Chapter Twelve
The Star Destroyer Exactor hung high above Kashyyyk, unleashing streams of bright green turbolaser down into the upper atmosphere of the green planet. The blasts swept across the massive forests, immolating the sacred ground of the Wookies. Observing the destruction from above, Darth Vader, Dark Lord of the Sith, stood resolute at the forward viewport of the bridge as squadrons of V-wings roared past.
The Empire's subjugation of Kashyyyk was largely complete. The Wookies had rebelled against the clones occupying their world, even going so far as to harboring a handful of Jedi who had escaped the purge. The Wookies had discovered, in an example for the rest of the galaxy, the price of insurrection in this new Imperial era. The galaxy, and the Empire's own troops for that matter, had discovered first hand what Darth Vader was capable of. So had the Emperor himself. Vader understood the irony of his first mission as Supreme Commander of Imperial Forces. The former Tatooine slave boy, newly minted Sith Lord, enslaving an entire planet. The Emperor was clearly testing his commitment to the New Order. His apprentice had made sure to pass the test.
Vader glanced down at his black suit, now battle tested for the first time. The suit was a prison, he knew. The price of his failure on Mustafar. The Emperor had spared no expense, ensuring the suit would keep Vader's mangled body alive. Alive, but not well. The joints pinched his seared flesh everytime he moved. Needles penetrated his torso, delivering nutrients and medication, but also pain. The respiratory system helped him breath, but not without a significant amount of wheezing that everyone around him could hear. After witnessing the startling cybernetic advancement of the Separatist General Grievous' body first hand, he found this suit's crudenes to be...maddeningly insulting.
Vader felt the presence of a lieutenant approach from behind through the Force. He could sense the man's fear so strongly he could taste it. He turned to find a pale, brown haired man holding a datapad, nervous sweat trickling down his neck.
"Lord Vader, the report you asked for," the lieutenant said, offering the datapad. Vader took it and said nothing, dismissing the officer with a wave of his hand.
The datapad contained a medical report, one he had ordered from the Exactor's medical staff. He did not trust the Emperor's willingness to share information on the health of his own body, and so he had ordered a report of his own. Beheading the Exactor's chief medical officer had been a quick way to ensure the discretion of the rest of the staff.
He examined the report, and would have visibly scowled if his mask didn't hide his scarred face. It confirmed everything he feared. His suit merely kept him alive, it did not heal him. And that survival would not be permanent. As Vader drew upon the dark side his body would decay. After Mustafar that decay already had a head start. If things continued like that he would soon find it difficult to draw on the Force at all, no matter how much rage he fueled the furnace of the Dark Side with. He went to the bottom of the report. Based on his rate of cellular decay he had five years, at best.
Now Darth Vader understood. The Emperor had chosen him, and he had failed. This suit was meant to prolong his life just long enough for the Emperor to find a replacement as his apprentice. He was now a placeholder Sith. Just like Dooku had been before him. Vader clenched his fist, crushing the datapad in his grip.
He turned from the viewport and found the captain of the ship, who was observing the bombardment on the catwalk above one of the crew pits. The man turned at Vader's approach, his body stiffening into a military salute.
"Lord Vader?" the captain asked, his voice quivering ever so slightly.
"Captain Timorr. Order your intelligence officers to compile a report. I want a profile of the most advanced...and experimental...medical research facilities in the galaxy. Narrow the profile to those unconnected to the Imperial government."
"Very well," the man nodded. "It will be done."
Vader turned away and began to walk towards the rear of the bridge. If this campaign of subjugation on Kashyyyk was a test of his commitment, and his battle with those Jedi survivors a test of his crippled abilities, this suit was a test of his survival. If he wanted to remain the Emperor's apprentice, and eventually grow strong enough to replace him, he had to find his own way. No one else would do it for him. As the Sith holocrons his master had provided had instructed, an individual deserves only what they are strong enough to take.
Vader exited the bridge, his black cape swirling behind him.
oOoOo
Aramis stepped out into the arena and headed stiffly towards the center of the stage, a roar from the crowd greeting him. From the other side the Vindicator mirrored him, walking out stiffly and ignoring the cheers of the crowd. But whereas Aramis was nervous in front of so many people, the Vindicator was putting on a show. The huge, muscular Mandalorian was a head taller than Aramis, who was not so short himself. The Vindicator wore a tight, athletic bodysuit, which hugged his skin and showed off his musculature. As the two combatants grew closer to together Aramis realized that the bodysuit had lines sewn into it, imitating the battle armor of a Mandalorian warrior. The Vindicator looked down at Aramis and smirked as the two met the referee in the middle of the stage.
