Good Intentions, Bad Execution

by MacGordon93

An execution, that by all other means, was supposed to go smoothly. When John Brown, abolitionist supreme, falls through the trapdoor of his gallows into a dingy alley in the underworld of Coruscant, his presence begins to threaten a scheme millennia in the making, and throw the galaxy into a state of disarray. Can he bring freedom to the galaxy, or will it all burn in his fury?

1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

An Unexpected Journey

December 2, 1859

Charles Town, Virginia
10:55 AM EST

For a December day, there was a tension in the air that was almost palpable. The morning mist had long since been boiled away by the sun rising over the rolling hills outside Charles Town. The streets were almost empty, no marketplace chatter, no carts and wagons of produce coming or going, not even a distant ringing of a farrier's anvil could be heard. Instead, the streets were lined with hundreds of men surrounding the town's looming jail building, dressed in pristine navy coats and vividly decorated shako caps, which seemed to almost wilt in the morning's unanticipated heat. There was no chance of any rescue attempt from abolitionist extremists, nor any efforts by local "well-meaning citizens"1 to accelerate the execution, not with the U.S. Marines on standby.

A sturdy cart, peeling and faded blue letters identifying it as belonging to J.T. Fields' Fantastical Furniture Fineries, stood waiting before the jail's closed doors, two draft horses stamping their hooves into the cobblestones nervously. With no ado or fanfare, the doors creaked open, and two more soldiers appeared in the gaping doorway of the jail, firmly but gently ushering along a haggard, stooping figure between them, red carpet slippers scuffling on the cold flagstone. The man's bushlike gray beard was hastily tucked into his vest, his hands were bound by thick cords, and his frock coat was frayed around the hem and collar, but otherwise for all the world he looked the part of a world-weary gentleman out on a stroll, about to offer coffee and a cigar on the veranda to his grim escorts. A broad-brimmed hat was perched almost comically on his shock of thick curly hair at a slouch, shadowing his hollow, dark eyes as they peered out at the troops awaiting him. Farther into town, from atop the gabled courthouse, the booming, echoing toll of the clocktower struck 11, and the man felt his heart sink. As the last note rang into silence, one of the soldiers alongside him, tawny brown hair parted neatly to the side, a neatly trimmed mustache, and warm honey-colored eyes, nodded grimly.

"Mister Brown. It's time, I'm afraid."

John Brown looked up at his escort as though noticing him for the first time, and nodded in return.

"Right you are, Captain Lee," Brown replied, face deadpan. "I would loathe to be so improper as to be tardy for my own hanging."

Captain Lee stifled a snort, but maintained his somberness as he took Brown's arm once again. Together, Brown and his two escorts made their way down the jailhouse steps, and onto the retrofitted cart, Brown straddling the coffin- his coffin- and with a gentle whip of the reins, the draft horses nickered and stumbled into motion. The ride out of town was quiet, given that the streets were lined shoulder to shoulder with American troops, but Brown could still spot gaunt, scowling faces peeking out from behind window shutters and hastily closed curtains. Just outside the city proper, perched atop the rolling hills, the lean, boxy form of a gallows platform loomed high, surrounded by yet more soldiers in straight rows and columns, a few lines of yet more soldiers on horses, cavalry presumably, and even a few artillery embankments protruded from the bulk of the troops, arrayed in defensive positions around the gallows. If they needed this many soldiers to ensure my end, Brown pondered, what else could they do with their thousands on the ready?2

As the cart rolled to a stop at the foot of the hill, a path cleared to the top by the lines of soldiers, Brown hopped off the back accompanied by the crackling of his joints. With nary a wince or grumble, he began to shuffle his way up, pausing every now and then along the way to bestow a cheery "good morning" to one face or another. By the time he reached the steps leading up to the gallows, his bravado and cocky facade were beginning to slip. Brown took a breath, and mounted the stairs, calmly scooping his hat from his head and holding it in his hands. At the top of the stairs stood two figures- one dressed in a fine silk vest, a broad brimmed hat, and a silver badge forged in the shape of a star, with a white canvas sack clutched in one hand, while the other was in rough slacks, a dark coat, and a black hood covering their features save for their beady eyes.

"Right on schedule," The sheriff grumbled. "All accounts handled?" Brown nodded, and passed him a slip of paper from the brim of his hat. The sheriff raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, instead taking the hood in both hands and sliding it over Brown's head in a well-practiced movement. Brown stood stock still as hands looped the rope around his neck, and then the world fell silent for a beat or two.

"Please progress to the platform," the voice of the sheriff came from his left.

