PART 1
Deep in the slums of a distant planetoid, on the edge of the Distant Outer Rim, a ten-year-old Cathar boy fell face-deep on the dirty mud. A brown smudge masked the orange, striped fur of his face; he coughed, spitting bits of fetid gunk, scurrying to get up.
Five people dashed angrily by the alley into which he had just escaped. They clamored and protested loudly, waving blaster pistols in the air. The boy lifted himself up with a pair of skinny arms, sighing loudly. He had smushed the loaf of bread that he had stolen.
If he scraped the dirt carefully, and removed the soggy parts, it could still be edible. He wandered off further into the alley, a narrow corridor created with the wooden and plastic walls of shacks and sheds that composed the vast slums where he lived.
Scurrying along the alley, he left through the opposite end, squeezing himself out and into the busy streets. He shook his head and looked up. Every night he dreamt of blue skies, but what he saw everyday was a blanket of tainted clouds against a toxic-green backdrop of pollution and smoke. With drained mountains, impossible holes, abandoned cities and factories, dotted over a wasteland of dust and death, the landscape of the planetoid was depressing, fetid and hopelessly dull. Forests had been destroyed, mountains had been excavated, rivers had been dried. Thousands of industrial chimneys dotted the skyline, like ominous tombstones.
He could only dream with those beautiful steel-and-glass skyscrapers of Nar Shaddaa, or the luxurious speedcars of Alderaan, and the polished starships of Naboo, as he had seen many times on the holos at the cantina.
The planetoid where he lived had no name, at least that he knew of, and it was so deeply hidden in the galaxy that he feared he would live and die there, by himself. Instead of the expensive laminasteel or transparisteel, or even the ordinary desh, the living units of the slums of Section-97 had been produced like in ancient times with wood and stone. Occasionally, people used pieces of canvas or discarded metal scraps from the mines and factories. The competition for the best materials and compounds often resulted in death.
In fact, most of the houses of the common folk were simply tents made with plastic canvas or plating, or abandoned cargo netting, left behind by the few freighters that passed through.
He did not have one of these houses; he did not have anyone. He had survived alone, without shelter and without a family, for the past two years.
His life had not been always like that. He used to have a big, loving family. His mother and father had arrived on the planetoid ten years earlier. They had come together with thousands of others, in private, corporate shuttles. Workers hired to man the new factories and gas refineries for Czerka Corporation, Corellian Arms, and Ardus Industries. For the next decade, the economy boomed with the harvesting and refining of tibanna gas and azurite crystal.
Even though he was just a baby when they arrived, he remembered feeling the disappointment of his father when they arrived in the workers' settlements. They had been promised fortresses, but were given flimsy, cramped apartments, in prefab buildings made from recycled materials.
The settlements of District-97 comprised of thousands of ten-story buildings, with minuscule apartment units, scattered across an enormous flatland, surrounded by tall mountains, deep caverns, and dense jungles.
The colossal, abandoned factories still loomed in the distance, far from the town.
The boy had chosen to forget about his own childhood. He had selected, however, four loving memories: the birth of his first sister, Myat, when he was four years old. She was small and had orange fur and blue eyes like him. He still savored the burst of love he felt upon seeing her cub face for the first time.
His father, on the other hand, had not seemed as excited; desperation surrounding him. Myat had not been planned, and they already struggled enough to raise one cub. His mother had to quit her job in the factory to raise the baby; they could not trust their neighbors, and the boy was too young to take care of the newborn by himself.
Then, his second sister, Puath, came into the world, roughly two years later. At that time, his father had already begun rotting away with spice; his mother, too, had become increasingly absent, working all night.
The responsibility of raising the two young girls fell on the boy's skinny shoulders. He was six.
It was hard - desperately hard - but he did what he could – and he loved them. Oh, how he loved them so very much: the oldest one, Myat, had a shiny golden fur with almost imperceptible white stripes; and the youngest, Puath, had been painted by nature with a highly uncommon hue of grey and white. The three of them shared the same hue of sapphire in their eyes, which they took from their father.
The memories of his sisters always brought a smile to his tired face. The dried mud on his fur cracked softly. He shoved a piece of bread into his mouth and swallowed without chewing. He looked to the sky again and wondered where his sisters could be… He hoped it was a better place.
He hated his father; and he hated his mother, a junkie who had kidnapped his two sisters in the middle of the night and had run away, abandoning him behind. He was eight. The father followed suit, vanishing overnight, disappearing after a long year of abuse. One morning, he woke up and he was all alone.