"Alright, we're ready to begin the third and final bout of the night," the Gran referee announced, his voice booming throughout the arena's speakers. The referee held out a coin, a now worthless credit featuring the crest of Confederacy of Independent Systems. "The Vindicator, with the superior record in the round robin stage of the tournament, gets to call heads or tails."
"Heads," the Vindicator said, his deep voice echoing like thunder. The referee threw the coin into the air and caught it in the palm of his hand. He revealed it slowly, showing the face of Count Dooku to the combatants.
"Heads it is," he shouted. "Weapons or no?"
"Weapons," the Vindicator growled, a sinister smile spreading across his face as he stared at Aramis. "I'll take twin vibroswords."
"And your choice?" the referee asked Aramis. He gazed at the Vindicator, not impressed by the man's vicious grin. With the imitation armor the man wore, and his Mandalorian accent, he couldn't help but be reminded of the clone troopers who killed so many of his friends.
"Bo staff. Wooden," Aramis answered.
"I'm sorry," the referee said, taken aback. "Did you say wooden? Against vibroswords?"
"That's right," Aramis nodded.
The referee squinted at the blue alien with his three eye stalks, in an apparent attempt at reading Aramis' body language. "Very well," he answered finally. "Please wait one moment as we bring out your weapons. If you could take your positions…"
"I'll kill you quick," the Vindicator said, laughing as he turned his back on Aramis and found his mark. Aramis frowned as he turned and found his. He waited as the tournament staff went through the virtual armory they kept backstage. He tried not to think about all of the people in the audience staring at him. He knew Uraala was amongst them.
Finally a pair of tournament officials appeared onstage, carrying weapons appropriate for each combatant. The Vindicator received his vibroswords, and Aramis his bo staff. He took the weapon from the official and gave it a quick twirl. It was a quality staff, on par with what he had trained with at the Jedi Temple. The staff was made of a blonde hued wood, with red accents. He flipped it around, finding that it was slightly longer than the height of his body. It also possessed a good balance between hardness and flexibility. It would do.
The Vindicator twirled his vibroswords menacingly, that stupid smirk still playing out on his face. For his part Aramis remained impassive. He tuned out the crowd and focused on his opponent. The bell rang, a high tone that signalled the beginning of the bout.
The Vindicator rushed towards Aramis, closing the tens of meters between them in a matter of seconds. Aramis stepped back, receiving his rushing opponent with a calm that bordered on serenity. The Mandalorian swung outwards with both swords.
Aramis spun his staff and his body, avoiding the blades and stepping aside. The Vindicator twirled as well, with grace and speed that seemed surprising given his build and demeanor. He slashed outwards with one blade and downwards with the other. Aramis parried the outwards slash, smacking the side of the blade with his staff and then twirling it to knock away the other.
Aramis carefully kept his distance as the Vindicator ran through a series of lightning fast attacks. He parried any attack that posed a threat with the the smallest possible movement of his staff. And he did so in such a way as to avoid the edges of the vibroswords, preventing them from damaging his weapon. Aramis watched his opponents movements and smiled, earning a furious charge from the Mandalorian. He jumped and twirled away, leaving his opponent frustrated.
As a youngling Aramis had trained with the Jedi children who had passed their initiate trials. While the initiates mostly practiced their combat training against each other, they also spent some time testing their skills against those who used more conventional weapons. After all, a Jedi would not be expected to face only those who also wielded the lightsaber. Those who were like Aramis, who had not passed the trials, served as the opposition force. Compared to those initiates, who were strong in the Force, the Vindicator was slow and clumsy.
"Why don't you stop dancing and fight me," the Vindicator growled.
"As you wish," Aramis said. He dashed towards the Mandalorian, avoiding a quick slash meant to behead him with a quick step sideways. He twisted his staff backwards, catching the Vindicator in the forearm with the trailing end and fracturing the bones within. One vibrosword fell from the Mandalorian's grip as the Vindicator cried out in pain.
Aramis did not hesitate. He dropped down beneath a retaliatory strike and smacked the Vindicator in the knee. The Mandalorian cried out and fell to the side. Aramis spun his staff and swung outwards, knocking the other vibrosword aside and then smacking his opponent in the ribs. The Vindicator crumpled to the floor.
Aramis backed away and kicked the vibroswords out of reach. "Yield," he ordered.
"Go vape yourself," the Vindicator growled between gritted teeth.
