Chapter Fourteen
His eyes opened, seeing nothing in the darkness except the last traces of his fading dream. He'd been back in the Oil district on Coruscant where he'd grown up, a greasy, filthy area full of out-of-work aliens and their families living in hovels and alleys. It wasn't far from the Works, an industrial jungle of steel and shadows stained with the traces of toxic waste and blood of those who'd died there. He'd known those streets and alleys like the back of his hand, and all the secrets they'd held.
As he lay in the darkness, he could almost taste the metallic air and smell the acrid odor of old hydrocarbons and oil. That place had taught him many things, and darkness held no fear for him after living there. Looking back on it now, he saw that it was a sort of furnace for him, refining the steel of his resolve and tempering his will to conquer such drab beginnings. He'd hated it at the time, of course, but it had been necessary to achieve the greatness that now lay just ahead of him, giving him the courage to seize opportunities that others would turn back from.
He got up and made his way to the sani-steam to wash up and prepare for the day. He didn't bother with the lights; his eyes were preternaturally sharp thanks to his ability to bend the Force to his will. It was a trick he'd learned early on, before he really began training in the ways of the Force, a result of his survival instincts adapting to the environment, and one that had served him well.
This was a momentous day, he thought to himself. Today, he would finally lay hands on the tools necessary to achieve greatness beyond the ken of normal men; today, he would step onto the path that would take him to the very pinnacle of success. No more would he be known as just another Inquisitor; his name would etched into the annals of history, and would earn the respect and admiration that he deserved.
After dressing, he meditated for an hour, going through the old memories one by one and dismissing their power over him. He was no longer the starveling caring for his sick mother, begging food and money, and depending on the charity of the Jedi for the medicine to keep his mother alive. He was a grown man, and more than that, he was a powerful Inquisitor with the resources of an entire Star Destroyer at his disposal. He no longer needed to depend on the Jedi; he hunted them, instead, a fitting end for their ignominious order. He held nothing but contempt and hatred for them, because it was their order that was responsible for the death of his mother.
As was his habit, he kept a journal so that he could one day write about his exploits—one last proof that he was better than any Jedi ever was. He would not rest until the last Jedi was dead and forgotten.
I had a dream, he wrote, in which I was back on Coruscant again. Not pleasant to remember, but only by reliving those experiences can I drain them of all they have to teach me, and wrest from them their control. It never ceases to amaze me at the detail that the mind is able to recall, even after all these years. For example, I can still recall the stains on the walls of the hovel where I lived with my mother, whom I cared for most of my childhood, and the way they spidered in the corners, like veins in a body.
The little efficiency apartment had reeked of mildew and t'bac smoke, and other less pleasant things, a miasma of vileness. There was little light inside, and the walls all seemed to be a uniform dingy tan color that might have once been a more pleasant shade of gold. It was claustrophobic in that apartment, and scurriers freely ran through the halls. He grew to hate them as much as he hated being poor and living in filth.
How I hated that apartment. After I became an Inquisitor, I had that apartment razed. Now, it's just an empty hole in the side of the building. It was a crystallizing moment for me, the first of many telling me that I was on the path of greatness. It was also a metaphor for my past, which was cremated in that apartment fire, and as I watched it burn, it also occurred to me that it was a fitting tribute to my mother, purifying the memory of her of all the stains of pain and misery in that apartment where she spent the last of her life.
For him, keeping a journal was not only a way to prove that he had made something of himself, it was a catharsis. It was a way to exorcise the demons of his past that he had long ago slain.
I suppose my father is due some gratitude, for if it had not been for his rampant alcoholism and physical and mental abuse of both me and my mother, I might never have finally had enough. He laughed. Let future historians make of that what they would. If anyone cared to search for him, they would have to look to the Coruscanti ogres for what was left of the corpse. When you fire a disruptor for the first time, and see that blindingly bright flash of light that leaves trails in your vision, you get a small taste of what true power is.
After a violent fight with the old man, he'd killed him using a disruptor he'd bought from his Quarren employer, a scoundrel named Netessin who ran the Mynock Club not far from his house, then kicked what was left of the corpse off the sidewalk, watching it tumble through the darkness and vanish into the smoke that roiled in the depths. He offered no explanation to his mother, who actually wept over the disappearance of the abo. The loss of the intermittent income his father had brought in was barely felt since most of it he drank away.