In desperation, he visited the factory his father used to work that same morning. Other workers had told him that his father had fled to avoid debt collectors; he also heard that he had been offered a better job in a distant planet but could not afford to take his son with him.
There were many rumors. He had heard that his father had been murdered; others did not even know he had a son. The people on that planetoid seemed amused by the suffering of one of the last Cathars of the galaxy. Like his species, the boy was left in solitude, like an unwanted pet.
His name is Plaz-myu and this is his story.
###
The bread went down nauseatingly. Concealing the bag in his rags, Plaz-myu walked down the busy street, dodging bodies, shoulders, and ramming carts. Everything seemed to be bigger than him.
Unlike the native feline folk of planet Cathar, who could be powerful and proud Sylvars, or sleek and agile Juhani, or honorable and traditional Myr Rhos, Plaz-myu was skinny, short, and mane-less.
The streets of Section-97 permanently swarmed with busy aliens, loud and desperate creatures, ranging from the common merchant selling scraps and rusty parts or greasy snacks, to spice dealers and even shady gangsters. Crime and violence ran rampant after the corporate governments left.
Over the years, he needed to learn how to shield his mind from the frenzied chaos of the city. He thought that maybe he was just a little bit too sensitive; the noise reverberated inside his mind, and even when the night fell quiet, he found it difficult to sleep. His brain raced, and he felt sick after a long day of work. He seemed to be constantly hyperfocused and on-edge on the planetoid.
Plaz-myu resembled a humanoid tiger, with once-bright orange fur, hundreds of black stripes, and patches of white fur on his face and torso. He had slightly pointy ears and fangs, and bright, blue eyes.
He did not know where he had been born; but he knew where he had not been born: Planet Cathar. He had never learned his ancestral language, nor his ancient customs. His parents hopped from planet to planet, always on the run, as his mother had told him once. She told him she could not recall where Plaz-myu had been born, and the conversation ended there. Without proper documentation from either the Galactic Republic or the Sith Empire, Plaz-myu did not exist.
The planetoid was never officially colonized. Czerka Corporation had purchased shortly after discovering the vast deposits of tibanna gas, one of the main components of blaster ammunition. No true city had ever been built; Even spaceports and landing pads had been temporary. The corporate government ruled the planetoid from a star cruiser in orbit, which was the first thing that disappeared when the operations ended. There were no long-term plans for that place, nor for the people.
The operations lasted for ten years. Laws in the Outer Rim were nonexistent, and since the people were runaways or criminals, their lives were as disposable as their apartments.
Plaz-myu remembered the rants of his father; he complained every night, blaring about how his contract stated that he and his family, as soon as operations terminated, would have transportation back to the planet from whence they had come. The people had been forgotten, the years passed, and nothing happened.
Scavengers had stripped the factories, selling anything that could be sold. Powerful gangs transformed the abandoned facilities into headquarters, and the people were driven away.
Plaz-myu cared only about the next meal and where he would sleep that night. That is how he lived. The gangs had ignored him until today, as he was too small and weak, but stealing from their protected merchant was one of the worst ideas of his short life.
Plaz-myu enjoyed seeing the spaceships in the sky. It was so rare, though, that he always played a game with himself: is it a star or a ship? And he always lost.
There were only three reasons why a ship would land on that planetoid. One, an emergency. A fairly common occurrence with illegal vessels. Legitimate fuel was hard to come by. Besides, a dense asteroid field surrounded the outer ring of that system. It was easy to navigate to a skilled pilot with an updated navicomputer, but tricky to the unprepared, and that made it a good place to hide.
Two, delivery of contraband. Spice, stolen relics, and weapons were the most common. The planetoid served as a traveler's outpost, where smugglers could refuel and resupply before reaching the underworld spaceports of the nearby planets.
Three, by mistake. Some ships had outdated astrogation charts, their navigation computers did not work properly, or they could be damaged. Smugglers often flew into the Outer Rim when escaping Republic or Imperial patrols, and that abandoned planetoid was the ideal place to lay low.
Plaz-my dreamed with conquering the stars. Owning a spaceship meant owning your destiny. For someone like him, though, there was no way out.
Stowaways were punished cruelly, commonly freezing to death in the void of space, or sold into slavery. A flight ticket alone cost an unimaginable fortune, the sort of which Plaz-myu would take seven lifetimes to earn, let alone a particular ship.
