No Man Is an Island

[Jeryd Redsun]

“Redsun.”

Sleep was cast off like a bed sheet. Jeryd snapped upright to find the floor was ice underfoot. His eyes crept open, wincing at the spear of gold that plunged into his cell through the narrow window, and the needle of pain that lanced his head. With a thud that might have been an exploding bomb, a large familiar duffel landed at his feet.

“Your stuff.”

No sooner had the cell door closed than Jeryd threw himself at it, thumping with both fists, “Corporal! Corporal!”

The peephole snapped open.

“Can I trouble you for a steam press?”


####

Under ferocious scrutiny, corners were pinched, the fabric stretched, and laid out lovingly upon the freshly-made bed. Jeryd was surgical in his application of the steam press, which hissed and spat like an angry dune viper. He buffed buttons, and measured seams, and worked at his boots until he could see his face in them. His lip was split, and bruises had gathered like storm clouds around his left eye - he would wear them like badges of honour. For ten minutes, he laboured over a sink the size of a soup bowl, scrubbing away the stink of the chase. Then, he dressed. And so it was that Jeryd Redsun ended his first night in prison wearing the immaculate white and grey of the Imperial cadet, with nary a single crease in sight. It was his last line of defence.


####


There were four of them in the speeder. The military police nursed their weapons in stony silence. Though he didn’t look, their faces were nonetheless burned into his eyes, full of loathing and contempt. He could feel it like a weight upon his shoulders, and, in feeling, he was repulsed. Coruscant went by unnoticed, even the insanity of the skylanes was pushed to the back of his mind until it was nothing but an ambient backdrop for his thoughts. Did they hate him because of where he’d been, or because of where he was going?

It wasn’t until the speeder stopped that Jeryd noticed the Citadel. He stared up, and up, and up. Its walls rose like cliffs, blocking out the sun, drenching them in cold shadow. Higher still, and its peaks blazed like columns of fire, just like… No. The wonder imploded, and fell from his chest into the pit off his stomach, where it anchored him to the seat. In the end, it was a prod from his armed neighbour that prompted him to rise, and take his first step deeper into the shadow of the Citadel. He felt sick.

On the landing platform stood a tall man in gunmetal grey. It was a sight that swept away the sluggish weight from his extremities, and had him standing, electrified, in a crisp salute.

“At ease, son.” The officer gave the others a nod, and they piled back into the speeder to leave, “I am Lieutenant Lance, of Her Imperial Majesty’s 51st Legion. Welcome to the Citadel. Follow me.”

The lieutenant led the way, between a pair of towering bronzium statues that looked like they had stood there for a thousand years, and through an entrance that stretched several storeys high. Being a citizen of the Empire often meant experiencing first-hand the grandeur of Imperial power, but never before had Jeryd seen anything like this. The vaulted ceilings reached higher than some skyscrapers, with all sound swallowed up by the distance, making it impossibly quiet; ornate arches, shimmering with meticulous detail, loomed overhead, held aloft by proud polished pillars broad enough to house entire families; Imperial banners marked the way at every opportunity, and golden rays of sunlight poured in from so many angles, it gave the impression they were moving through some kind of prism. The further they went, the more people there were, and, soon enough, Jeryd found himself engulfed by the same kind of organised chaos he encountered at the academy. It felt like home, but that was an illusion.

“The Citadel has long been a bastion Imperial excellence. This is the place where elite commandos are forged, where our greatest minds flourish; it is the home of generals, and grand admirals, and, of course, the Imperial Knights.”

The lieutenant gave him a knowing look. Jeryd cleared his throat to buy himself a second to consider a response that was not damning. “It is all very impressive, sir. Most impressive.”

“As I understand it, you have been assigned to the latest batch of cadets. They arrived only yesterday, which doesn’t put you at too much of a disadvantage, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Sir,” he gave the most perfunctory of nods, and fought the urge to check if he had somehow lost his uniform on the way in.

After ten minutes of walking, the conversation died. Jeryd, having grown tired of evading dangerous questions and feigning enthusiasm, considered it a mercy killing. After fifteen minutes of walking, and an abandoned attempt to count stairs, he started to suspect his new home was going to do wonders for his quads. And, after twenty minutes, they arrived at a long corridor of dormitories. From open doors came the swell of raised voices, the clatter of busywork, and even the rare ring of laughter. Don’t be deceived, he reminded himself, inviting a renewed onslaught of doubt. By the time they came to a halt outside a sealed door, his legs were full of lead.

“You have a bunk, a locker, and a change of regulation clothing. Don’t delay. Your instructor will be along shortly, I’m sure. Good luck, cadet.” Jeryd saluted the lieutenant, who, to his disbelief, suddenly looked a little sheepish, “And… may the Force be with you.”

Lieutenant Lance turned, and took off at speed, while Jeryd was left reeling.

Once he recovered, Jeryd stood for a moment before the dormitory door, equipping his armour. Whatever awaited him on the other side was going to be different, it was going to be his greatest challenge, but it was the will of the Empire that called to him, and, by extension, the will of the Empress herself. A fleeting glance back the way the lieutenant vanished. The corridor was empty. There was no-one around to stop him, if he wanted. No. He had ran from his duty once before. He would never betray the Empire again. First, he took a breath, then the door gasped open.

The dormitory was a typically spartan stretch of space, lined with bunks and lockers on either side. A few surprises, however, almost knocked him out of step. First, there was the smell. Even on Carida, which boasted one of the finest academies in the galaxy, the dorms were haunted by the ghosts of sweaty PT sessions, and feet. Here, it smelled clean. Secondly, girls. There were girls in the dorm, and if Jeryd hadn’t noticed the boys, too, he would’ve performed the most dramatic about-turn of his life. And, with no designated sides, it appeared to be a free for all. What deranged thinking was this? The last of the surprises were the windows, which lined one side of the room and filled it with warm natural light. A rare luxury for types as common as cadets.