"You'll have to lead me there, I'm afraid," Brown replied, and he could hear a spattering of laughter below him, below the platform. Rough hands grabbed him again, and with a stumbling of legs, he was half-guided, half-shoved into a new position. Despite the hood over his eyes, and the darkness surrounding himself, Brown could still see a speck of light. Far in the distance, drawing closer, and he could feel his tensed muscles relax, his heartbeat slowing down to a steady pace, like a drumbeat to his march towards oblivion. Not yet, John Brown.

"I beg your pardon?" Brown sputtered, tensing in his bonds.

"I said, sir, would you care for a handkerchief," inquired the sheriff, "to signal your drop?" Brown remained still for a moment, before composing his words.

"No, sir, I do not care. Sir, I do not want you to keep me waiting unnecessarily," Brown retorted, teeth grit and he shifted from foot to foot distractedly. The light was closer now, brighter, almost blinding from within the consuming darkness of the hood, and Brown could feel a cool breeze lap against his face, beads of sweat swept back into his scalp-line. He was dully aware of the feeling of the sheriff and executioner stepping away, and somewhere behind him an officer was barking orders in a crisp cadence, with the rumbles of many feet tramping into place.

Not long now, the presence said- thought?- whatever it was, the light was now almost in his face, all-encompassing. You are no longer alone. A voice shouted, and Brown felt himself drop, a tightening around his neck, and the light wholly consumed him.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…
~*~

50 BBY

Uscru District, Coruscant

21:45 PM CST

For Jax Ferro, self-described xenoanthropologist extraordinaire, the best part about the underlevels of Coruscant was the relative freedom. Once past the police barricades and lockdowns, and after a little tense navigation around Black Sun turf boundaries, one could get almost anywhere in the planet, theoretically, and get nearly unfettered access to possible remnants and relics of the High Republic era. The possibilities swam through his head like a swarm of Blixii squids on the hunt, visions of academic glory for some previously forgotten subculture, perhaps exclusive funding for future expeditions off-planet, maybe even advancement by Chancellor Valorum himself. Turning the corner, all hopes and aspirations of glamor and gentrified archaeology fizzled up like ice cubes on a fry pan, as his rapidly widening eyes took in three crucial points of information: A pair of disheveled Devaronians3, horns gleaming sickly green in the neon twilight, clad in spattered white aprons, and clutching vibroshivs with edges blurring in the air; a towering, gaunt Pau'an4 in flowing red robes, with their beady black eyes, gray skin, and sharp teeth making them look like some nightmarish creature straight from the holovids; and a bead of light expanding unseen some meters above them, almost lost in the tangle of pipes, cables, and exhaust vents. The Devaronians, for their part, seemed rather unamused by the intrusion.

"As we were saying, it is entirely possible, my friend," the lead Devaronian began again in the harsh, jagged rumblings of his home tongue, gesturing to the Pau'an with the datapad in his spare hand frantically, "that perhaps the environmental impact of podracing may be exacerbating the natural climate of your home, and only increasing the severity of the windstorms lashing at your surface and tearing up any greenery or vegetation." His companion glanced at Jax, brushed off his grubby leather vest, and approached cautiously.

"Please," the young man began haltingly, his accent all broken glass and gargled splinters around the unfamiliar words in Basic, eyes gleaming with pent-up energy, "Would you give credits, bah… How do you say that in Basic? Death! Yes, death cloud from speeder runnings?"

Jax, for his part, failed in a bodily function his parents very patiently instilled in him many years ago. As a self-described human academic with exactly one semester of Ryl for his 'foreign language' academic credit under his belt, and smatterings of "devil-speech" phrases picked up from his two friends, Jax could only make out the words 'credits', 'death', and 'running'. With his eyes locked on the frustrated Devaronian activist, Jax slowly slid his way back around the corner, and immediately bolted down the nearest alleyway, leaving a dribbling trail from his pants leg in his wake. After the sound of footsteps faded into the background noise of the comings and goings of speeders, pedestrian traffic going who-knows-where, the wiry figure of the Pau'an spoke up at last.

"Humans," they rasped, shaking their head in disbelief at the two Devaronians. "Always so high strung. It's a wonder they got anywhere in the galaxy." It was at this point, as though ordained by some divine sense of humor, that the surprisingly unseen swirling vortex of light above them opened wide, and spat out a bound and masked humanoid figure. The next few moments were chaos, as the flattened Devaronians struggled beneath the body atop them, screeches of pain and confusion mixed with the Pau'an's own attempts, at arm's length, to make some semblance of order.

"No, Gavan, just roll to- Saumi, Saum, just. Watch out, your other hand has that knife! Just. Spast." After a few more minutes of rearranging limbs, Gavan and Saumi finally pulled themselves free of the body that had fallen upon them from on high, and took a moment to take in all the details.