In an instant Aramis struck him in the side of the head with his staff, knocking the man unconscious but not killing him. The match was over. The crowd roared as he stood over his defeated opponent.
Aramis turned as the announcer rushed onto the mat and rose his hand into the air. "Congratulations on your victory," the Gran said loudly for the whole arena to hear. "Any words for our audience?"
Aramis blinked rapidly, attempting to keep sweat from dripping into his eyes. None of his combat training at the Jedi Temple had involved post match interviews.
"Can I keep the bo staff?" he asked awkwardly.
oOoOo
In the v.i.p section of the arena's stands Charro Aven rolled his eyes in annoyance. He had been hoping that the Mandalorian would've sliced Uraala's pet into pieces, but alas, Arayen had dispatched The Vindicator with relative ease.
Charro glanced down to the front row, where his brother and niece were happily discussing the positive outcome of the bout. The only thing that made him happy was Uraala's fatigued state. She clearly wasn't getting any better, despite the inordinate amount of money his brother was spending on her treatment. Soon Palor would have no choice but to name Tyrapa as the heir to the family business. If he didn't...he glanced at his younger sister, Virina, and her husband, who set a few seats down in the same row as him. Her pregnancy was in its final stages. It was possible that Palor could choose Virina as the heir. Her child would then become the next successor. Charro frowned. Did his brother truly dislike his son that much?
Charro exited his seat and found his son, Tyrapa, discussing the evening's matches with one of his friends, a young Twi'lek teenager whose family was distantly related but subservient to the Avens.
"...don't feel too bad he beat you up," the teenager was saying. "The guy is clearly a galaxy class pro."
"I don't feel bad," Tyrapa replied. "It's just my kriffing cousin could've warned me before putting me on the mat with him."
"Son," Charro said, interrupting their conversation with a look towards the teenager that dismissed him instantly.
"What's up?" Tyrapa asked, slightly annoyed at his father's interruption. Charro put his hand on his son's shoulder and steered him up the stairs until they were safely out of hearing range from the rest of the family.
"Do you truly want to inherit the family empire?" Charro asked.
"Are you kidding?" Tyrapa asked, almost laughing. When he realized his father was serious his smile vanished. "Of course I do." He lowered his voice. "But uncle is never going to let that happen. Even when Uraala dies…."
"Yes, he could just pass it off to your aunt."
"She isn't qualified. Has Virina ever got her hands dirty?"
"Don't underestimate your aunt, son. She runs the legit side of the business just as ruthlessly as Palor and I run the rest of it. She's the one responsible for the entire businesses' finances. She could destroy with a transaction more than we could with a hundred hired blasters."
"So what are we going to do? Live forever in their shadows?"
Charro glanced around carefully, making sure their conversation was safely out of earshot. "I think its time we look into the origin of your cousin's pet. She transferred his ship to one of our hangars. Why don't you take some of your friends there and have a look."
"Okay," Tyrapa agreed. "But what about the dock workers. They'll rat on us to Uraala. Did you see what she did to those Zygerrians?"
"You let me worry about that, son," Charro said. "Take care of it tonight."
oOoOo
Aramis walked through the back corridors of the arena, beneath the stands. Whatever staff he encountered gave him a wide berth. It seemed that his latest victory had earned him a certain amount of fear. He found his way to the locker room area, finding it empty. His bout had been the last of the evening and the other fighters had already cleared out. With one exception. On a bench on the other side of the room sat Lehal Jak's duffel bag. A doorway at the back of the locker room led to the showers, and Aramis could hear one of them running.
Aramis shed his white tunic, which was drenched with sweat. He placed the bo staff against the locker next to his and grabbed a towel, drying himself off. The announcer had said he could keep the staff, but that they would subtract its costs from his winnings. He couldn't tell if he had been joking or not.
He heard the showers go out and quickly put on his pants before Jak emerged from the others. The older human wore a towel around his waist, revealing his lean musculature.
"I saw your fight," Jak said, removing his towel and beginning to don the clothing he removed from his bag. "I thought you would have a tougher time with that guy."
"He should've chose hand-to-hand combat," Aramis said. "I would have had trouble dealing with his size and strength advantage."
"He wanted to slice you up. I'm sure he wished he could have gotten away with killing all of his opponents in the round robin stage," Jak said. The human seemed to be appraising Aramis as he put on his shirt. He could feel a tingling in the back of his mind. Jak was attempting to probe him with the Force.
"I trained against Jedi," Aramis said. "Compared to them...everyone else is an amatuer."
