Plaz-myu was now an eighteen-year-old man. He became a tall, proud, and strong Cathar. The orange of his fur became brighter, the white of his fur became purer, and his stripes became darker. His blue eyes glistened with pride.
"To commemorate your birthday, I will give you one present," Komm'ett said, tenderly for the first time in many years of merciless training. "What do you desire?"
Someone like him, who grew up alone in extreme poverty, would commonly wish for starships, perhaps a mansion, mates, slaves, or wealth, she imagined. Komm'ett, with her sizeable fortune, was prepared to give him anything he would ask for. He had earned it.
"An artist," he answered.
Komm'ett raised an eyebrow. "An… artist?"
"I want a painting for my birthday."
Creative work was not something especially encouraged by the Sith Empire, at least not to the common citizen; Komm'ett happily obliged, more curious than intrigued, and had Major Bradin Zhatt hire a renowned Ithorian painter. It was the first time a free alien had set foot on Neferas-V.
Plaz-myu spent an entire day alone with the Ithorian, telling him everything he could remember about his sisters, his most precious memories, how they looked like, the special features of each one of them – how their noses creased when they smiled, or how their whiskers twitched when they were excited. He knew exactly how he wanted his painting and made sure the artist had understood the essences of Myat and Puath.
The artist spent one week working on his piece, in complete solitude, until one day he sent word that his work had been concluded. He brought the canvas, covered by a silk curtain, to Plaz-myu and Komm'ett's training arena. Before entering the arena, the noise alone would scare the artist.
In there, the Ithorian trembled in fear and anticipation. He bowed repeatedly, often with exaggeration, and spoke in his native language through a translation device attached to his thick neck. His voice faltered and he stammered heavily.
"I—I truly wish… it is to your liking… m-my Lord," he said.
Plaz-myu's heart pounded in excitement, looking eagerly at the silk curtain. The boy rubbed a towel on his face to swipe off the sweat and approached the piece, slowly pulling the curtain down.
Upon seeing it, Plaz-myu covered his mouth, tears soaking his fur.
There before him lay a masterpiece, produced with real brushes and real paint, colorful and vivid. Beautiful and glistening.
The immaculate, infant faces of Myat and Puath, innocent and smiling, happy with laughter, hugging each other. Their cheeks touched, highlighting the interesting contrast of their white and orange furs. Myat's nose creased under her wide smile, and Puath's tiny, pointy fangs were visible.
The piece was a bust portrait of how he remembered his sisters, of the last time he had seen them. They appeared to be two and three years-old the two little tigresses, two beautiful Cathar girls – their tiny eyes squinted as they giggled, as if they looked at their brother with joy, admiration, and curiosity through the canvas.
Plaz-myu laughed with pure satisfaction; he gazed upon the portrait, fighting the urge to hug it as if his sisters were right there. That painting summoned his most powerful memories, of the rarest moments of joy of his childhood. They were so vivid; he could hear their giggles.
"It is perfect," Plaz-myu muttered. "Perfect, just perfect… My beautiful, perfect sisters."
The Ithorian let out a sigh of relief from his two mouths, grateful for having pleased two Sith Lords. He left Neferas-V on a priority shuttle and with a generous bonus of sixty thousand credits in his account.
Plaz-myu had the portrait was hung up in the training room, above the arena so that Myat and Puath could watch their big brother.
DAY THREE THOUSAND, FIFTY-ONE
"This is the ionizing chamber where the gas is energized and transformed into plasma or a particle beam."
Scattered along the table before Plaz-myu lay a common, disassembled blaster rifle. Komm'ett had already gone over the barrel, the handle, the scope, the energy cell, and had explained the many different gases that composed the common blaster ammunition.
To detect them, Plaz-myu learned to extend his sense through the Force to enhance his sight, his hearing, and his sense of smell, already heightened by his Cathar heritage. Komm'ett had taught him that, if he mastered his nose, he would never be surprised. Everyone and everything had unique scents.
After learning of the particularities of blaster weapons, he would need to learn how to sense, predict, and avoid them. The training was brutal; thick, long, and round scars covered Plaz-myu's backside, burn marks and bald patches scattered all around. The exercise required him to dodge volleys of blaster shots, fired from behind his back, using only the Force.
Another surprisingly difficult task required him to learn how to properly use a computer. Komm'ett, with the help of Major Bradin Zhatt, taught the boy the basics of the most common programming languages and systems used by the Empire and the Republic. One of her recurring advices was that slicing would save his life one day.
Plaz-myu also trained in starship and vehicle mechanics. Piloting them was the easy part; the schematics, blueprints and technical names seemed esoteric to him. The boy had a visual type of intelligence, so he excelled more in practice than in theory. He was not a brilliant mechanic, but he could fix them enough.
The challenged of it was to study everything while focusing on combat training; for eight years, it never stopped. Lately, Darth Komm'ett had expanded the combat training to include Imperial Unarmed Combat, the discipline all Imperial soldiers had to learn.
The worst part, though, came just before his nineteenth birthday. Komm'ett showed up at Plaz-myu's chambers one night. She carried a beautifully designed plasteel jewelry box, forty by forty centimeters. It featured a small electronic interface padlock.
