman-" It was then that Raa'chel felt the glove of Sabre's right fist clench onto her throat. Before she knew it, she was lifted into the air, choking and gasping. Sabre's twisted smile gazed up at her struggling form.
"How dare I? I'll tell you how I dare, child! I am one of Lord Vader's faithful! One of the Emperor's Hands! I am Sabre Von Rubin, and I DO WHAT I WISH!!!" he bellowed.
Raa'chel was beginning to turn blue. Silas rushed forward and threw himself to his knees. "NO, PLEASE! Release my daughter, we'll do anything you want! Anything! Mercy!"
Sabre's voice came as a dry whisper as his vice-like grip tightened further around the Princess' neck. "Beg me to let you serve the Empire."
"Yes anything! I beg you, let us serve! Let her go, you're killing her!" Silas cried.
Sabre chuckled maliciously and dropped Raa'chel to the floor. He pointed a gloved finger at the pair of once regal family members and spoke, slowly. "This planet is now, mine. Any more insubordination by your citzenry will result in my bomabardment order being given to my Star Destroyer, Iron Hand. This lovely palace will be last, so you may listen to your subjects' death screams!"
Silas cradled his coughing daughter in his arms. Her color was just now returning. Sobbing, Silas nodded his head, slowly. "We will comply. Lord Von Rubin, I give you full control of Kalaador."
"Good. Very good. Now, where is the throne room?"