"Did you ever beat one of them in a duel?" Jak asked.
"No. Never," Aramis said without bitterness. "Not even in two on one trials. I never stopped trying though. I trained in every technique available, mastered more styles and weapons than any Jedi ever would need to study." He glanced at Jak with a knowing gaze. "But there are some things no amount of training will allow you to beat."
"I don't know about that…"
"But if victory is impossible then one should seek to manage defeat. You survive defeat, learn from it, and come back stronger than before."
"Aren't you a little font of wisdom," Jak said sarcastically, but not without understanding.
"Being raised by Jedi will do that to you," Aramis said, shrugging. "I didn't just learn combat techniques, by the way. I also learned to resist mind probes…"
"I wasn't probing…" Jak said defensively, his eyes widening in surprise.
"Or you weren't aware that you were," Aramis said. "You don't have full control over your powers."
"...no amount of reading substitutes for a real teacher," Jak said.
"I could be your teacher," Aramis said. "I didn't move on in my Jedi training, but I received all of the basics as a youngling. I still remember what the Force felt like. I remember every lesson about it that I received. Even after I was rejected I still had access much of the Archives..."
"I get it kid, your knowledgeable," Jak interrupted. "I can't deny that I want very much what you have to offer. But if the Jedi rejected me what place do you have to second guess their decision?"
"The Jedi are gone. I think its pretty clear that their decision making process was far from perfect," Aramis said, not without a degree of sadness.
"True," Jak admitted.
"Why did they reject you for training? It was clearly not because you couldn't touch the Force," Aramis asked.
"I was 'too old for training'. They didn't discover me until I was nine years old," Jak revealed.
"Which is code for your familial attachments being too strong to rip you from your family," Aramis said. He couldn't help but think of one Anakin Skywalker, one of the most famous Jedi during the Clone Wars. The Jedi had made an exception for him. He wondered why they hadn't made the same exception for Jak, and how many countless others like him.
"Yeah, I get that now," Jak said. "I wonder why they thought it was better to leave people like me out in the universe instead of training us up. Would we not be less likely to fall to the Dark Side with Jedi training than without."
"Maybe," Aramis said. If Jak knew about the Dark Side then he wasn't completely uneducated about the Force. Whatever resources the human had found were more extensive than he might have thought. "But if someone is pre-destined to fall to the Dark Side, they would be far more dangerous with Jedi training than without."
"Fair point," Jak admitted. He zipped up his duffel bag and swung it over his shoulder. The human's expression suddenly changed. Aramis couldn't read minds but it looked like he had made a decision. "Our bet is off. I want all the training you're willing to offer."
Aramis suddenly became suspicious off the sudden change of heart. "Okay. But what are you going to do with that training? I'm not going to just help you become a better fighter so you can win more tournaments."
"I don't care about winning tournaments," Jak said. "After this tournament, I'm done. Why do I want your training? I'll tell you why...I sat out the Clone Wars. The Jedi didn't want me, and I didn't like how corrupt the Republican had become. The Core has been pushing around the rimward worlds for generations. But the Separatists...they were led by psychotic maniacs. I was glad when they announced that the Separatist Council had surrendered. I was glad when the war was over. I could feel every battle in the Force like raging fire. The Empire has put out that fire but replaced it with…"
"A cancer," Aramis said. "A cancer that will slowly strangle the galaxy until it is permanent darkness."
"Exactly," Jak nodded. "Without the Jedi there is nobody around to keep the darkness in check. Somebody will have to step up...perhaps if they had chosen to keep me I would be just another dead Jedi. But now, maybe I can do so good."
"That is exactly my feeling," Aramis said, smiling.
"But first, I'm going to kick your teeth in," Jak said.
"Wait...what?"
"We're to face each other in the next round. Our bout will be scheduled for the weekend. I'm to fight you, and I'm going to beat you. But I want you to come at me with everything that you've got," Jak said, his voice growing deeper with resolution.
"Hmph," Aramis grunted. He wasn't thrilled at the idea of going back out in front of that crowd. "I suppose it would be a good way to figure out where you are at compared to a Jedi initiate…"
"And if you manage to beat me," Jak began. "What did you say about defeat?"
"You survive it. Learn from it. Come back stronger than before," Aramis repeated.
"Exactly," Jak nodded. "I'll see you this weekend kid. Bring your 'a' game."
"I will," Aramis said as Jak exited the locker room. The human raised his hand in a gesture of farewell as he turned the corner and disappeared.