Plaz-myu took another bite of the bread. The day had only begun, and boredom already dulled his mind. He adjusted his rags; a pair of makeshift pants and a shirt made of cargo netting, venturing back into the chaos of the main street of Section-97.
Fighting his way through the crowd, drowning in noise, of merchants and workers rushing back and forth, Plaz-myu tugged the coat of a grumpy looking Rodian.
"Sir, could I help you carry those boxes?!" he asked anxiously.
The bug-eyed, green alien growled. "Piss off, boy!"
"Excuse me, I'm looking for work," Plaz-myu shouted again, squeezing effortfully through the tight crowd. "I could, I don't know, announce your store down the street to attract more customers!"
The merchant, assembling his booth against a wall, merely raised an eyebrow – or what looked like one on his brown, insect-like Kel Dor face.
"Just ten credits for one day of work, what do you say?" Plaz added, and the man laughed. "Eight… Five! Please, I need work!"
"Four credits and you get one makayan lizard for lunch," the alien grunted. "Deal? Deal. Just make customers come to Lyui'a's Stand for the best snacks on Sector-97."
Plaz-myu cheerfully ran down the street, smiling with satisfaction. In that corner he stood for five hours, walking back and forth, shouting with joy, looking at the sea of potential customers. Occasionally, one would come and ask for directions. Although his voice was not as powerful as it could be for a Cathar, he was articulate and charismatic – and the sight of a rare Cathar always drew attention.
The sun had disappeared behind the large orange planet beyond the planetoid. It was when his stomach roared furiously. No one had brought him lunch and he was afraid he would be fired if he had left his post. As the streets emptied and the chaos subsided, Plaz-myu rushed back to Lyui'a's Stand.
He knew he had done a terrific job, getting at least seven customers. He said nothing, only smiled eagerly at the insectoid alien disassembling the tent.
"Here's your pay, kid," he tossed him three credit coins.
"We agreed on four credits, and one stick," Plaz-myu protested. "I'm starving, sir."
"Tough luck, kid." The man shrugged. "I sold everything, but I forgot a debt I had to pay, so I'm out of cash. See you around," the alien loaded a large cart with a heavy sack and a crude wooden frame and walked away.
The Cathar stood there, appalled, staring at the man's hunching back. He clenched the coins in his small fist and ran after him. He held his wrist.
"That's not fair, I worked really hard! You only sold everything because of me!"
"You worked and you got your pay, now fuck off before I smack you, boy!" the alien attempted to pull his hand away, but, for some reason, he could not. Plaz-myu squeezed the man's arm and said:
"Only after you pay me the missing coin and give me a stick to eat." Curious eyes and laughter popped up in the crowd. "You have to pay me!"
"I have to pay you," he babbled as he handed two more coins to the boy.
"Thank you very much!" Plaz let go of his arm. He was glad the man saw reason; maybe he was just tired, he thought, and he was kind enough to pay him an extra credit to make up for the food. Giggling, Plaz-myu ran up the street, then turned left, dodging passersby, arriving at an awful cantina.
He could not read the place's name, handwritten with brown paint over an old plastic plate that hanged above the doorframe outside.
The air was dense, heavy with fumes and gases, from putrid cigars, as byproducts of certain aliens' respiration, or from the burning of spice. The air was visible against the light, as if someone held a sheet of translucent paper, dipped in cooking oil, in front of their eyes.
Plaz-myu coughed heavily, rubbing tears off his irritated eyes, as he dragged himself across the floor, sitting on a high stool at the counter.
"Good to see you again," said the olive-skinned Twi'lek bartender in Basic. The man had only one head-tentacle; the other was a scarred stump attached to his head.
"Thanks, Pa'Pouh." Plaz-myu sighed. "I have money now, okay?"
"Nothing personal, eh?" He shrugged. "I have to deal with enough idiots here every day and someone who doesn't pay is taking a place of someone who does. What can I get you?"
The boy produced the five coins from his pocket and held them on the palm of his hand. He counted them individually, whispering to himself, calculating how much he could spend and how much he could save. Employment was not always a guaranteed luxury, and there were many days which he needed to survive without a single credit.
"Okay, so… um, how much does the bantha milk cost…?" Plaz-myu squinted his eyes trying to locate the milk in the luminous menu on the wall behind the bar.
"Two creds for a jug," the barman said. "I can make it one for two glasses."
The Twi'lek let himself smile for a change, seeing the sudden relief in the boy's visage. Plaz-myu looked down and counted something on his fingers.