The cadets themselves were too busy to afford the new arrival more than a cursory glance. It was a small, but welcome, mercy. He recognised the pattern at once: the rush, the patter of feet, the frantic making of beds, the cleaning, the polishing, the double-checking of each other’s uniform - it was the panic of an approaching inspection. At least he was in for some entertainment, he thought, as he arrived at the only unoccupied bunk in the room. A quick once over revealed that his area had not yet been contaminated by the riff-raff. He was almost inspection-ready. There was just one last matter to deal with. One last sacrifice.

One by one, the brass buttons came undone. Peeling off the smart white jacket was as torturous as peeling off a layer of skin. In many ways, with each layer of clothing removed, Jeryd was shedding a piece of himself, each piece as vital as the last. Until, at last, there was nothing left. He was stripped, and raw. In that instant, he saw from his window the grand horizon of the Imperial Center unfurl before him, and he wanted it to burn. But thoughts of fire fast reminded him of the encroaching cold, and his present state of undress. From his locker, he snatched the white-and-black jumpsuit that had been waiting for him and stuffed himself into it. Now, he looked like one of them. And he couldn’t even bring himself to look at any of them.

Instead, he stared out of his window, and drank in the expansive cityscape. It was a view he would be seeing for a long time.

[Jeryd Redsun]

“Hey.”

It came from behind, a bright sort of sound. He almost saw it sailing by like a fishing line, cast in hope, only to turn limp and tinkle at his feet. In his indifference, Jeryd was ready to join the bronzium statues outside.

“Hey.”

There it was again, the hoarse squeak of a guy whose balls were too scared to come out. Between them stood a wall impervious to conversation. Perhaps the ricochet of his greeting would find some other victim for him to torment, whoever he was. But, in the end, all it took was a tap on the shoulder to shatter his icy resolve. Jeryd wheeled around to discover the scrawniest kid, with a pale freckled face and an offensive amount of curls, gazing up at him like a puppy expecting an ear scratch. His hand was outstretched, hanging in awkward limbo, while he remembered what it was he wanted to say:

“I’m Nebbil.”

The moment he shook his sweaty hand, he regretted it, “Jeryd.”

“Welcome to the Boot. Looks like we’re going to be neighbours.”

It’s called ‘Boot,’ you twig.

Jeryd surfaced from the monotony of Nebbil, and, with deliberate lethargy, dragged his gaze over the other cadets in the room. Nearest the door, there was a Rodian boy, maybe a girl, rifling through the contents of his or her footlocker. So, their heads really were that big, after all. Because Rodians had such slim bodies, Jeryd always assumed it had been a trick of the camera. Further along, another alien, this time a Duros kid with a shiny bald head, and red eyes. He looked angry, but Jeryd suspected that was just his look. And then, there were the girls: some pretty ones, not that it mattered, of course, and not a straight spine amongst any of them. By the time his eyes had done a full lap of the room, Jeryd was feeling about as dejected as ever. And the scrawny kid still hadn’t taken the hint.

“Don’t mind them,” he seemed to think he understood, “They’re just nervous about our first big inspection. The sergeant is a real nut-buster.”

Inwardly, Jeryd rolled his eyes so hard, his future children got dizzy. Outwardly, however, he gave Nebbil a look that pinned him like a flewt to a wall. “Maybe you should also be preparing for this big inspection, cadet.”

“Nah, man,” he gave a shrug, “I’m good.”

“Are you?” Jeryd folded his arms. From where he stood, he identified at least three infractions. But Nebbil, it seemed, revelled in blissful ignorance.

“You bet! Hey, what happened to your face? Were you in a fight?”

Memories of the chase, of sirens, and stun batons stormed the barricades of Jeryd’s calm, and with them, woke all the dull aches he thought he’d forgotten. He broke eye contact with as much casual ease as he could manage, “Yeah. You should see the other guy.”

“Heh! No, thanks.” Nebbil was staring at him, there was a struggle going on behind his eyes. Then, without warning, he reached out and squeezed his arms, as if he were testing for ripe fruit. After a second that felt like half a lifetime, he gave a low whistle, and released him, “So, what happened?”

Jeryd moved close. His voice trickled out in a dangerous undertone, “I grew tired of pandering to asinine frakking questions.”

This time, the kid caught on. With a measure of satisfaction, Jeryd watched his last feeble thought die on his lips. He retreated a step, looking dazed, and then another. For a moment, he wavered beside his bunk, while he decided on what distraction he should suddenly fake his interest. Ah, his under-plumped pillow. Of course. Not his scuffed boots, or his open footlocker, or the untidy corners of his bed. No, sir. What a total loser.

Back at the window, Jeryd became lost in the unending flow of traffic that stitched itself in shimmering lines across the sky, like the tides of an inverted ocean, glinting in the sunlight. From beneath its waves rose a great metal whaladon: a military transport, perhaps, ferrying new troops to new worlds for new adventures. Maybe Dodge was on that ship, on his way to becoming a cold-as-ice intelligence agent. If only he was around now, he would understand. Or quick-fingered Bosh, the joker, with his dumb pranks and magic tricks; it didn’t matter that he’d seen the Sabacc Shuffle performed about a hundred times before, in that moment, Jeryd could think of no sweeter sight. Hell, he would even settle for a story from big Muldoon, whose tales of sexual conquest were about the only thing actually taller than him. In his mind's eye, he saw them sat together, wondering where he was. Soon, the transport was but a pinprick, then it was gone.