He'd never gotten caught, either, because no one cared down there. Everyone knew that Brannik was a drunk, and a mean one at that; his disappearance was as unlamented as it was welcomed by almost everyone in the neighborhood.
Things actually got easier for him after that. He no longer had to worry about the physical fights he would get into with the old man, and no longer had to worry about the bastard stealing money from him and blaming it on his mother, or on him. The trade-off, though, was that he had to spend more time caring for his mother and running to the Jedi Temple for her medicine. He didn't mind this at all because for the first time, it was quiet in their house. No more arguments, no more bruises, just peace and quiet.
He touched the stylus to the flimsiplast. The Jedi, unlike my father, deserved more than scorn for what they did, he wrote. They earned my undying hatred, for if it hadn't been for their arrogance and sense of superiority, my mother might have survived to this very day. They might have claimed that it was just an unintended tragedy of the Clone Wars, but I know they cut her off because of me, because I wasn't fit enough to join their Service Corps.
Their smug expressions as they looked down on me and told me that I was too old and too angry to train in their Service Corps sealed their fate as far as I am concerned. When I went back several weeks later for another month's supply of the medicine my mother needed to treat her lungs, they claimed they had no more left to give. They tried telling me that they needed the medicine for the Clone Troopers fighting the Separatists. Everything was being rationed, they claimed. I saw through their lies, though. I am glad their flame is extinguished from the universe, and I am glad to have been a part of the cause that put that flame out.
He looked up from his desk and at the small holocube he kept on the shelf, displaying the image of his mother when she'd been healthy, in the prime of her youth. She looked so much happier, then, her long dark hair lustrous, and her eyes flashing with mirth. She'd been the reason he'd taken odd jobs for various criminals, including the job working for the Quarren thug named Netessin, running contraband that could have landed him in Kessel, if not dead. She'd been the only person he'd ever truly cared about, and he would have done anything for her.
A soft chime sounded, and a green light built into the desktop flashed, intruding on his thoughts. Annoyed, he pressed a button. "Yes?"
"We've just made the last jump to hyperspace before reaching the Coruscant system, my Lord," the voice of the Captain said.
So far, Captain Aiden had proven to be a congenial, resourceful man, and Nilas appreciated that as he had no patience for incompetence. In this, he and Vader had something in common. He'd feared that he would be saddled with an incompetent Captain who was just being put somewhere by the Imperial Naval Command where he was unlikely to do any damage, but those fears proved to be without merit, much to his relief.
"What is the estimated arrival time?" he asked.
"Five hours. We are proceeding at all haste as per your orders."
"Excellent. Have my shuttle fueled and ready."
"Very well, my Lord." The connection shut off.
Five hours, and the weapon would be his. That was all that mattered. Five hours until he crossed the line from pedestrian mediocrity to historical immortality. He called on his Adjutant. "Meet me in the training room, Paradas." She was another pleasant surprise that only confirmed in his mind that he was indeed destined for great things.
"Right away, my Lord," she answered.
Jaslin Paradas was an enigma that he was slowly unravelling. She'd surprised him with her professionalism and initiative. Taking advantage of the ensign's desire to climb the Imperial ladder, she'd insinuated her way into the lower ranks with guile that he hadn't thought she'd possessed. She was a prize indeed, an apprentice of no small skill, despite her relatively weak strength in the Force. Her ability to recognize her weaknesses and adapt, turning them into strengths was impressive, and as far as he was concerned, Vader was a fool if he didn't see her potential.
She would come with him, he decided, tapping the stylus against his chin. He'd been wanting to test her resolve for some time because he couldn't afford to have someone cringe at what would need to be done in the future if he was to walk amongst the gods. He needed someone he was sure would obey without question, and would stay quiet at not only the way he handled business, but who he handled it with. If he detected any hesitation, he would have to dispose of her, but he felt the flow of the Force, and felt that it was with him.
Today, I go forth to take up the sword, he wrote, grinning. Tomorrow, I go forth to conquer.
"Cross down!" he snapped. "Push the blade down and away, then spin and block. When you push down, the enemy's reaction is most likely to be to spin with the momentum and slash."