"Could you—could it be a glass of milk and a loaf of bread for two credits…?"
"Fine, kid… But you ain't getting none of the fresh-baked ones.' He turned his head and shouted something in Rylothean to one of his employees. A couple of minutes later, the bartender lay a plastic cup of blue milk and a half loaf of two-day old bread in front of the boy.
Plaz-myu chugged down the milk before Pa'Pouh accepted the coin. He put the glass down on the counter and let out an honest groan of satisfaction. It was refreshing, nutritious and sweet, the milk.
"Here, kid; on the house." Pa'Pouh poured another glass for the boy with an amicable grin.
"Thanks, Mister Pa'Pouh! You're the best." he chugged down the milk, grabbed the bread and ran back to town.
With a stomach full of milk, Plaz-myu could save the bread for later. That meant he would have breakfast and lunch guaranteed! And he still had three credits in his pockets. That had been the best day of his life.
As the night grew colder, Plaz-myu headed back into the alleys of Section-97 to search for a shelter he could use; anything to protect him from the harsh weather of the night.
He had learned that the best place to sleep was one of those container boxes filled with cast-plast and old synthetic canvas. It was soft and insulated. The abandoned constructions were out of bounds to a kid like himself, and he could not afford the rent. Gangsters and other types of dangerous people had claimed them.
The Moonraiders, with their shaved heads and pierced faces, took over the refineries and some underground mines. The spice dealers of the Children of Acid, skinny junkies, augmented with low-quality cybertech – terrible with blasters – had conquered the factories and office buildings.
Other criminal groups, mostly simply a collection of vagabonds, had seized the apartment buildings.
After another hour or so, the Cathar finally found a cozy place to spend the night. A rolled bundle of cargo netting lay piled up in a corner, covered by a large and thin fibermesh canvas. He crawled inside and curled up; despite the cold, he fell asleep almost instantly.
Roaring thunders woke him up the next morning. The acid storms of the moon were fierce and dangerous; the water burnt unprotected skin and strong winds blew roofs and tents away.
Aliens who still maintained their cultural traditions prayed to their gods to keep them safe. Plaz-myu would pray if he knew of a prayer; whenever it rained, it was nearly impossible to find work. When he was younger, he used to love the rain; he and his sisters used to play in the mud, and the memory warmed his heart.
Plaz-myu found a large piece of polyplast, pulling it over himself. Now safe from the rain, he rummaged through his belongings and took a small slice of bread, which he savored for an hour.
The sound of raindrops against the plastic soothed him as he nibbled on his bread. Plaz-myu hummed to himself a lullaby he used to sing to his sisters. He did not remember where he had learned it; his mother had never sung it to him. Maybe he had invented it just for Myat and Puath.
He kept himself entertained with the memories of his sisters for over two hours, his only distraction against the deathly boredom that always befell his mind.
Unpleasant memories of how he kept his sisters safe while their father drowned in alcohol, or while their mother played with spice in her room, appeared. He thought about how he had attempted to teach them to read Basic – to the best of his capacity; about how he had taught them how to use their imagination – their only weapon against the misery of their lives. It hurt his tiny heart that they had to often sleep under the bed, or away in the streets with him, to avoid the wrath of their parents.
When reality knocked down their walls, they built magical fortresses of happy tales and fake memories, which they constructed whenever they fled and hid in the basement. Rat bites were much less painful than punches and kicks.
Plaz-myu missed school, too. It was not the best of places, but there he at least felt he was doing something useful, even though everyone born or raised on the planetoid was bound to work as a miner, or a drone in the factories. All of his friends had already died. Killed by famine, by disease, or by blaster fire.
He crawled out of his shelter, his furry feet sinking into the mud. He still had half a loaf of bread left. He wrapped it in a piece of ripped cloth and tied the bag to his rope belt, ready to venture back into town. Perhaps he could find job as a cleaner! A wide smile opened on his face, and he sprinted back into the main streets.
The streets burbled in commotion and uproar after the storm. People clamored, people rallied, people robbed, and people fought – to protect their livelihood, or to steal it from others. Some of the aliens worked hard to remove debris off the main roads, to rebuild ruined tents, stores, and houses. In the corners, gangsters offered easy cash to anyone interested.
Alone once more, Plaz-myu sighed. He would never find work in that turmoil.
"Excuse me, sir!" he shouted from the crowd. "Do you have work for me?!"
The purple-skinned, horned alien responded aggressively in his native language. Plaz-myu fled the place, looking over his shoulder at the man who still gestured angrily at him.
