Bradin Zhatt left for Dromund Kaas, the capital-planet of the Sith Empire, in a priority military transport that same night. At least twenty thousand parsecs separated Sullust from the Empire's Seat of Power, a journey of many days across the galaxy. Only but a few cruiser ships had the capacity of traversing that type of distance without needing to refuel. During the trip, the Major contacted Darth Komm'ett and explained to her what had happened.
"Do not worry, Bradin," she had told him. "All will be taken care of."
Plasma spent the night in the ship. He could not bear enduring the captain's flatteries anymore and had C9-N2 deny many of his calls. Plasma left Sullust first thing in the morning.
Alone once again he decided to meditate upon his accomplishments and his life until that moment. He had never dreamed of becoming someone, piloting a trans-planetary starship across the galaxy, respected, and feared. It had never been his wish, really, to be feared. Komm'ett had taught him that authority must follow fear, that respect derived from fear, and that was how the Sith have ruled the galaxy for thousands of years.
Entranced with the Force, Plasma remembered how he used to look to the sky, dreaming with a good life, fantasizing about his mother coming back for him, or escaping in one of the cargo freighters. Those dreams were what kept him warm in the cold nights. These were his blue blankets of hope, the only way he knew how to not succumb to the chains of reality.
Swimming through the peaceful lake of his mind, he wondered. What if Gya Ban had won the duel? Fate, perhaps, put Komm'ett in his path, and his master kept her promises of showing him the way; he needed only to walk it.
His road was clear, clear as the crystalline waters of his Force Lake. Nothing else mattered but rescuing his sisters. Their giggling faces watched over him from the confines of the wooden frame. He heard their laughter, faintly in the distance.
"R9," he spoke with the eyes closed. "Plot a direct course to Bespin."
###
Memories flooded his brain. Through the front window he watched the tiny planetoid CZ-146 growing, approaching rapidly. Bespin, the orange gas giant, swirled fearfully, holding its orbit, along with its two moons that danced in the distance. Plasma located the planetoid, and tilted the sip towards it, activating the propulsors
Upon landing, as the hatch opened and the entry ramp slid down, Plasma felt nauseous. The smell invaded the Grey Condor; it must have gotten worse, he thought. Eyes watering and stomach gurgling, an acidic taste gnawing at his throat. He felt a disgusting taste in his tongue, a sort of perpetual filth underneath his tongue.
Plasma recentered himself. He had noticed there were no control towers there, no official checkpoints, Imperial customs, starports — only the same, abandoned buildings over the one hundred derelict slums. Leaving the ship, about four kilometers south of Section-97, he saw the same dry, sandy plains, the rivers of gelatinous sewage. The town had grown, it appeared, with more of the same shacks, clustered upon each other.
"C9, activate defense protocols," Plasma said into the communicator. "Kill anyone who approaches the ship."
"As you command, Master," the droid responded. "Repel all unwanted visitors."
"I did not say repel; I said kill."
He input a code into a small panel and the ship hissed. Outside, he mounted Komm'ett's Custom KMW Turbo Speeder Bike, laid down like an egg underneath the ship's hull. He rode back to the place he wished he would never return to: Sector-97.
The speeder bike he parked just below a plateau, near the hills that led into the district. Walked down the streets, just like the stench childhood memories assaulted his mind. He passed by an alley where he used to sleep – now cramped with moribund spice addicts, undead-looking people scattered around the floor.
The streets were as chaotic as when he left. Filled with wandering people, desperately looking for work or for spice, and a new batch of gangsters. They shouted and clamored with that same agony he recalled; old crates and cylinders still scattered along the roads, and the same merchants dragged the same rusty carts around.
Whenever Plasma walked by, eyes and silence followed him. The glimpse of the lightsaber on his belt made them shudder and open the way for him. Suddenly, a flock of children swarmed around Plasma, touching him, and reaching for him. They shook their plastic coins at him, screaming as if he was at the other side of the galaxy. They implored for food, for change, for spice, for work.