She glared, fire in her eyes. "I'm sorry, Master, but it doesn't feel natural," she protested hotly.
He raised an eyebrow. "Nonetheless, it is the correct block. If you would flex your back more and push this out," he said, smacking her hard on her backside, causing her to yelp, "you wouldn't stumble half-way through the maneuver!"
Fury boiled in her large, dark brown eyes.
He smiled inwardly, hiding it from her. "Good. Feed your anger," he said, stepping back and raising his lightsaber. "Maybe then you'll actually manage to learn something!" She was controlling that anger, but just barely. She needed to learn to channel it, not just suppress it.
Snarling in rage, she began the forms again, beginning to move faster and more confidently through each stage. She thrust at his midsection and he blocked, then spun around, whirling so fast that the lightsaber blurred as it sped towards his neck. When he stepped back and performed the cross-down himself, batting the tip of her lightsaber down and away, she improvised and pushed down, almost severing the front half of his foot off as her blade swept past.
He leapt back, and she was on him in a flash, slashing high as she aimed for his neck again. This time, he stepped into the attack and blocked high, holding her blade back with his own only centimeters from his face. "Cross—"
She surprised him again, flicking off her lightsaber and dodging aside.
With her blade no longer there to push against, he stumbled forward, off-balance.
She spun, igniting her lightsaber and executing a downward-angled slash that would have cleaved him in twain had he not stumbled forward and came up facing her but out of her reach.
"Impressive," he said. It smacked of Vaapad, and if he hadn't known better, he would've thought she'd received training in it. Such was impossible, of course. Mace Windu was dead, and so was Sora Bulq. "Where did you learn to do that?"
"Do what?" she snarled, crouching in a defensive posture as she caught her breath and glared at him balefully.
"Extinguish the blade like that to cause an opponent to stumble off-balance."
She shrugged angrily. "It seemed the only sensible thing to do."
"Indeed." It was a sensible thing to do, and what surprised him is that she had the presence of mind to do it. It usually took many years to develop those kinds of instincts; that she had learned to do such a thing so quickly hinted at the potential of being absolutely lethal in lightsaber combat. He could feel her anger pulsing and alive; she was finally learning some control over it, and her skill and strength were increasing as a result. There were still flaws in her form, and it was clear to anyone with even a gram of training that she was still uncomfortable with many of the positions and movements, but was so blasted fast! She adapted quickly to changing situations, and eschewed usual lightsaber combat techniques for ones that she seemed to make up on the fly. It was a dangerous habit for one who hadn't yet mastered the basic forms and positions, but she seemed to be excelling at it.
It was almost as if she could read his mind, yet, he knew that to be impossible. His mind was shielded using techniques any first year student learned to master while still an apprentice. Her own mind was wide open to him simply because of his skill, and it roiled with an almost primal lust besides the anger and rage that simmered just below the surface. She would have to learn to control that, too. He didn't care what she chose to do in her free time, or who she chose to do it with, so long as it did not interfere with his ascension to greatness. Right now, it was best that she have no pillow friends. He needed no accusations of impropriety floating amongst the Imperial Navy to mar his image or undermine his authority.
It was a relief, though, that she showed such a remarkable talent or one so new to the Force, and that she was improving so quickly. He'd originally feared that because she hadn't been trained from childhood, it would prove that much harder to train her, but such was proving not to be the case. Perhaps it was because of the fact that the forms had not been drilled into her all her life that she felt free to improvise. It had certainly caught him by surprise more than a couple of times. She reminded him of a crouched sandpanther, ready to pounce at the slightest sign of weakness.
"Well?" she sneered. Her muscles, clearly visible beneath the tight-fitting white shorts and camisole top she wore, were tensed in anticipation.
Frowning at her disrespectful tone, he launched into another attack, slicing horizontally across her mid-section, then spinning and slashing downward diagonally.
She leapt back to avoid the first slash, and used a high block to parry the vertical slash, then pushed his blade up and spun into his right side, trying to slash horizontally across his back. Any faster, and she would have severed his spinal cord.
He tumbled forward and her blade passed through empty air. He spun to meet her next attack, a back-handed slash aimed low, followed by a downward diagonal slash. Slowly, he gave ground, letting her tire herself out, though he, too, was getting worn down having to work to keep her flashing blade at bay. Her ragged breathing could be heard over the hum of the lightsabers, and she was beginning to grunt with the effort of each strike.