He tried again at another store, three blocks to the south, at the corner of a busy intersection.
"We aren't hiring."
"I need a mechanic. Are you a mechanic?" said a large female alien in a long, black dress. She had two huge, round eyes without eyelids and two hands with only three fingers.
"I could learn… I learn fast," Plaz said shyly.
"I don't need a student. Get out of here."
The orange planet beyond covered the sun.
Plaz-myu's stomach growled. He took a deep breath and rubbed his furry face, sitting on the ground by a wall. There had been no work for him that day; and he would not find work the next day, nor the day after. He used his savings of three coins to buy more bread and milk.
He entertained himself by eating a slice of bread in slow motion, pretending to be a giant.
Suddenly, a voice called him. Plaz-myu jolted onto his feet. He saw the figure of a tall Human woman, a medium-sized blaster pistol strapped to her right thigh. She was bald, pierced and tattooed. A Child of Acid.
"Hey, kid; you lookin' for work?"
"No, thanks," he answered dryly, wanting to leave. The girl put a hand on his shoulder.
"You sure? 'Cuz I think I saw you begging them sellers for a couple o' coins? You hungry? That bread seems nasty."
He did not answer. He tried to remove the girl's hand from him, but she held him tighter, digging her nails onto his skin.
"Cat got your tongue?" she giggled. "Tell you what: I'll give you fifty credits if you bring this box here to someone in the cantina."
Fifty credits, Plaz-myu drooled mentally.
He swallowed in dry and sighed deeply. He had never had that much money in his whole life. With fifty credits, he could eat the best meals in the cantina for a month, with change to spare. He could buy a new pair of shoes, and maybe new shirt and pants, even a jacket! A thick blanket, perhaps, or even a sleeping bag, one of those made with insulated fibers. He could even rent an apartment room!
He shook his head.
"I don't want your money, miss. Can I go?"
"Are you stupid, boy?!" She shoved him down onto the dried mud. "You just tossed your lucky day away; you have any idea how many of you die here every day? Work with us, and you'll have more money than you can count, a warm bed, good food and power."
"I don't want your kind of power, ma'am, and I won't live in this place forever."
"You got one thing right, kid," she chuckled. "You won't live forever…"
The night came and Plaz-myu slept on an empty stomach and empty pockets.
He used the same place as the previous nights. He could even dare to think he had found a house for himself. It usually was difficult to sleep in the same place for more than two days straight. The hordes of homeless aliens disputed the best shelters, often with violence – even to death. Plaz-myu might just have found one spot hidden enough, nested between two derelict buildings, deep into the alleys, nearby a dumping ground.
In the morning, he opened his eyes, but his body was too weak to move. Staring at the stained walls of the narrow alley, through a gap in his makeshift tent, Plaz let a small tear of sadness roll down his face. He took a deep breath, tried to summon what strength he could muster to stand up – but he failed. He fell back onto his bed and slept again.
He would wake up only two and a half hours later to a loud bang and crash outside.
PART 2
Someone darted past his hideout, stumbling, and slipping over the rubbish, cans and casings scattering around. Then another person fell down on his back, shouting in desperation. He held a blaster with a shaky hand.
Plaz remained hidden, looking outside through the crack in the plasteel roof. A sudden burst of yellow light crossed the air, and that man shouted in pain. A strange smell of ozone and burnt flesh went up his nostrils.
Three bald and tattooed people charged calmly into the alley, firing their pistols from over their shoulders. The signature sound of blaster fire echoed, and a hail of light followed them, dropping them like flies. The painful groans ceased shortly. From his new house, Plaz-myu could only see the lifeless foot of someone on the ground. He covered his mouth but could not disguise a gasp of surprise.
He had been discovered! The armed persons dashed towards the tent and violently ripped off its roof. Three chromed blasters now pointed at Plaz-myu's head. He cowered and covered his face with trembling forearms.
'I—I didn't see anything!" he stuttered.
A bald woman smiled cruelly. She touched the hot gun's barrel on the boy's head. It was the gangster girl from the night before. Plaz-myu squeezed his eyes and, trembling, hoped for the best. Deep down, he wished for a quick death, a well-earned relief from the terrible Hell that had been his life for the past years. Deep down, he really wished that his life would end. No more hunger, no more solitude, no more pain.
He let out a relieved sigh, and then suddenly reawakened to hope.
Another blaster shot and one of the three thugs in front of him fell lifeless on the ground, a thin column of smoke rising from the burnt hole in the back of his head.