"This is your final test," she announced calmly. "You have one year to complete it."
"I'll finish it way before that, Master!" he said.
"Do not let your arrogance be your downfall, Apprentice," she said coldly.
The metallic cache lay placidly on Plaz-myu's study desk. He spent a great deal of time just looking at it, mentally analyzing it. He concluded the obvious: he needed to figure out a way to open the box; and, knowing his master as he did, he expected the worst. Maybe some sort of nearly-uncrackable magnetic lock, or unspliceable internal computer.
What if the container itself was the real challenge, he thought? Komm'ett, as her apprentice had learned, was provocative but philosophical when discussing the Force, often speaking in parables and metaphors. The box could symbolize Plaz-myu's own trajectory – and, by unlocking it, he would unlock his own self.
He meditated on it for many hours that morning. He attempted to deepen his connection to the Force, to scrutinize the particularities of that ornate case, looking for a special, supernatural link to his mind. He believed that, after nine years of tireless studying and meditating upon the Force he had the necessary ability for the task.
Around noon, as a summer storm raged outside, he opened his eyes.
Tired and frustrated, he decided to shower, eat, and head to the training arena – carrying the box under his arm – where the portrait of his sisters waited for him. Exercise would help him focus.
It was late. Plaz-myu, sitting on the arena ground, stared at the box. It was sturdy and reasonably heavy, with smooth surfaces and a beautiful design, ornate with geometric markings and bicolored edges. The boy ran his fingers along its edge, scraping nails here and there, looking for slits, or secret cracks, or entrances. Nothing.
He trained exhaustively, painfully, for nine years, without breaks or holidays, learning how to wield a sword, how to fight with his fists, how to meditate, to commune with and control the Force, how to shoot with blasters, how to pilot a starship, how to fix a hyperdrive. His motivation had been adamant, and yet a simple box was his final challenge, and he faltered.
He growled with anger and stomped the box. He got up and went to the bathroom.
With the towel over the shoulders – and with humid and spiky fur – he returned to his chambers. He stared at the box on the table with contempt and tossed himself on the bed. Rest would help him focus.
Plaz-myu could not sleep, though. He rolled around for hours, then leapt off the bed with a grunt. He could not take the box off of his mind. The box was humiliating him, with its non-opening determination, mocking him.
He stormed downstairs and crossed the long halls of the fortress. He entered the library and lit up the two dozen data card towers. He sat at a computer terminal, switched it on and began an investigation that ended when the sun rose over the horizon.
Inserting data card after data card in the reading slots, he read hundreds of articles and manuals on how to pick magnetic locks. He researched names and models, slicing techniques, he learned about computer spikes, about electromagnetic pulse devices, of security caches, of black boxes, backup systems.
A soft voice woke him up; a terrified Chiss servant gently touched his shoulders; he had fallen asleep over the keyboard. He stumbled across the building and headed to the training arena once more. The Force would have to keep him awake.
Komm'ett was aware of the effects the box would have on her apprentice. It was intentional – the boy would need to learn to persevere despite hopelessness, and to achieve success against the odds. Not everything could be resolved with the Force or a lightsaber; his most powerful weapon still was his mind. Life outside Neferas-V was harsh and dangerous, and her Apprentice had to learn fast how to survive in the galaxy on his own.
"You seem distracted, Apprentice." She mocked him, after hitting him in the face with a strong punch. "What is on your mind?"
"Nothing, Master," he said coldly, wiping the blood off his lips. "I will pay full attention now."
"Very well; just remember that I taught you everything you need to know to open the box," she said. "Power means nothing without skill."
The training ended when Plaz-myu fell and could no longer stand up. Komm'ett left the building and let the boy sleep in peace, under the giggling yet watchful eyes of Myat and Puath.
###
Three months of long nights learning lockpicking and slicing techniques; long nights of reading and short nights of sleep. He had learned extra coding languages and he had improved the efficacy of his data spikes. Fatigue wearied his body and his spirit. There was only so much the Force could do to keep him alive, and his limits approached fast.
With the box connected to a portable computer, Plaz-myu was able to circumvent the security protocols, slicing through its firewalls, and reprogramming the magnetic, one day the box opened. He shouted with celebratory joy.
However, upon seeing its content, he banged his fists furiously on the table, roaring in anger and frustration – shaking the entire fortress. Holding his face upon his hands, he let out a long, frustrated sigh.
It was another box.
That box was the shape of a perfect cube. It was metallic and deeply ornate, a type of craftsmanship Plaz-myu had never seen before, not even in the hundreds of books he had read. It bore rune-like markings upon its six faces, divided by decorative plates and seemingly movable parts. However, the cube did not seem to have – or be – a computer; it did not have an interface, nor a lock, or anything.
Three more months of restless studying bore no fruit. He was unable to find anything remotely similar to that object, anywhere in the library. Komm'ett, naturally, refused to help him. He was on his own, and he had only six more months to figure it out before failing.