He, too, was growing tired, though it would be many minutes before he became fatigued. After a few minutes, he stepped back. It had been years since he'd so thoroughly enjoyed sparring with someone; droids just weren't the same. He was even sweating a little, but Paradas was drenched. He'd been watching her, though, studying her proficiency. She had a deadly grace to her, a fluidity of motion that spoke of the great potential he'd noticed before, although she still needed a lot more practice.
"Who trained you?" he asked. "I assume it was done on Yaga Minor."
Crouched down in a defensive posture once more, she kept her eyes locked on his. "Droids," she panted, trying to catch her breath.
"Droids?" That seemed odd. Usually, there was always an instructor who was at least a Junior Inquisitor. "Who was the Inquisitor?"
"Inquisitrix," she corrected. "Mistress Kaida."
He laughed. "You poor child," he said. Mistress Kaida—she preferred the term Mistress to Lady—was something of a legend in the Inquisitorius. A tiny Kuati woman with delicately slanted eyes, porcelain skin, and long dark hair kept in a single braid, she eschewed the crimson zeyd-cloth cloak of the Inquisitorius and instead wore a dark red leather body suit with a high collar. This was allegedly because the dark red hid the blood-stains caused by her particular brand of "training."
She was what the higher-ups referred to as a "problem-solver;" she was given the tough cases who proved recalcitrant or head-strong, and broke them down through intense training, absolute obedience, and liberal use of stun rods. Her name, which meant, "Little Dragon," suited her perfectly, and if the rumors were true, she had a tattoo of a dragon that stretched from her left foot up to her right shoulder; no one had ever seen her out of that body suit, though, or if they had, they weren't telling.
"I did all right," she growled, grinning with an evil glint. "I was one of her favorites."
"Are the rumors true?" he asked. "Does she indeed have a tattoo?"
"Ask her yourself."
He launched into flurry of attacks, making her give ground rapidly as she fought to keep his lightsaber at bay. Their blades popped and sizzled with each block and parry, and eventually, he pinned her against the bulkhead. The tip of his blade pointed at the small hollow at the base of her throat. "Two years with the Little Dragon," he mused. "Too bad she didn't teach you better manners."
"Manners are for the weak!" she spat, flicking her lightsaber across his and rolling to the side. She quickly followed up with a series of thrust-slash combinations, pushing him back. When he would give no more ground, she leapt back and landed in the defensive crouch to catch her breath. "Mistress Kaida taught me that," she puffed, watching him warily. There was pride in her voice.
"What, the insolence, or the riposté?"
"Both."
He smiled. Her anger was in much better control, now. "I wasn't aware that Kaida employed droids. I've always heard that she was more…hands-on." The woman's sadistic nature was well-known, as was her propensity to use humiliation to break the spirit of her charges.
Paradas blushed as her eyes narrowed in anger. "She was sent for after I destroyed the third droid and tried killing the programmer," she hissed. "I wanted to be a stormtrooper."
He chuckled at the sudden understanding. The Empire still kept a few IG-110 lightsaber droids around, as did the Inquisitorius for training purposes, but they were expensive and not easy to replace since they were no longer produced. "An aspiration the Little Dragon broke you of."
Her eyes narrowed. "Mistress Kaida tried."
He could sense her reluctance to talk about it, and began another series of attacks to provide a distraction so she would continue talking. At one point, his lightsaber came close enough to sever her thin right shoulder strap, making her jump back and hold up the sagging side of her top. Any closer, and she would've needed to go to the medical bay.
She looked at the severed strap, then glared at him.
"In a real fight, there would be no time for mod—"
She didn't give him time to finish as she attacked, her anger barely in control.
He could sense the fury rolling off of her in waves as he blocked and parried her attacks. She was so blazing fast, spinning and slashing, then thrusting to force him back. He'd move to strike, only to find that she hadn't gone where the form said she should go and had instead come at him from a different angle. She stayed on the offensive, keeping him on the defensive every step. Only his reliance upon the Force to guide him kept him alive.
After several more minutes of trading attacks, she leapt back, her breathing ragged. "Mistress Kaida even showed me off to Lord Vader," she snarled, pulling up the sagging side of her top to keep from exposing herself. "He laughed at me, and told me that I should feel honored to be a part of the Inquisitorius."