All his life, it had been Jeryd’s dream to serve, to be a part of the Empire he loved so dearly. And yet, now that he found himself standing at the very heart of Imperial Center itself, he had never felt more like an outsider looking in.

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

The double doors to the cadet barracks peeled open with the brutalist din of heavy durasteel catches and pneumatics. Imperial design followed intentional goals. The austere form and function of something as simple as a portal from one room to another made the simple act of coming and going inescapable to the attention of others. This time was no exception, as every cadet in the room turned to face the entryway. Was it another cadet late to their billet? Was it the aforementioned Citadel drill instructor?

The answer came as a mystery as the doors finished opening, revealing a sleek-furred hirsute creature that trotted in on four broad paws. It was as tall as a large dog at the shoulder, but the proportions were all wrong. It had a bullet-shaped muzzle and broad head, little ears, and a neck so stout that it seemed less a neck, but instead just a gradient from the jawline to the shoulder. The tail trailing behind the creature was broad and lithe as the rest of it, tapering in her wake. Snout to tail, the thing was easily two and a half meters long. Further, to add even more mystery to the strange sight, the animal seemed to be wearing some kind of non-regulation imperial armor.

The weighty thump-clicks of paw pads and claws slapping the barracks deck came to a halt, and the creature looked from one cadet to the next.

[Jeryd Redsun]

The rumble of doors turned Jeryd as rigid as a cat in a thunderstorm; a year of Staff Sergeant Sope would do that to a man. His heady daydream of what could’ve been was fast replaced by the reality of what was: silence that spread like a warning cry, freezing the cadets in place. It could mean only one thing.

In an instant, he was at the bottom of his bunk, but faltered at the sight that greeted him. It was a beast unlike any he’d ever seen, a powerful thing, sleek, and undoubtedly dangerous. A glance at his neighbours revealed he wasn’t alone in his alarm. Indeed, the Drall backpedalled to the dubious safety of his locker, while one of the girls actually shrieked when it looked her way. Together, they could probably overpower it, but not without casualties. First, he needed something to pierce the armour.

The armour. Of course.

In the last ten minutes, he’d seen more aliens than he had ever encountered in a whole year at the academy. And if there was one thing he understood about basic training, it was that it was a shapeless monster whose sole purpose was to test recruits in the most cruel and original ways possible. Jeryd didn’t know aliens, but he knew this: beasts don’t wear armour.

His time was running out. And, though, when it looked at him, he could not be sure it didn’t see food, he knew he had to act. As he stepped forward, Jeryd found at least a speck of consolation in the fact that, if he was wrong, he wouldn’t have to live it down for a long. He took a sharp breath that shaped him into a durasteel column, and boomed:

“Attention on deck!”

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

Jeryd's words had an instant effect on the cadets, causing most to post adjacent to the foot of each assigned bunk. There were reluctant stragglers. A few side-eye glances to the new blood crying wolf - or crying whatever this thing was. And the thing itself didn't respond to Jeryd's outburst. It simply sat there as aloof as ever. That caused the Rodian to snicker, her proboscis twitching at Redsun's misfortune.

"Cadet Redsun called..."

A low voice sounded clear through the scattered chuckling, which didn't end until...

"ATTENTION!!" rattled through the deck plating in a growled boom. Now every set of eyes was fixed on the speaker and her lip-peeled, fang-bared mouth.

The creature-that-could-speak now swiveled her head around the room with all the lethal potential of a loaded weapon as a wet snarl chattered in her throat. The Rodian girl, Thida, was caught in a dilemma of cutting laughter off mid-stream versus the cold-sweat terror of being called to account by a drill instructor.

The beast smelled blood. With a few lateral steps of it's forepaws, the creature turned to face the comedian in full.

"Does this amuse you, Cadet Thida?"

The voice returned to a deceptively low tone. The only trace of the previous moment's anger lay in a bit of saliva collected on the animal's lips that began to lengthen, threatening to drip to the floor. It's descent was quickly arrested with the flick of a tongue, which did nothing to prevent the beast from trying to burn a hole in the Rodian's skull with her eyes.

[Jeryd Redsun]

When the creature started to speak, relief washed over him like the warm lapping tides of Gold Beach. Except it was not the satisfaction of a lethargic holidaymaker that filled him up, and raised his chin just so, but the pleasure of his first small victory. That warmth, however, turned to ice in his stomach when the beast roared so loud his own chest rang like a bell. The sound rolled across the room, a shockwave to blast away the last atoms of informality from quavering cadets. Those spines were straight now.

The beast turned. Calling it an alien was surely a formality, with its deathly poise, ferocious musculature, and predatory prowl; not a monster in name, then, but it was truly monstrous nonetheless. And it was the Rodian, Cadet Thida, who had been chosen to suffer the first lashings of wrath. In calling attention, Jeryd had provided the others with an opportunity to spare themselves, not that he cared what happened to a pack of ill-disciplined scrubs, but because it was expected of him in the eyes of his superior officer. If Thida could not muster the sense to stand at attention when commanded, then she had only herself to blame. Thida, he decided, had to be a girl’s name.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the girl go stiff, and heard the last of her childish giggles get caught in her throat as if it had been clamped by an invisible hand. That was the power of authority synonymous with the Galactic Empire. He recognised it at once, and felt the same thrill to behold it now as he had, as a child, when the great parades were in town. The spell was broken, however, by the sight of a long rope of saliva dangling from the beast’s chin. Fighting off a grimace, Jeryd snapped eyes front, and waited for Thida’s response. It came loud and clear:

“Sir, no, sir!”

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

In a single movement, the creature's posture changed. She bunched her long-set feet together, causing a high arch of her spine that rolled up her shoulders until she stood on two legs. Now towering over two heads over Cadet Thida, the Selonian corrected the discrepancy, hunching her back for the sole purpose of putting her short tapered muzzle within an inch of the offending proboscis.