That moment of distraction was what Plaz-myu needed. Adrenaline rushed through his body and the boy dashed away.
He sprinted in pure desperation along narrow alleys and tight corridors between shacks, buildings, and tents, glancing over his shoulders, dodging heaps of rubbish on the ground, and flaccid clotheslines across the streets, and hopeless spice addicts taking their last breaths on the ground. He leaped over improvised fences made with cheap wood and rusty aluminum sheets.
He heard someone shout in the distance, followed by more blaster fire. When the noise ceased, he noticed nobody chased him anymore.
An abrupt high slope surprised him after a left turn near the edge of town. His feet failed to touch the ground and he lost balance, rolling down six meters on a trash-littered dirt bank, and landing over a gelatinous, dark-brown stream of sewage mixed with sand.
He forced himself up and looked yonder at the plains beyond town, where a wide glade opened in front of his eyes. Dozens of kilometers of empty wasteland, covered in sand, rock and dust.
In the sky, he saw what he never imagined he would see – a huge spaceship, descending rapidly and landing maybe one kilometer away from him. It was enormous, red and white, with a cockpit that resembled the head of a hammerhead shark, and a triangle-like body that mimicked a manta ray.
The blue coat of arms printed on the left hull of the ship belonged to the Galactic Republic. A Rendilli Defender-class light corvette, ninety-four meters wide, thirty meters tall, equipped with twin laser cannons, concussive missile launchers, two jet engines, and an assortment of many other things the boy did not even know how to pronounce.
The first thing he needed to do was to get out of there. He could not climb back to Section-97 from there; erosion had made the soil crumbly, and it was a long walk back to the roads connecting the town's plateau to the old gas mines.
He just started walking, glancing curiously at the magnificent ship in the distance and paranoically to the town above, startled by loud noises.
Plaz-myu had not walked two hundred meters when he saw a fast-approaching object on the horizon from the south, zooming across the flatland. It seemed to move towards him, in a straight line, blowing a dust screen in the air behind it. A second object launched from underneath the Defender corvette, and they both seemed to converge rapidly to the boy's location.
After seven seconds, the objects revealed themselves as sleek speeder bikes. He stopped moving and swallowed in dry. Surrounded, he had nowhere to go.
After eight seconds, the two Czerka speeders slowed down and halted near him. Their riders dismounted and walked towards the Cathar.
He stared at them – two ominously cloaked and hooded figures, moving slowly. They seemed to be floating ghosts and they seemed to ignore one another.
Now standing before the Cathar, the figures slipped their hoods back. On the left, a black and red-skinned female Zabrak wore a dark grey mantle, her hairless head dotted by dozens of tiny, pointy horns. Two large golden earrings dangled from her ears. On her left, a blonde Human woman, dressed in light-cream robes, her hair a long braid. They bowed subtly to each other, and then they addressed the boy.
"Are you Plaz-myu Puhrr?" the Human asked kindly.
"How do you know my name?" he asked, pacing backwards, his heart accelerating.
The Zabrak woman gestured gently, and the Human continued.
"Pardon my rudeness." She smiled. "My name is Gya Ban. I am a Jedi Knight of the Republic. I am glad to have finally found you! Your echo in the Force became nearly too faint, lost in the chaos of this moon."
Plaz-myu twitched his feline-like pupils back and forth between the women. In his mind, he pictured ways of escaping back into the city. He believed he could leap and climb the slope behind him had he had a decent breakfast. With the adrenaline wading, his muscles faltered again. Before he could say anything, though, Gya Ban offered him something wrapped in plastic.
"I can sense your hunger," she said very softly. "Please, eat this. It's an energy bar; it will make you feel better."
Suspicious but willing, Plaz-myu stared at the Zabrak woman, as if asking for permission or reassurance. She remained solemn.
The growl of his stomach gave him the authorization. He grabbed the energy bar and devoured it, apologizing for an uncontrolled burp.
Gya Ban offered Plaz-myu her hand. The boy stared at her fair skin, and saw a strange, white bracelet hiding underneath the long sleeves of her robes.
"I would like to invite you to join me. You have a great attunement with the Force and the Jedi Order would love to have you. The Cathar species has a long tradition in the Jedi Order."
It was only then that the Zabrak moved. She slowly raised her delicate hand and, stretching its palm, and invisible force sent Plaz-myu flying through the air back onto the plateau above. He did not have time to understand what he heard as he fell into a pile of garbage, burrowing in a heap of plastic sheet, diapers, and old clothes. When he uncovered his head, he saw a scene that made his eyes widen in fear and surprise.