Surprised by her vehemence, his suspicion that she may have been a pawn for Vader dwindled. Her anger was too potent to be the reaction of a simple cat's paw. It didn't surprise him that Kaida would've desired to show off one of her favorites—the Inquisitorius bred internal competition and intrigue like trash compactors bred dianogas.
"I kept my mouth shut," she growled. "Lord Vader doesn't suffer fools."
Little wonder, then, that he sensed a deep-seated shame in her that she tried so hard to hide. Not only had she been rejected as a potential member of the 501st Legion, the person she would have served as a stormtrooper, whom she had dreamed of serving, had laughed at her.
"A wise decision," he said, extinguishing his lightsaber and clipping it to his belt. He walked over to the protocol droid and took a towel to wipe his forehead. "Sometimes," he said quietly, "it's better not to meet your heroes."
She scoffed and extinguished her lightsaber, but said nothing.
"If it's any consolation, your talents would have been wasted on Carida." He took another towel and handed it to her.
"If you say so, Master," she said miserably. She took the towel and wiped her neck and chest.
"I know so, Paradas. There is still honor and recognition to be found in serving the Inquisitorius."
She looked away.
He could sense her doubts, but turned the conversation in a different direction. "You were on Yaga Minor for two years?"
She nodded. "Mistress Kaida was the one who sent me back to Prefsbelt. She said my naval training would help round out my education since I had come to the attention of the Inquisitorius so late," she explained. "Lord Vader warned me to serve any Inquisitor I was assigned to and obey him or her without question, or else."
That sounded just like Vader; the Dark Lord had no qualms about Force-choking any officer or underling who failed him. "And will you?" he asked in amusement.
She glared at him. "I have no choice, Master," she growled.
He grinned inwardly. Paradas was just full of pluck! "I'm sure Lord Vader will appreciate your efforts."
Her eyes narrowed in anger. "I got the distinct impression that I was beneath his notice."
He chuckled, familiar with that impression himself. "I believe you're in good company in that matter when dealing with him. Everyone is beneath his notice."
Her lips thinned into a line, but she said nothing.
She was still plagued by feelings of loyalty to Vader, he realized with an inward sigh. Well, when you grew up idolizing someone who seemed to stand for something in a galaxy full of chaos, it wasn't an easy thing to let go of such sentiments, he supposed. In a way, he was almost envious; what had Vader ever done to deserve such loyalty from her? Absolutely nothing, he answered himself, and that was the rub.
"We're done for the day, Paradas," he said, turning away and heading for the door. "Meet me in the hangar bay in two hours." They'd arrive in the Coruscant system within the hour, and then, he'd go and take delivery of something that would earn him the favor of Grand Inquisitor Torbin himself. He would almost be on par with Vader for sure, then.
Today would be not only a day for testing his apprentice's obedience, but the day he would pick up a weapon which, if it worked, would mark a whole new chapter in the quiet war against the Jedi. He would test it first on the Twi'lek woman, and if it proved successful, he would soon have an army of Force-user that he wouldn't have to waste time turning—they would be slavishly loyal to him from the start.
After cleaning up and dressing, he went to a special chamber attached to his quarters. It was a perfect square, all surfaces matte black. There were two circles in its center, one of which was connected to the Fury's Holonet transceiver. As he stepped into one circle, the room's single recessed light came on, shining a cone of white illumination down on him.
A few minutes later, a holo-image appeared in the other circle less than a meter away. A cloaked and hooded Quarren stood before him, the same Quarren he'd once worked for to survive. "Greetings," he gurgled in Basic. "The package has been delivered to the location you requested."
It was Netessin who'd given him his first job running errands for his little criminal empire that the Quarren ran out of the Mynock Club in the Oil District. Drugs, information, weapons, money, and anything else Netessin needed moved, Nilas ran.
When Nilas entered the Inquisitorius, he didn't forget about Netessin, or the crime lord's unique skill set. The Quarren was a veritable font of obscure information, and could speak a dozen languages. He had contacts all over the galaxy and in every strata of society, and was involved in a dozen different ventures at any given time. Over the years that Nilas had kept him on retainer for just such reasons, he became convinced that there was nothing the Quarren couldn't find if the price was right.