"I must be mistaken. There must be something else that you find funny. Look around, Cadet. None of your comrades are laughing. Did they miss the punchline?"

Vissica's words at point blank distance were warm, humid, and carious. That was just one of many reasons Thida wanted to tear her attention away from the alien muzzle nearly pressed against her face. Now her proboscis shook, but with a different emotion.

"I don't know..."

"You...don't...know." Vissica measured out the milquetoast response, finding it sorely wanting.

"Then you were laughing for no reason? That makes you a fool, Cadet Thida."

The Selonian straightened her posture, backing off for the purpose of pacing the room and eyeing the other Cadets.

"Who can tell me the mission of the Knights of the Imperial Throne?"

[Jeryd Redsun]

In one strange fluid motion, the alien transformed from animal to sentient. Jeryd was at war with every muscle on his face to keep his astonishment in check. It was no wonder that Cadet Thida quailed in its shadow, for it towered like the sentinel stratoscrapers that stood watch over the entire planet. Indeed, he could even feel her fear, and suspected the other freaks could, too. It diffused throughout the room like an unpleasant smell; a silent fart of weakness. And, when Thida’s torment was cut short, he was grateful to the alien, whatever it was, for sparing them from another second of her pathetic whimpering.

More than its words, and the weight with which they were delivered, it was the posture of the thing that resonated most with him. The back was straight, the shoulders square, the chest was out, and the chin held high; the alien carried itself with the authority of a general. If the others had truly never seen it before, then it stood to reason that they were in the presence of no meagre drill instructor, but someone of real importance. And there he was, unable to tell if it peed standing up or sitting down. Welcome to the Knights of the Imperial Throne, cadet.

Whatever their mission was, he couldn’t say. The activities of eccentric psychics had been about the farthest thing from his mind while he was at the academy, and, amongst normal people, it was still widely regarded as the Empire’s dirty secret. But no feat of denial could liberate him from the fact that his beloved Empire was getting into bed with Force-users. And he had to wonder if it was a sign of desperate times. Nebbil, on the other hand, had no such difficulty in answering the alien’s question. In fact, he was so eager to squeeze an extra inch out of those nasty boots, it was a miracle he didn’t pop out of them.

“Sir,” he honked, “The Knights of the Imperial Throne project and assert the authority of the Empire across the galaxy. They are an extension of the will of the Empress herself, sir.”

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

At the sound of 'Sir', Vissica's head locked onto the pubescent noise's source. Her flat demeanor remained unchanged for a moment after Nebbil had given his answer. The cadet hung onto the silence, hungry for praise. He got no excellent, no well done, and no outstanding, at all, but rather simply,

"Correct."

The Selonian squared herself to Nebbil, her wet nose crinkling slightly as her eyes narrowed.

"Step forward, Cadet Nebbil."

Still hungry for recognition, the human teenager did so. Vissica canted her head slightly in afterthought. "You too, Cadet Thida."

The Rodian, for her part, was less enamored with being singled out, but did not dare disobey. The two singled-out cadets stood side-by-side as Vissica paced around them.

"Those of you who do not fail will one day become Knights of the Imperial Throne. It will serve you well to remember Cadet Nebill's words. You will not simply fight. You will not merely command. The sight of your presence will inform enemy and friend alike that the Empress is watching. There are commanders of entire legions and star destroyer squadrons who do not hold that kind of responsibility. Therefore, you will be trained to carry it."

The Selonian paused behind the two examples, resting a splayed paw over the outer shoulder of each.

"Witness your comrades here. They lack discipline."

Vissica's grip on each cadet's shoulder tightened. Discomfort became pain, etched plainly both Nebbil and Thida's face. The Selonian torqued down without mercy, causing yelps of pain as the pair of dissolute cadets were pressed down to their knees.

"Cadet Thida's careless hold over her emotions may seem small to you now, but in matters of the force, you will discover how quickly you can betray the crown and your comrades if at first you betray yourself."

Nebbil and Thida's whimpering intensified as small medallions of crimson began to spot the shoulders of their uniform where the Selonian's claws bit.

"W-what have I done, sir?" a very bewildered Nebbil shrieked between a sniffle.

"You don't know?" Vissica replied, almost sounding surprised. With one final squeeze, she released her grasp of both cadets, causing the troublemakers to fall to their hands in relief. Nebbil's relief was short-lived, as unseen hands pulled his feet from under him, causing his chin to smack against the deck. The Knight made short work of relieving Cadet Nebbil of his shoes, which she roughly dropped directly in front of Nebbil's face and now-bleeding chin.

"How many smudges do you count on your boots, Cadet?"

"I...I..." Nebill stammered, his eyes beginning to swell with moisture he struggled to keep in check.

Useless. A rumble shook in Vissica's chest as she snatched the boots back up. She stepped over Nebill, marching directly to the nearest man in the line.

"How many smudges do you count, Cadet Redsun?"

Each paw presented an empty boot in front of Jeryd's eyes, so that he could have no excuse in failing to answer.

[Jeryd Redsun]

From the moment the hulking alien summoned the cadets forward, Jeryd found himself wondering what manner of punishment and humiliation it had in store for them. Making an example out of unsatisfactory cadets was part and parcel of being a drill instructor; all that remained was to discover if the great beast was all tooth and no claw. It did not disappoint.

On the periphery of his vision, Jeryd noticed, with a degree of satisfaction, some of the other cadets shuffling with discomfort at the sudden application of force. The Empire was only as strong as the men and women who manned its vessels, and fought its wars. It was the duty of every soldier to weed out weakness, first, in himself, and then, in others. A list of future drop-outs was beginning to take shape in his mind, with cadets Nebbil and Thida jostling for top spot. And then the question occurred to him: was dropping out even an option? Thus far, there had been nothing about his experience that had seemed, in any way, optional. Was he doomed to serve alongside the human snot and the giggling child? Suddenly, the alien’s words returned to him like aftershocks, and the implications were dizzying.