Lord Plasma felt disgusted with their dirty hands over his pristine armor. He shoved them aside with a growl, resuming his pacing. Worthless scum, he thought. They reminded him of his past, and he felt guilty for feeling that way. A few years back, he would have been together with those children, begging for the same things.
Down the street, he saw a Child of Acid speaking to a young boy. The bald woman handed him a small sack, spoke a few words, and smiled. The boy grabbed the pack and ran up the street, passing by Plasma. Fifty credits, he heard the voice of the woman of his past in his mind. After seducing the young with the promise of easy money, the gangsters would pump them up with adrenals, give them blasters, and send them out to die in one of their wars.
Plasma knew he could solve that problem; he could punish all those criminals who preyed on the weak. He quickly dismissed the idea; others would take their place, and for those he would be responsible. It was not his mission.
The Sith disentangled himself from more beggars and stepped into the cantina. He read the signal above the door: Jewel of Pa'Pouh.
A deafening silence fell upon his presence. All eyes stared at Lord Plasma, coveting his armor and lightsaber. Polished boots, shiny metal, and glistening leather. The lightsaber hilt on his hip was a real attention drawer. He headed towards the counter and sat down. His eyes met Pa'Pouh's and he smiled.
"What can I get you, sir?" the olive-skinned bartender said.
"You're still here," Plasma chuckled. "That's disappointing, I have to admit."
That face; the bright fur, the innocent smile, the pointy fangs, the black stripes. Pa'Pouh stared without blinking. His voice failed as he spoke. "Plaz-myu?"
"It's Lord Plasma now," he said seriously. "I am looking for someone." He stared at the luminous menu on the wall as he spoke, tapping his finger on the counter.
"Who you lookin' for?"
"Twelve credits for a jug of milk and a loaf of bread?!" Plasma whistled.
"It's been hard," Pa'Pouh sighed. "The gangs have taken over this place and I gotta pay them protection."
"Yeah," Plasma said dismissively. "Do you know someone called Kev Yu?"
"Yeah, I do." He shrugged. "Big shot, used to work in one of the factories. Came here once; terrible tipper."
"Is he still around?" Plasma asked. "Where can I find him?"
"Look, the guy still works for Czerka and with some of the gangs. He's dangerous stuff."
"I can take care of myself," Plasma whispered and smiled. The Twi'lek leaned over and whispered back to him.
"Then it is your lucky day," he said, as he pointed towards a large, crowded table at the northwest corner of the cantina.
Plasma glanced over his shoulder and nodded. Standing up, he tossed Pa'Pouh a small, platinum-coated card.
"Thank you for treating me like a person back then," the Sith Lord said with genuine honesty. "You don't know how much it helped me; let me repay a little bit."
The Twi'lek grabbed the card, his eyes widening at the emblem of the Sith Empire. Two hundred thousand credits.
Kev Yu smelled as disgusting as he looked. A withering Human man in his mid-fifties who seemed to be in his late nineties. His mouth, a putrid hole with blackened, rotten teeth, a half-blind eye and a face covered with scarabs. The famous Spice Erosion. He was by himself, his swollen, Hutt-like body sunk in a large chair. He typed onto an out-of-date datapad and did not raise his head when Plasma approached.
"Kev Yu, I need information."
"Ten grand," he grumbled. Plasma chuckled incredulously, pulled up a chair and sat down. The man raised his eye and said angrily.
"Wanna die, kid? Ever heard of the Black Sun Gang, deadliest bastards in the galaxy? I'm their boss here and—."
Kev Yu choked. Flapping his arms in agony, he tossed bottles and cups onto the floor. His body slowly rose, fluttering towards Plasma. Gasping, crying, and struggling to breathe, he reached for his throat, the entire body trembling like the flimsy shacks outside.
Plasma stared at the man; his focused eyes locked onto his prey, savoring the moment.
"I am Sith," Plasma said. "You will address me as 'my Lord'; understood?"
Ozone. His sensitive nose captured the particular scent in the air. Through the Force, he sensed that five thugs had stood up behind him. They held blasters pointed at his head. The patrons scampered away in the chaos.