Two very strange, bright, and long sticks made of light – one blue and one red – clashed together, producing loud electric crackles and sparks. The sticks hummed quietly as they moved in arches.
The women had started to fight, waving their laser bats around in such grace and agility that it was difficult to follow their movements.
Their robes and cloaks lay now on the floor. Gya Ban wore a suit of Jedi Battle Armor, made with white and light-blue plates attached to her legs, arms and shoulder, and a tight breastplate that covered her chest and back. The Zabrak woman wore something similar, but her armor was jet-black and glossy, bearing a texture that appeared much more metallic than the plastic-looking armor of the Jedi.
Suddenly, a second blade protruded from the other extremity of the Zabrak's hilt. She waved it in an arch and the Jedi leaped two meters backwards. They stared at each other for a while, their weapons twitching and moving like snakes preparing to strike.
"It is an honor to meet you in combat, Master Gya Ban," the Zabrak finally spoke; she had a beautiful, melodic voice. "I must warn you, though: the boy is destined for greatness in the Sith Empire. He will not become a glorified servant in the Republic."
"This does not need to end in violence, my friend," said the Jedi. "Let me take him to the Jedi Academy and—"
"No!" the Zabrak interrupted Gya Ban. "He needs a proper master, proper training; he will not be fed the lies of the Jedi. He belongs to me!"
"He does not belong to you," Gya Ban said calmly. "May we let the boy choose?"
"He does not know better," the Zabrak growled, twirling the weapon about her body.
"Then my hand is forced. I will not permit him to be captured by the Dark Side. Ready yourself, Darth Komm'ett."
With a flash of light, Gya Ban and Komm'ett stood closely before each other once again. Their weapons moved with precision and speed, striking from above, then circling around, and thrusting forward. Komm'ett handled her double-bladed weapon with indescribable skill, twirling it above her head, and behind her back, while turning over her ankles, blocking and deflecting powerful blows. She somersaulted forward into the air to dodge an attack that would have cut her legs off, landing behind her opponent.
The Jedi simply manipulated the hilt with a quick twitch of the wrist, placing her weapon behind her back, without looking, to block a deadly slash; she then kicked the Zabrak square in the chest with enough force to push Komm'ett two meters away.
Suddenly, a burst of unnatural lightning crackled across the air. It came from Komm'ett's fingertips, and the Jedi managed to absorb the twisted energy with her blue blade. Gya effortlessly held her position and, with a quick movement, she deflected the energy onto the ground, which exploded in cracks of stone and dust.
Thrusting her palms forward, the Jedi hurled Darth Komm'ett five meters away with an invisible force; the Zabrak repositioned her body mid-air and landed with her knees bent. To her surprise, Gya had followed her, tossing her body forward with the help of the Force. She landed with a brutal lightsaber strike from above.
Komm'ett reacted with precision and managed to parry the blow with one of the blades of her weapon. Her knee burrowed in the sand under the weight. She turned the other blade off so she could maneuver her weapon above her head in a tight space.
They exchanged more skillful blows, walking backwards as they dueled, blades jolting with energy, humming, and crashing like lightning.
The Sith, upon quick strategizing, decided to dodge an attack instead of blocking it. The Jedi's lightsaber cut off a chunk of the Zabrak's armor. That made it possible for her to swing her now one-bladed lightsaber at the Jedi.
Due to the Jedi's previous attack, she had to bring her weapon in such a way that it left her chest unprotected – her elbows protruding upwards and, the blade, downwards.
As she spun her body, Komm'ett switched off that blade and activated the other one. With a quick movement, she dug the red blade deep into the Jedi's stomach, her back turned against her opponent. She breathed in slowly and turned around, staring triumphantly into Gya Ban's eyes.
Master Gya Ban gasped and fell on her knees, the blue lightsaber turning off and falling off her hand. Komm'ett bowed respectfully.
"You have fought with honor, Master Jedi."
"T-there is… no death… Only the Force—" Gya Ban, trembling in shock, slowly looked up at the Zabrak's face, tasting the blood in her mouth. "I wish… it did not have to—" she coughed. "—end like this."
"Oh, but it did," the Sith said provocatively. "I will take Plaz-myu under my apprenticeship. You should signal your little Padawan in the ship. Have her retrieve your corpse – so everyone on Tython can see how you died."