####


“Sir, I don’t understand.”

The other officers were already filing out of the room, they didn’t give him a second look. From behind the long empty desk, Captain Fisk stirred. In his hands was a neat stack of flimsi sheets - all signed. He, too, declined to make eye contact. Instead, he seemed rather annoyed by the distraction.

“It is quite simple, Redsun. You are being transferred. What is there to understand?”

The captain rose to his full height, a whole inch taller than Jeryd, and the crease in his olive-green uniform vanished with a gesture. Oman Fisk was promoted to lieutenant following the Battle of Jakku, where he saved his unit from an exploding thermal detonator: eighteen troopers returned home that day thanks to his actions, including his superior officer, who went on to become the famous Colonel Stracker of Ord Mantell. Despite his years, Captain Fisk filled his uniform like the larger-than-life statues that lined the great entrance hall; he had the cool blue gaze of a snow falcon, and a neat gentleman’s moustache peppered with silver flecks. Six years had passed since that fateful day on Jakku, during which, he was promoted to captain, transferred to the academy board of directors, and pioneered a new training scheme that identified promising cadets, and groomed them for command. Six years sat behind desks, wasting away inside offices and lecture halls, and he was still as brown as he was in the pictures. The desert sun had marked him for life.

“But, sir,” Jeryd began, “My performance records, my test scores, the officer programme… I wanted-”

“You are a cadet of the Imperial military.” The captain’s gaze pierced him like ice shards, “What you want is irrelevant.”

Captain Fisk heaved himself around the chair. There was a heavy thud that filled the long and narrow space like a hammer blow. While Jeryd wrestled with unspoken objections, he watched the captain round the table, labouring every other clunking step. He came to a halt near the door, and gave his lingering subordinate a look, as if he could read his mind.

“The evidence is incontrovertible. You have the gift.”

It felt like a death sentence. Jeryd checked the floor, expecting to find it fracturing beneath his feet. “With respect, sir, it is not a gift.”

“Maybe not.” At least Captain Fisk had the decency to concede that point. Jeryd expected nothing less. “But it is yours, nonetheless, and the Empire has need of it. Keeping something like this a secret would be considered an act of treason. You understand this, don’t you?”

He knew. Jeryd straightened, “Sir, yes, sir.”

“Good. Well, if that is all, I-”

“Sir.” He kept his chin high, and his eyes on the blushing Coruscant skyline beyond the window. “I wanted to thank you… for your nomination. It meant a lot.”

The captain reflected his posture, which was, in turn, a reflection of him. He gave a nod, and said, “The Imperial Army has been denied a promising recruit.”

Jeryd felt a hand around his neck. There was sand in his throat. “What becomes of me now, sir?”

“That is not for me to know, son. Whatever happens, make it count.”

Raising a hand, Jeryd saluted his hero for the last time.



####


The snivelling cadets were crawling away.

There were men and women who had dedicated themselves to the protection of the Empire, officers with storied careers, who commanded more than just armies - they commanded loyalty, and respect. Respect for their sacrifices, and for the years of service it had taken them to reach the apex of their careers. A lifetime of dedication, only to be outranked by young upstarts, whose whole claim to authority is derived from the flip of a mystical coin. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. And he was a part of it.

His thoughts gathered like storm clouds, only to scatter before the monstrous alien, who was presenting him with a familiar pair of scruffy-looking boots. He glanced at the offending items, long enough to count the imperfections, and corrected his gaze. When he answered, it was not with the anaemic mumble of the other cadets, but with the resounding voice of a true son of the Empire:

“Sir, there are six scuffs visible on the cadet’s boots, sir!”

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

"Six scuffs."

Vissica pulled the boots away, turning them ever-so-slightly. The greater part of the boots easily cast reflected light off their polished surface, making the dull of each scuff mark easily noticed in the light's passing. Her attention turned back to Nebbil, who lay where she'd left him, craning his neck to give his head an angle to look up.

"Cadet, how do you expect to appear as an extension of the Empress's power with such cavalier disregard to your appearance?"

"Sir..." Nebbil stammered to form a reply, aware of the danger he'd make for himself in offering an excuse that wasn't airtight. Barring such an excuse existing, best to be honest about it, "...no excuse, Sir!"

"No." Vissica agreed, letting one of Nebbil's shoes fall to the ground as she stepped over him. "There isn't."

Infractions aside, the Selonian felt that at the very least, this had been a moment to gain the attention of her students. Perhaps now was the best time to make an introduction.

"My name is Matatek Sel Vissica. I doubt I will have reason to repeat this introduction, because I expect Cadets of the Citadel to learn quickly. You will learn, because dissolute behavior is punished."

With her grip firmly on the backstrap of Nebbil's remaining boot, the Selonian whipped about, striking Nebbil across the small of his back with the sole of his own shoe. The smack of synthetic rubber against the Cadet's body produced a sharp and audible crack, followed immediately by a howl of pain from Nebbil as he arched away from his tormentor.

"This is not cruelty. Do not ignore the difference. Cruelty will be discovered by those who are punished and who refuse to learn their lesson."

Vissica raised Nebbil's shoe.

"Cadet Nebbil has been punished for one of his six errors."

CRACK! Another blow rained down on the flailing cadet.

"Now, the second error. He will remember where every imperfection on his boots was found, because he understands what is expected of him."

CRACK! Vissica's swiping boot broke through the guard of Nebbil's hands, striking him across his chest. The Cadet coughed raggedly as he instinctively curled into a fetal position.