Kev Yu dropped to the floor, hacking and coughing. As Plasma turned over his heels, the thugs opened fire. He pulled his lightsaber, igniting the blade as he twisted the hilt, drawing arches of red light in the air. The blaster bolts ricocheted off the blade, blasting burning holes on the chest of two of the thugs.
Raising his left fist, Plasma lifted one of the thugs with a Force choke. He then hurled his lightsaber at the remaining two. The sword buzzed and hummed menacingly, spinning like a boomerang, slicing through their bodies like cloth. Plasma closed his fist, crushing the neck of the final man before grabbing the lightsaber mid-air.
He looked down on Kev Yu on the floor and said nothing. Between coughs and effortful breaths, the man spoke.
"My Lord," he said.
"Stand up," Plasma commanded. The man grunted and huffed like a sick bantha, managing to sit against the wall.
"I need someone's location and you will give it to me," Plasma said; Kev nodded. The Sith continued: "I'm looking for a Cathar who worked for you at Czerka; his name is Loo Puhrr."
"I remember him, yeah…" Straining, the man managed to hoist himself up onto a chair. He puffed with exhaustion, sweating profusely. Breathing heavily, he continued. "He worked for me at the Refinery. Out of the blue, one day he comes to me and said he wants to leave."
"Where is he?" Plasma asked impatiently.
Kev shrugged and continued speaking, "He said he could pay seventy thousand for a way out. Still owes me fifty grand."
Plasma asked again, and once more the Human continued blabbering, absorbed in his own story. He failed to notice Plasma growling under his breath.
"D'you believe that asshole had a kid?!" He laughed. "And he wanted to leave it behind because he didn't wanna have to pay for his fare? Even I ain't that cold."
Realization suddenly struck him, and he shut his mouth. Once again, his entire body trembled in panic. He looked at Plasma, his once blue eyes slowly turning incandescent red.
"I's you… his kid… Look, look," he cowered and pleaded with chubby hands. "I'm sorry—there was nothing I could do, alright?"
Plasma ignited his lightsaber and screamed at the top of his lungs. The cantina quaked softly, bottles clattered, glass broke. "Where. Is. Loo Puhrr?"
"Tatooine, Tatooine!" he screeched. "That's where he was going, okay? Don't kill me, please. I'm innocent."
"Innocent?"
A quick, red strike, and a head rolled on the floor.
Plasma left the cantina and walked down the street towards his speeder. He observed and sensed the area around him, ripples through the Force, into his ears and nose. Taking a turn down the road, near the edge of town, he entered a decrepit plaza of garbage and sewage known locally as the business center. It was a large area, accessed through a tight alley, protected by four walls of surrounding buildings.
The parts seller's tents were near the southern section, next to the droid repair shop. Plasma was denied work there many times. Lined up along the eastern wall were the food shacks – meals cooked with plasma cutters, blowtorches, and improvised ovens. Rats and lizards on sticks, the delicacies of CZ-146.
His eyes met an old acquaintance: Lyui'a and his stand of makayan lizard. The alien had lost a leg, it seemed, hardly moving around over a refurbished hoverchair. Customers, sitting on boxes and improvised benches drank a nasty-smelling, multi-colored beverage. Two Iridonian brothers sold homemade liquor, stored in large, rusty aluminum cylinders.
Plasma stopped and looked back over his shoulder, at the slum's skyline. He pondered if he should visit his family's old apartment one last time; perhaps he would find Puath and Myat's belongings; or a memento he would like to have. He shook his head and dismissed the idea. The past did not matter, the future was ahead.
The Sith crossed the plaza, leaving through a tight door, when another swarm of children approached him, following him to the speeder. From the distance, he saw a gang of older teenagers curiously studying his speeder bike.
"Mister, please, take us with you," one of the children cried. "We can work for food."
Plasma raised a contemptuous eyebrow at them, mounted his bike, revved the engine, and drove back to his ship.