Such dealings required a great deal of discretion, though, and he had ensured privacy in his communications with Netessin. In addition to the Imperial encryption the ship's Holonet transceiver used, the holoplate used in this chamber was further encrypted with protocols unknown by the Empire.
"Good," he answered Netessin. It always made him smile to think of how far he'd come, and nothing exemplified that more than the fact that he now commanded his former boss on Coruscant. "We'll be arriving shortly. Are there any security measures I should be aware of?"
"Only Reetak."
"Who is Reetak?"
"A Rodian employee of no consequence. He will give you no trouble."
"He will have to die." He wanted no witnesses and knew the Quarren would send along someone loyal enough to guard the package, which is why he was bringing along Paradas. He had to make sure she would kill without hesitation.
"His loss matters not."
He smiled. Netessin was both pragmatic and phlegmatic—nothing really riled him or bothered him in the least, and he never worried over the loss of small things, like a minor underling. Such was the cost of doing business in the criminal underworld, after all.
He was sure that the Quarren had probably figured that something like this might happen so had probably sent along someone loyal enough to guard the package, but whose importance in the overall scheme of things was small enough that his untimely demise would affect nothing.
"Once I take delivery, you will be paid in the usual way," he told him. Maybe this time he would add a small bonus—he'd been looking forward to getting his hands on this device for a long time. "Does it work? I'm not paying for damaged junk."
"It's in the condition it was in when it was stolen. Whether it works or not is out of my control."
"Very well. I'll contact you after pick-up." He cut the connection. Netessin was loyal as far as Quarren went, and was a paragon of discretion, but Nilas had been far too cautious to rely on appearances. Upon becoming a full Inquisitor, he'd set out to reverse the power dynamic in their relationship, and with the resources of the Inquisitorius, had turned up information that bound the Quarren to him closer than even money could.
Apparently, Drafulla the Hutt had once employed Netessin long before he'd come to Coruscant, and right before he took his leave of her and Nar Shadda, money had come up missing—a lot of it. Drafulla's nephew, Gordo, had taken the blame thanks to the Quarren's careful planning and was exiled to Tatooine to die either at the hands of Jabba or by his congenital heart defect. The last Nilas had heard, however, Gordo was thriving, which meant Nilas had not one but two levers to control Netessin. A single message to him, or his aunt, would spell the end of Netessin, and the Quarren knew it.
Still, Nilas could afford to be generous, and paid the Quarren very well, knowing it would make things easier if he used the diplomacy of greed rather than blackmail. For years, Netessin had delivered on time, every time, no matter what Nilas had needed him to find, or whom, and he rewarded such loyalty.
Of course, the Inquisitorius would scream bloody murder if the administrative heads knew that he was associating with a Quarren, especially if they found out he used to work for that Quarren; COMPNOR would be howling for his blood if it came out. What they didn't know wouldn't hurt them, though. Why should he dirty his hands—his human hands, no less—when there was an alien perfectly willing and capable of doing the dirty work?
If he was successful, the Emperor himself might grant him higher station, and probably let him keep the Twi'lek as well. Appointing him as the new Grand Inquisitor was a very real possibility, but Nilas' aspirations were higher than that. Grand Inquisitor was only a stepping stone for him, and either way, the Inquisitorius and COMPNOR wouldn't be able to touch him, and Vader could take a flying leap into the Maw.
After cleaning up, he headed down to the forward shuttle bay where his personal shuttle was berthed to one side. Other crewmen and officers quickly found somewhere else to be as soon as they saw him coming. He didn't think he was as bad as all that—he wasn't like Vader, who would kill someone for the occasional mistake. Well, maybe he was a little, but they had to be bad mistakes.
How ironic, he thought, chuckling to himself. What Vader had so casually cast aside, he would now use to help him undermine the Dark Lord in the eyes of the Emperor. More the fool him, the mused. Paradas' strength in the Force wasn't all that strong, but she was a natural-born duelist if he'd ever seen one. If nothing else, it showed that Vader wasn't omniscient like some of those superstitious fools in the Imperial hierarchy seemed to believe, and if Vader could make mistakes, then Nilas could capitalize on them.
Correction, he thought to himself. He would capitalize on them.