"I expect you all to understand the expectations you are sworn to uphold. Not simply to avoid Cadet Nebbil's fate, but to improve the Knighthood as a whole."

Vissica paused in her torments, cradling the toe of her improvised weapon with her off hand as she tapped the shoe lightly against her palm.

"If one of your comrades fail, it is not simply their failure. It is a failure shared by all. Punishment will drive you to correct your faults. Pride will make you hate failure, and you will remove everything in your life that enables it."

[Jeryd Redsun]

The fourth blow stopped short a feeble attempt to rise, nailing Nebbil to the floor. Just beyond the epicentre of the violence, Jeryd stood, statuesque - a picture of apathy. Every time the boot made contact with a part of Nebbil’s body, he could feel the tremors in his feet.

Stay down.

Though his time at the academy had made him no stranger to the rough-handling of cadets, the threat of violence had only ever been implied, never acted upon. Sure, the little ones suffered a few bruises now and then, but even the most unpleasant and heavy-handed of instructors failed to actually strike any of them. Punishment took the form of push-ups, demanding runs, impossible endurance tests, fresher duty, and other tedious cleaning tasks - anything to drain the recruit of strength and deprive them of time, while expecting them to deliver on all of their other duties as normal. It was relentless and hard; a whetstone for the mind, body, and soul. And if a recruit failed to become sharp, they broke.

A few feet away, Nebbil was broken. And behind his torturer, many nervous glances took flight between the other cadets. Cadet Thida’s healthy shade of green had turned the colour of dead grass. It looked to Jeryd like she was just about holding onto her lunch. Indeed, Matatek Sel Vissica was a name they would not soon forget.

The fifth blow fell.

It was no drill sergeant, that much was certain. And that no rank had been thus far mentioned, left Jeryd intensely curious about this Matatek Sel Vissica creature, and the position it held within the Citadel. Whatever it was, clearly, it was not the sort of creature to repeat itself. The example being made of Nebbil was sudden, brutal, and efficient; it served as a poetic reflection of Imperial justice in action. He couldn’t hate it. But he could hate Nebbil instead. The idiot. In his ignorance, he’d brought this upon himself; Jeryd had even questioned his readiness. Was it his responsibility to spell out each of his shortcomings, too? Was he expected to polish his boots for him? And to make his bed, and wipe his arse? No. He would not lose sleep over his wretched pain.

The lesson concluded with a heavy crack, and a whimper.

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

By the time Vissica was finished with Nebbil, the disobedient cadet was spent by pain. He lay on the deck, a moaning and blubbering mess. His cadet whites had been besmirched by uncomfortably-distinct marks left behind by the sole of his boot. Even the bare skin of a forearm that had raised to protect himself had a series of trapezoidal patterns welted up in rouge.

Vissica raised back to her full height, dropping the second shoe in front of the puffy-eyed human teenager.

"Thank you for your demonstration, Cadet. You may put on your boots and return to attention."

As Nebbil struggled with the task, Vissica glanced casually over him, settling her attention on the Rodian.

"Cadet Thida. Can you tell me what the total distance is around the Imperial Citadel grounds?"

If the Rodian's eyes could have gawked any more they might have squeezed out of her head. "Sir, I..."

Her proboscis tightened in doubt, the lingering effects of fear redoubling in her mind, "...don't know, sir!"

"I thought not." Vissica dismissively sniffed, pivoting her flexible frame around to survey the other cadets. "Can anyone educate their comrade?"

[Jeryd Redsun]

Eyes front, Jeryd listened to the words of Matatek Sel Vissica, and found himself torn in two. While a part him admired the cool dispassion with which it concluded the grisly business with Nebbil - the demeanor that was as much the attire of an Imperial officer as the uniform itself - there was another part of him that was repulsed by it, and his admiration. That part he kept restrained and contained within the maximum detention block of his mind. And so he found himself sandwiched, on one side, a soundtrack of pitiful groans, and on the other, a wall of tension dense enough to blunt vibroblades. He did not envy Thida her unfortunate position.

Eyes front, he told himself. Eyes front.

And, even as Cadet Thida's bewilderment became his own, he dared not deviate his gaze. The circumference of the Citadel had to be at least 4 kilometers, but Matatek Sel Vissica did not sound interested in estimates. And something told him that was entirely the point. There was silence throughout the dorm.

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

Jeryd's battle of wills over his eyes was a success. So much so that he didn't register the Selonian again until she crossed into his tunnel vision, squaring her attention on him directly.

"Your thoughts betray you, Cadet. In the absence of an answer, a guess shall do."

[Jeryd Redsun]

Just like that, everything changed.

"Sir..."

Jeryd couldn't remember the last time he fumbled a response to a superior officer. Seconds stretched out like light years, vanishing sense and reason beyond his reach. Where, once, his resolve had been a lake of tranquil ice water, it boiled and churned like an ocean in a storm.

His thoughts betrayed him. It was a revelation that was as chilling as it was perverse. And suddenly, in the presence of this hulking alien, he felt as naked as a newborn baby. In a mad scramble to find the words to save him from his moment of uncertainty, he arrived at a crushing realisation: there was nothing he could hide. Not anymore.

Eye contact. It pierced him like cold steel and drew from him an involuntary breath that had to be acted upon.

"Sir, the cadet believes the distance is at least four kilometers, sir!"

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

Vissica responded to Jeryd's answer by simply raising her whiskers.

"We shall see."

The Selonian drew a small slip of metal from one of the utility containers at the base of her armor vest. She held it up for Redsun to inspect.

"You are the only cadet in this class with prior military training. You are familiar with this item?"