From afar, Plasma sensed a group of perhaps twenty people creeping up at the Grey Condor. The stench of their bodies and their blasters betrayed them. He spoke into his communicator.
"Why are these people alive, C9?"
"Forgive me, Master!" the droid groaned robotically. "I believe the visitors did not approach the ship enough to cross the threshold, so I found no need to… dispose of them. Besides, there are children!"
Child-soldiers, recruited into a miserable life of crime and prostitution by greedy spice dealers. He knew the type. There were six of these kids – deranged, veins pumped full of stims, clinging to the fool's hope of a better life through violence. They were going to die.
"Open fire," Plasma commanded.
A woman screeched; the sound of her voice muffled by the deafening blasts from the turbolaser cannons. Scorched corpses and incinerated garbage spiraled skyward. The few survivors dragged themselves across the ground, cowering and sobbing, eardrums bleeding. None of them had even heard the sound of a six-hundred-terawatt laser cannon, specifically designed to disintegrate heavily armored spaceships. The explosions were massive, and columns of dirt rose nearly twenty meters into the air.
Lord Plasma parked underneath the Grey Condor, he and the bike hoisted upwards into the hull. He left without looking back.
In deep space, the Grey Condor flew fast while the hyperdrive charged. R9 had already plotted an optimized course through the Outer Rim Hypertunnel to Tatooine. They would have to perform a secondary jump to the Trans-Planetary Way, another sanctioned Imperial Route, seven parsecs away. The trip should take no more than nine hours.
Plasma took that time to meditate and rest. He had a dreamless sleep.
###
"Speak, Major," said a lazy Darth Komm'ett inside an enormous crystal-marbled bathtub. She paused the pictures projected by a small HoloFilm probe. The call was audio only. "Make it quick; I am terribly busy."
"Forgive me for calling at this hour, my Lady Komm'ett. I would not have bothered you had I not had crucial information to report."
She sipped her blue Hothian wine and gestured for the Major to continue.
"I would like to talk about an important piece of intelligence Lord Plasma has uncovered," Bradin said.
The Major sounded exasperate. Komm'ett put her glass on a hovering side table by the tub, sitting up straight. Bradin Zhatt continued, explaining he had accessed the Central Imperial Database on Dromund Kaas.
"I have confirmed that his father was Sith," he announced. "Were you aware of this, my Lord?"
"What else have you learned, Major?" She asked calmly, playing with the bubbles.
"His father was a first-generation Cathar Sith. He attended the Sith Academy on Korriban, though he failed to become an Acolyte. To escape death, he fled the planet with the help of his newfound lover – a slave Cathar named Ma'va – Plasma's mother."
"His identification files were not in the Standard Imperial Citizen database," Bradin added. "They were in the official Traitors List."
Komm'ett continued smiling, perversely.
"Thank you for bringing this dire news to my attention, Major," she said. "I must report this at once to the Dark Council. Do not disclose this to Lord Plasma yet."
She ended the call, refilled her wine glass, and resumed the movie. She had been dying to watch that new production. Her amused laughter echoed across her fortress.
###
Estimate time of arrival: seventy minutes, it blinked on the navicomputer.
In solitude, Plasma meditated. A scene played in his mind. He saw the dying youngsters dragging their mutilated bodies across the ground. Part of him wanted to not care about anyone on the planetoid; that sort of people had only made his life unbearable. However, another part of him knew that those kids were victims, just like he used to be.
The Force had chosen him. He was unlike every other person there. How many had died while he had survived? Like his master had taught him, only the strong could prevail. He repeated the Sith Code like a mantra in his mind, feeling every verse.
Peace is a lie, there is only Passion; through passion, I gain Strength; through strength, I gain Power; through power I gain Victory. Through victory, my chains are broken. The Force shall free me.
The echo of Master Gya Ban reverberated in his mind once again. He saw her corpse on the same grounds of CZ-146, and the silhouette of a Padawan he had never met. Somehow, he knew he and this Padawan would forever be connected through their fates and the Force.