The body, or rather person, as it was still moving, was dressed in a shabby antique-looking suit with actual buttons made of possibly bone, a rough sack over the head, and the hands bound before him with crudely woven rope made of some sort of plant fiber, his hands clutching a now-flattened felt brimmed hat. His feet were not bound, and as they squirmed and kicked, off flew a bright red bedroom slipper, which had clearly seen better days. After a second had passed, a querulous voice came from beneath the hood.

"Hello? Good sirs, good gentlemen I do hope, your aid is much appreciated," said John Brown, "But I was ready to face my fate." Gavan and Saumi traded glances, and picked up their cast-aside shivs, slicing through the ropes like a hot knife through butter.

"Sir, my name is Von, and these gentlemen with me are Gavan and Saumi Hazaw. We mean you no harm. I'm just going to take the hood off you now, would that be okay?" wheezed Von the Pau'an, and after waiting for Brown's nod of consent, reached out with their long arms and peeled back the hood, clutching it between two long nails like cast-aside undergarments. Now exposed to the open air, Von looked down at the human before them, noting his frazzled shock of curly gray hair and equally messy beard, his slightly trembling jaw, and his wide gaping eyes flicking between Von and the Hazaw brothers in a jolting loop. Brown looked up at the corpse-like Von, sharp teeth and dark eyes studying him intently, and glanced over to the horned Hazaw brothers, the very picture of the Devil himself save for the warmth in their eyes and their pursed lips, giving them a weak nod.

"Am… Am I in hell?" Brown finally managed. Gavan, the smaller of the two, snorted, and shrugged in response. Saumi elbowed him violently and shot him a cold glare.

"No, that is, ah, five blocks down," said Saumi, a weak smile crossing his face. "This is just outskirts."

"Saumi, don't scare him," Von chided, taking Brown up by the collar and hefting him to his feet in a single motion, and patted him on the back. "Come now, you look like you've seen some hard times. " Brown took one last look at the alleyway where they stood, and shuddered.

"Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows," muttered Brown, and glanced up to Von. "Lead on, if you please."

Spire of Tranquility

Temple District, Coruscant

21:50 CST

The small, gremlin-like figure of Yoda jolted forward from his stance with a start, and promptly fell flat on his face. Despite being fully conscious, seconds out of his meditative state, the Living Force seemed to vibrate with excitement and overjoyed delight around him. For the first time in decades, the fog of uncertainty seemed to have lifted. Yoda could feel the thousands of millions of lives around him, going about their business, inside the temple and out in the rest of the sprawling city-planet. He could feel his fellow Jedi throughout the galaxy, like flares burning bright against the night sky. He could also feel out there, somewhere, a crack. A tear in the Force. There. A flare-up. For a brief second, all the lights in the force seemed to become brighter, and a new light appeared where there was none before.

"Hrrrrm," Yoda grumbled aloud. "A disturbance, there is. Wait, this cannot." With that, he drew his walking stick up from the floor, and hobbled his way over to the sweeping bay window looking out over the cityscape below him, scrabbled for the small, cylindrical commlink tucked in the folds of his robes, and brought it up to his mouth.

"Young Windu, a problem there is."

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1 In light of what would later be known as the American Civil War, or as according to the dubious spin-doctor organization known as the Daughters of the Confederacy, "The War of Northern Aggression", such fine "upstanding citizens" would later be dubbed secessionists, patriots, or traitors, depending on the geographical origins of the perceiver.

2 The answer, of course, was attacking Fort Sumpter, a federal fort designed for port defense off the coast of Charleston Harbor in South Carolina, from April 12th to 13th, 1861. Nobody really came to like that idea.

3 Male Devaronians, more coarsely dubbed devils, demons, horn-heads, and 'the usual suspects', were typically bald with outcroppings of thick dark hair, with luxuriously cared-for horns, skin-tones ranging from reds and pinks to even greens and yellows, and a heightened fondness for wandering the galaxy wherever the solar winds would take them. The females of their species, however, tended to be significantly hairier, and much more content to stay put on their homeworld and run varied governmental circles in peace, thank you very much, unhampered by the males butting heads, figuratively and literally.

4 Pau'ans, native to the planet Utapau, are noted for their ragged sharp teeth, gangly limbs and fingernails, elongated heads, pinstriped faces, an average height of about 2 meters (6'5", for you American readers) or more, and a fondness for raw meat. Despite all these frankly horrific characteristics, they are a fairly gentle species, and fond of long walks by the cavernous sinkhole canyons at sunset, poetry, and riding tiny pods pulled by rockets careening through increasingly hazardous terrain with the hopes of, if not placing first and winning local accolades for a month or two, then at least not adding to the scorched greasy smears plastered to the walls of said sinkhole canyons, in a sport otherwise known as podracing.