It was largely a rhetorical question. Even without a crash course in military matters, a savvy few might know what a tracking beacon looked like. Vissica took three lengthy strides back to Cadet Thida, stooping her lithe figure down to fix the beacon into the Rodian's boot laces.

"Cadet Thida's carelessness has made her a fitting candidate to test Cadet Redsun's estimate."

It must have seemed like mercy to have escaped the Selonian's ire. Thida stood a little taller at attention. "Sir, yes sir!"

Vissica's eyes narrowed on the troublemaker slightly. "Complete the circuit twice, to make certain the measurement is correct."

A heavier burden, but still tolerable. Thida again affirmed "Sir, yes sir!"

The Selonian marched back to the door, slapping the control to open. As the doors slid apart, she barked out "Cadet Khoovi!"

[Khoovi Wan]

"Yes ma'am!" a squeaky voice yipped from outside. A tiny little Shistavanen appeared. "Orders?"

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

"Cadet Thida will be running two circuits of the Citadel grounds. Make certain that she keeps a brisk pace."

There was some level of unsaid threat to Vissica's order, and she left it up to the Shistavanen on how best to establish compliance.

"The rest of you..." The Selonian slinked back 180 degrees, baring her teeth slightly.

"...you all owe me one circuit."

[Jeryd Redsun]

When Matatek Sel Vissica gave the order, Jeryd gave an imperceptible nod. He had expected as much. In fact, had it been a flyball, he'd have sent that thing soaring into the stands. To be reduced to the scrub grind of basic training all over again was bad enough, but to be forced to suffer the indignity alongside the misfit detritus of the Empire was downright insulting. Make it count, he thought, recalling Captain Fisk's words. He had a feeling he was going to be calling on the captain's advice a great many times.

Though his were the first boots off the ground, Jeryd found himself caught in the congested shuffle of cadets filing out of the dorm. He dared not make eye contact with the towering beast on his way out, and cemented his thoughts to the task at hand lest something damning be pried from his mind. Up ahead, he saw Cadet Khoovi, beckoning Thida to her side. At least it sounded like a 'she,' and it certainly had the physique of little girl. A furry little girl. Jeryd Redsun, son of Captain Weximan Redsun: outranked by a prepubescent pup.

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

In a scant twenty minutes, the Cadets returned to their bunk, save for Thida, who was still being doggedly shadowed by Khoovi to keep her honest. The group completed the run in more or less a cohesive formation, save for the hapless Cadet Nebbil, who struggled to stay with the pack despite his aching welts. To their credit, the Cadets managed a brisk pace, running hard enough to show the slightest darkening of perspiration at the smalls of their backs and in their armpits.

"Stand to attention!" Vissica snapped, and the Cadets returned to their previous statuesque poses. The only matter that betrayed that calm was the rising and falling of chests and the audible sounds of breathing. The Selonian spent a minute examining each of her charges, then with a thump of her tail, called "Dismissed."

The Cadets fell out of line, and Nebbil finally gave himself a moment to massage his tender bruises. Knight Vissica headed for the door of the barracks, pausing at it's threshold.

"Cadet Redsun, come with me."

[Jeryd Redsun]

The thought of a good sonic shower was deflated at the mention of his name. For an entire heartbeat, Jeryd froze, with a fresh jumpsuit in his hand, before the survival instincts kicked in. The jumpsuit was racked and he fell into a steady jog to catch Vissica - Lady Vissica, he reminded himself, recalling Khoovi's yelp of "Yes, ma'am!" - before she was out the door. On the way, he caught looks from the other cadets, who failed to transform their nervous glances into something encouraging. He couldn't blame them: this was unknown terriroty, even for him.

Once outside, he fell into step behind her, and followed as ordered.

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

"At ease..." The Selonian rumbled as they walked clear of the barracks. Vissica turned, a two-stage action lead by her upper torso pivoting to face as her legs beneath shifted their weight to turn a moment later.

"I reviewed your file, Cadet. Of all the potentials here, you are the only one with formal training in the Imperial military."

Vissica's array of whiskers raised.

"This all must seem familiar to you."

[Jeryd Redsun]

With some difficulty, Jeryd allowed his posture to deflate, clasping his hands behind his back. Relaxing in the presence of Matatek Sel Vissica was like trying to sleep on a tightrope. And it didn't help that she moved in way that was so unmistakably alien to him, with the unpredictable twisting and turning of torso and limbs alike. But, of all her unique qualities, none was more overwhelming than her breath: it had the fetid stench of decay that transported Jeryd back to Lorthal, where the abandoned fishing ports seethed in the summer heat. His one and only excursion into the Outer Rim Territories. Every breath, the stench seemed to congeal, coating the inside of his throat in a rotten deathly paste. His stomach turned in protest.

"Yes, ma'am," he said, in response to her statement. The caveats went unspoken, for it was no secret that the Imperial Citadel surpassed all academies in terms of grandeur and prestige, and also, by a significant margin, in its quota of aliens. And, considering his present company, it was a distinction he was not keen to highlight.

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

His affirmative reply to Vissica's question elicited only a rumble in the Selonian's chest and a nod of her head. Her broad nose seemed to wrinkle, as if winding something only she could discern.

"You are angry. A useful emotion when controlled."

Straightening her posture, Vissica's eyes narrowed slightly.

"I suspect that anger is not something so simple as returning to a training environment."

[Jeryd Redsun]

"...No, ma'am."

A creeping cold climbed the back of Jeryd's neck. Propriety afforded him a certain degree of protection from this probing; he wouldn't lie, nor did he have to elaborate unless specifically asked. Yet, under Lady Vissica's gaze, he could feel his defences peeling away, one by one.

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

"Nothing so simple."

Vissica's eyes squeezed closed.

"No, your anger is concentrated on your comrades."