Sixty days later, four months before the deadline, in an exhaustion-induced epiphany, Plaz-myu widened his eyes and lifted his head. He glared at the cube as if the solution had always been obvious under his nose. Three months self-absorbed in the most complex knowledge known in the galaxy and he overlooked the mot simple solutions. To open the jewelry box, he needed to persevere, he needed patience, knowledge, and intelligence.
But there was only one true path to Power and Freedom: the Force.
Plaz-my held the cube with his fingers, lifting it before his face. He focused, channeling the Force in his body through the fingers, feeding it to the cube. Unexpectedly, the cub hovered in the air, hissing, twisting, and turning, until it opened, all of its parts erupting outwards.
Inside the Holocron, there were many electronic parts. He recognized them; he had studied that type of device, and it felt oddly familiar. In there, he saw a magnetic stabilizing ring, energy modulation circuits, a pair of cycling field energizers, a power cell, a power vortex ring, a power field conductor, an inert power insulator, an emitter matrix, an activation plate, and a blade emitter, with metallic cylinders and casings.
Amongst everything, a strange, jagged, red crystal caught his eye. He grabbed the gem, and it felt hot to the touch. It was heavy, yet welcoming. A proud, satisfied smile appeared on his lips.
"A lightsaber…" he whispered to himself. "I need to build my own lightsaber!"
The communicator buzzer jolted him back to reality. On the clocks, he saw he was one hour later for practice. The voice of Darth Komm'ett was menacing.
"You are disrespectfully late," she growled. "I expect you to have a good explanation for this."
He put everything away hurriedly and dashed off his chambers to meet his Master outside in the hallway, her face contorted with anger.
"I… overslept, Master," he said.
"Overslept?" she repeated with derision. "I am deeply disappointed, and you will be punished."
The punishment was one hundred lashes. He considered it as just another part of training. Strapped to a pole, he communed with the Force, ignoring the pain, and quickly healing his bloody wounds. As Komm'ett whipped his back, she smiled with pride as she observed the gory cuts slowly closing right after being inflicted.
For the remaining four months, Plaz-myu spent his free time in the library; he read everything there was to read on lightsaber construction and maintenance. He even found Sith tomes, so ancient they were written in paper. Before attempting to build his weapon, he first had to understand it, to know the parts and pieces; how the blade worked, how it formed. It was as important as knowing how to wield it. That is the respect he owed his weapon.
One fateful morning, Plaz-myu woke up three hours earlier. He had only one objective: to assemble his blade and show his master at practice. She would know he was ready and, that day, he would become a Sith Lord.
Carefully, he attached part to circuit, to piece and to casing. He screwed them all together with perfection, using delicate, small tools. He connected every wire to their designated socket and power cell. He adjusted the energy channel right above the focusing crystal activator and the still empty crystal chamber; beneath those, there was the primary crystal mount connected to the Diatium power cell, surrounded by the power vortex ring, the power field conductor, and the inert power insulator.
On the upper end of the hilt, Plaz-myu adjusted the cycling field energizers and the energy modulation circuits. He finalized his work by attaching the blade emitter and the emitter matrix, covered with the small magnetic stabilization ring.
Using an aurodium pincer, he slowly inserted the red crystal into the chamber, and then covered it with an elegant piece of reinforced ultrachrome.
Instinctively, he fell into a deep meditative slumber, letting the Force flow through his body and into the lightsaber hilt that floated before him. It slowly swirled and turned around, and Plaz-myu channeled the Force to perpetually weld the metal together.
He let out a peaceful, relieved sigh. He grabbed the lightsaber hilt from the air, as if cradling his sisters in his hand, tenderly gripping it. Pressing the activation plate, the lightsaber activated, igniting its blood-red blade, erupting like a roaring volcano, humming peacefully like a conquered beast.
"Right on time, Apprentice," Darth Komm'ett announced as she walked towards the center of the training grounds. "Get your weapon and stand here."
Plaz-myu walked like a lord to the arena, facing Komm'ett.
The glorious sound of an igniting lightsaber echoed around the arena; the ethereal darkness illuminated by the blood-red light emanating from the blade. It produced an electrical lullaby, and a sweet hum as Plaz-myu moved the sword around his body, back and forth, side to side.
There before Komm'ett stood not the scared boy she had rescued from that planetoid nine years ago; no longer a scrawny, scared kid, the tigerlike Cathar stood tall and proud, strong, and fierce, holding a blade fit for a champion, his complexion glowing red under a Sith Lord's weapon.
The Zabrak let her weapon go and held her hands as if she squeezed her own heart within. A tear rolled down her face and she walked slowly towards her apprentice. She took his face in her hands, tender and motherly.
"You have done it," she whispered. "I could not be prouder…"
"I have done it, Master," tears forming in his blue eyes.
He turned off the weapon. Komm'ett hugged him with honest pride.
"Then I bestow upon you the title of Lord of the Empire, my dear Apprentice. You shall discard the name of your old life and be known as Lord Plasma, master of your fate, shaper of your destiny. In your hands you hold the power to sculpt the stars."
"Thank you, Master," he growled excitedly. "Now, I am ready to find my sisters."