Gya Ban had fed him, he recalled, and she spoke with tenderness. He knew nothing more of her, only that she had died because of him. Her face he no longer remembered. He wondered if he would have done differently had he been in Komm'ett's place.
She was a Jedi; but the Jedi Order was weak, relying on antiquated philosophies, manipulating their apprentices and the world with pleasant lies. They were slaves of the Republic, slaves of the Force, and would never be truly free. Komm'ett talked very little of the Jedi and was always dismissive whenever Plasma asked her.
He opened his eyes and relaxed his shoulders. Those kids made their choice; many gangs have probed Plasma, trying to recruit him, and he always refused. Unlike him, the dead were weak. They made the wrong choices and paid the price. How many had suffered because of them? How many children had been killed, by blaster or spice, under the heavy boots of greedy crime lords?
He had brought justice to them. He had saved many others.
"C9, where could I learn more about Tatooine?"
"Why, Master," the droid said. "You can use the computer terminal, or I can educate you. I have an extensive planetary knowledge database!"
Plasma nodded and gestured at the droid, sitting back onto a comfortable lounge chair across the painting of his sisters. C9-N9 pressed a couple of buttons on his chest and his eyes glowed blue, projecting into the air a holographic model of Tatooine. The droid enunciated robotically, as if reading from a boring encyclopedic passage.
"Tatooine is a desert planet, home world of the Jawa and Tusken Rider species, located in the Arkais Sector of the Outer Rim Territories. It is thirteen thousand and one hundred and three parsecs from the Coreward Worlds.
In a binary system with two suns, Tatooine is oppressed by scorching temperatures. The planet is largely inhabited; main townS include Anchorhead and Mos Ila, a recent, secret Imperial settlement. It is comprised mainly of desert plains, dunes, canyons, with large mountain ranges and extensive underground cavern systems. Historically, Czerka Corporation has established massive mining operations in Tatooine, founding villages and flying in workers from other worlds.
With the absence of surface water, its inhabitants have developed a special technique to harvest moisture directly from the atmosphere. This method is known as moisture farming. Despite its adverse climate, Tatooine developed into an important trade, industrial and criminal center."
Plasma raised a hand and the droid stopped.
"It's a desert planet without water," he pondered. "Who would want to go there?"
"Tatooine is considered a terrific hideout for individuals escaping the law," C9 observed excitedly. "Also, as Czerka Corporation and other companies have established healthy industrial operations there, Tatooine might represent a great opportunity for hard-working organics!"
Plasma shrugged. The Czerka angle made sense; a good reason why his father would have gone there. He certainly had contacts that could offer him work, Plasma thought, and that would be the perfect starting point of his investigation.
Estimate time of arrival: fifteen minutes.
Plasma, at last, landed on Tatooine. From orbit, he had observed the planet's earthy tones of brown, white, and beige, and its three moons spinning in the distance. Descending towards the surface, he observed the lengthy mountain ranges that stretched well beyond the horizon and the endless sandy plains, dotted by settlements and the famous moisture farms.
Neither the Sith Empire nor the Galactic Republic had official presence on Tatooine, although their settlements were sort of public secrets. Tatooine did not have a central government that could swear allegiance to neither of the ruling factions in the galaxy, but it was central to many corporations' businesses, like Czerka Corporation, which controlled the planet for three centuries.
It was also surprising to Plasma how sparsely populated the planet was. From the sky, he noticed only a handful of villages and one slightly bigger town. There were many animals, on the other hand, creatures of considerable size even from afar. He saw herds of banthas – his favorite animal -, groups of nomadic Tusken Raiders travelling, at least three huge sandcrawlers around the diminutive Jawa people, and many other animals he did not know.
The Grey Condor flew across the sky. Plasma looked in awe the gigantic, wide canyons and impossibly tall dunes from the Dune Seas that covered the planet's entire surface. Suddenly, a krayt dragon, an enormous, ferocious lizard erupted from beneath the sands to snatch an unwary bantha, that screeched in agony as the dragon dragged it underground.