Komm'ett raised her lightsaber above her head and brought it down, slashing the blade across the Jedi's chest, opening a wide, cauterized wound. The woman fell on her back, lifeless.
An eerie silence fell as the dust settled. An invisible force tore away the garbage that covered Plaz-myu. He curled up, cowering. He scuttled backwards and looked up in awe under the penetrating gaze of that mysterious Zabrak woman. She attached the long hilt of her double-bladed lightsaber to a magnetic sheath on her left thigh.
"Do not fear," she whispered, her face immovable. "You must be Plaz-myu. You are a very important boy; did you know that?"
Plaz-myu could only tremble. An indescribable fear took over his heart, and he wanted only to escape, but that same fear made his skinny legs fail. He remained on the ground, like a cornered kitten, towered by the powerful woman.
"W-why?" he muttered faintly.
"Because you are strong in the Force," she savored those words. "And it was extremely difficult to locate you in this chaotic, filthy place. Are you harmed?"
Plaz-myu shook his head, swallowing in dry. Komm'ett offered her beautiful black and red hand to the boy. He accepted it and stood up. He felt a strange, soothing warmth coming from her skin.
"I—I'm okay," he babbled. "I-if you're here to collect money, I'm sorry but my dad is gone..."
"I am well aware of that, young Cathar." She smiled wryly, tasting the boy's reaction. "Your father fled, he is gone, and will never return. I trust you know this."
Plaz-myu looked down, defeated; he had never spoken that aloud, but now it felt like an undeniable truth.
"Do you hate him for this?" she asked very slowly, nearly whispering, with a coarse voice.
"No; I don't know," Plaz-myu shrugged. "I think I never thought about it before."
"And your mother? She took your sisters away, didn't she? The only ones who treated you with love and respect, your sisters. Do you know where they are now?"
Plaz-myu shrugged again.
"I miss my sisters, but I believe they're in a better place now. I don't know."
With sudden rage and speed, Komm'ett grabbed Plaz-myu's face with her left hand, sinking the fingertips on his furry cheeks. She pulled his head towards her face, bending over the boy.
"Look at me, and answer again," she growled. "Do you hate your father for leaving you? Do you hate your mother for stealing your sisters?"
Tears formed in the boy's eyes, soaking his orange fur. Scared, he attempted to look away, but the Zabrak squeezed his face harder, drawing his gaze.
"N-no! I don't know..." Plaz-myu sobbed. "Maybe they had their reasons, I don't care! Let me go!"
"LOOK ME IN THE EYES, BOY, AND ANSWER WITH HONESTY!" she now screamed from the top of her lungs, her beautiful golden eyes glowing with reddened incandescence. "DO YOU HATE THEM?"
He opened his mouth and his voice faltered.
"Y-yes!" he blurted and abruptly burst into a stream of painful tears, clawing the hand of Komm'ett, gasping for freedom. "I HATE HIM! I HATE HIM! WHY DID HE ABANDON ME? WHY DID HE LET MY MOM GO?! WHY DIDN'T HE TAKE CARE OF US?! I HATE HIM—I HATE HIM—I HATE HIM—"
Small debris fluttered about him, pebbles of dust and rock. Komm'ett licked her lips, as if tasting his raw emotions rippling through the Force.
"I HATE HIM! AND I HATE MY MOTHER!" with an unknown strength, Plaz pulled Komm'ett's hand from his face. "SHE STOLE MY SISTERS AND LEFT ME TO DIE! IF THEY WERE HERE I WOULD… I WOULD KILL THEM! MAKE THEM SUFFER FOR EVERYTHING THEY'VE DONE TO US! I-I..."
He fell on his knees, hiding his agonizing and ashamed face on shaky hands, and crying with such emotion, passion, and agony with which he had never allowed himself before. Komm'ett stood up, proud and satisfied. She was right, after all; she had indeed found the perfect apprentice. The range of emotions he had – pain, sadness and, most importantly, love – were astonishing; almost palpable.
"You are strong in the Force, dear boy," she told him again. "Within you, you hold the power to rescue your sisters; what if I told you I could help you? Help you punish your father, rescue your sisters, and placate your pain? Would you kneel before me?"
"Y-yes, yes," his head fell down, his whole body shaking with fury. He looked up and saw Komm'ett's figure against the glowing, rising sun.
"Rise, Plaz-myu, my Apprentice," she commanded. "You are now an Acolyte of the Sith Empire. Rise and repeat after me: the Force shall free me."