The famous moisture farms were, in reality, small villages of stone houses and thick, cylindric towers, known as vaporators. These towers harvested humidity from the air, condensed it, and filtered it into drinkable water. The farmers, majorly humans, were simple folk.
The Grey Condor roared past Anchorhead, a large, walled town amidst a cluster of moisture farms. Buildings were made of beige or red sandstone, structurally reinforced with metal beams. Plasma saw the Czerka logo on the front of an old four-story building near the city center. Houses were small, with round roofs.
One hundred and sixty-five kilometers to the south there was Mos Ila, built in deep valleys between tall mountains and jutting spires. The secret Imperial settlement had been constructed by the Jawas a long time ago; it was then took over by a criminal enterprise called The Exchange and, finally, conquered by the Sith Empire.
When the ship approached, a transmission hailed it from the spaceport. Plasma transmitted the ship's identification and was soon cleared for landing. The spaceport was of moderate size, with twenty landing pads, six hangars and five warehouses. As soon as the Grey Condor landed, hordes of mechanic droids hurried to tend to it.
Plasma decided to grab one of Komm'ett's hooded travel cloaks before leaving the ship. The two suns seemed – and felt – merciless outside; the Sith had seen the mesmerizing mirages of refracted light over the sand. Soldiers and officers saluted him as he walked across the spaceport.
The spaceport's main lobby was wide and crowded, with a fifteen-meters high ceiling. Colorful, military posters decorated walls and columns, and huge screens broadcast departures and arrivals. Plasma noticed that the majority of the people in there were either military, merchants, or bounty hunters.
Following protocol, an Imperial soldier, wearing black and red armor, removed her helmet and stood in attention. It was a Zabrak woman, like Plasma's master, but this she had orange and beige skin, and shorter horns.
"Sergeant Vyrna reporting, my Lord," she said loudly and sternly.
Plasma nodded at her and gestured at her to follow him. They exchanged a few words and left the spaceport. Outside, the heat was almost unbearable. Lord Plasma pulled the hood up; his armor beeped rapidly, green, and red lights flickering on a panel mounted on his bracelet. After a soft hiss, he breathed slower with relief, his body temperature stabilizing under streams of cold air jets.
The settlement felt more akin to a city, with Imperial banners installed across the entire town, against buildings and along the streets. Like Anchorhead, the old buildings in Mos Ila were constructed with sandrock; however, newer Imperial structures had been erected with ferrocrete and plasduro.
Droids and soldiers covered the streets, along with merchants, whose carts hoarded enormous crates, boxes, cylinders, and bags, pulled by engine or wraids, powerful, long-armed reptilians.
"I am looking for a Czerka employee," Plasma told the sergeant.
"A specific employee, I assume," she responded with a robotic voice behind the helmet. "I may be able to assist you, sir."
Plasma's eyes shone with hope. They continued walking along the street, until they reached a large installation about six hundred meters from the starport. The ferrocrete building displayed a neon-lit Imperial logo. As the door slid open and they walked in, the sergeant yelled.
"A Sith Lord is present!"
Twenty armored soldiers quickly stood up, lined up, and saluted him. That was impressive, Plasma thought. The Sergeant conducted Plasma to a long desk by the western wall. There were two other doors, one to the north, and another to the east. On the opposite side, the door slid open to reveal an extensive armory with cannons, rifles, batons, armor suits, grenades, and more. To the north, Plasma observed, was the soldiers' lodgings.
Vyrna rested her helmet on the table. Plasma explained he searched for a specific person, a Cathar like himself, which he believed would be easy to find since their species were exceedingly rare. Vyrna nodded, and she spoke as she typed on a keyboard. The computer beeped after a few seconds:there were no matches.
"I'm afraid this person has not passed through Mos Ila," she said. "However, records show that, two days ago, a former Czerka executive requested Imperial asylum. He is quarantined here while the Empire processes his application."
Plasma did not hide his excitement. He leaned forward over the table and glanced at the monitor. Vyrna tilted the screen to him. The file read: Pawa Lyr, former vice-president of mining operations at Czerka Industries.