The Selonian's eyes opened again.

"On yourself."

[Jeryd Redsun]

Though he was supposed to be standing at ease, Jeryd stiffened. In more ways than one, Lady Vissica had him backed into a corner, and, with each new deduction, robbed him of another escape route. The cold was replaced by a prickling heat, that climbed his neck in angry pink blotches. Against his will, he was having his own secrets unearthed, and presented to him for inspection like the unsightly carcass of some wretched animal.

Yes, he was angry. The life that was rightfully his, earned through hard work and determination, had been torn away from him in an instant. Replaced by something shameful and grotesque. He was branded a freak, and found himself surrounded by those he had been taught to hate. The callous sort that invaded the private thoughts of decent people and used them against them. And, worst of all, he was now one of them.

Stripped of his illusions, Jeryd’s anger crystallised into something hard, and sharp. Something so tangible, he felt he could surely drive it through the armour of this great beast and pierce her black heart. And, despite all this, what he actually did was simply reply:

“Yes, ma’am.”

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

The anger Vissica felt slowly uncurled from it's center, like the budding of a scornful flower. The Selonian's ermine eyes peered over Jeryd's face in all of it's minute detail. He had an exceptional control over the tempest inside, at least so far that it didn't betray him outwardly.

"I need not remind you of your oaths. I sense you are a man who understands how to keep them. Swearing fealty to the Empress, offering your service - your life, if necessary."

Lady Vissica drew in a long breath, letting it go in measured release.

"Pride, like anger, can be useful when applied correctly, Cadet. It can push you onward when you may otherwise quit."

She stiffened, her array of whiskers bristling.

"But pride can lead to arrogance. You should learn to appreciate the difference. You've given yourself in service to the Empire. How you are best put to use is no longer your say."

[Jeryd Redsun]

When Lady Vissica spoke of his oaths; when she spoke of the Empress, and of the ultimate privilege – to die in service of the Empire – Jeryd became rigid, supercharged, as if an electric current had shot right through him. The words fell on his ears like sonnets, they filled his head with sweet perfume, and took root deep in his heart, where they blossomed like so many velvet roses. With the romance of it all, his chest swelled so much it could burst. These were not the words he wanted to hear, but the ones that he needed to hear.

The scalding cauldrons of anger, that in the last twenty-four hours had bubbled and frothed to overflowing, now hissed under the downpour of Vissica’s cool reprimand. What you want is irrelevant. That was what Captain Fisk had said, and here was this monstrous alien echoing his hard words. How arrogant it had been to put himself, and his own petty complaints, before the will of the Empire. This was to be his calling, whether he liked it or not. All that was left to ask of him was to do his best. To make it count.

“Yes, ma’am,” came the oft repeated phrase, and then, boldly, and brimming with zeal, he said, “I will serve the Empire to my fullest.”

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

At the cadet's response of "Yes ma'am", Vissica took a step with the aim of leaving the matter settled. Jeryd's zeal prompted more words, however, and the Selonian stayed her departure, standing just to Redsun's left. She weighed his declaration momentarily, mouth parted slightly to reveal her forked lower canine teeth.

"Yes. I know you will."

Vissica pushed past the Cadet, leaving him in her wake.

"There are no other alternatives."

[Jeryd Redsun]

He watched her leave down the corridor, eclipsing all light with her massive frame. Not a thought or a breath would betray him in this moment of reprieve. Instead, he remembered her words, and held close all the feelings they had stirred within him. They were the same feelings he had felt in the presence of great men, like Captain Fisk. Matatek Sel Vissica was no Oram Fisk, but she understood, as he did, the significance of loyalty, and of duty, and service. These were values that were to define his career in the Imperial military, in whatever shape it took. And, if the Empire wanted him to be something else, the change would have to come from him, and it would start with a bloody good wash.

####

What sonic showers lacked in luxury, they made up for in utility. Less than three minutes had passed since Jeryd stepped into the dark grey cubicle, slick with sweat, and wearing the grime of a hot afternoon like a second skin. The generators climbed the walls in three columns, and their discs throbbed, making the very air come alive around him. He turned slowly on the spot, like a roasting nuna, while ultrasonic vibrations ran in waves over his skin, sloughing away the foulness. If he closed his eyes and listened, he could very well have been in the presence of a giant purring cat. It was a small measure of bliss to claim in the absence of hot water, and it was over all too soon. When he stepped out, he felt a degree of cleanliness that surely went down to the molecular level.

He quickly changed into a fresh jumpsuit, avoiding eye contact, ignoring conversation. What snippets managed to slip through his filter were invariably petty complaints of sore feet and aching legs; they were all as soft as cookie dough. Not one of them appeared to take satisfaction in the warm afterglow of a good run; his muscles were sated, and drunk with fatigue. It was about the only thing he had left in the face of all that was different. His crisp jumpsuit, though tight and uncomfortable in its newness, was a joy to wear compared to the stiff and itchy sacks everyone wore at the academy. And that was just the beginning: everything about the Citadel was superior, from its impossibly smooth floors, to its ornate vaulted ceilings; the dorms boasted views to make senators green with envy, while the bronzium statues were fit for palaces, not military grounds. Of course, the Citadel had not always been a military facility. Indeed, the Citadel had not always been the Citadel. That was when his awe turned to ashes.

Thereafter, every sight became an ugly extravagance. And, as much as he wanted to avert his gaze, it would not do to be seen head-drooped, dragging his feet around a place of admirals and generals. He carried himself with the pride of a soldier wherever he went, titles be damned, and, at present, he was on his way to the mess hall for perhaps another slice of normality, or something equally appetizing. Lines from a mental map unfolded, leading him first to the end of the long line of dorms, then left, and then the second right to a turbolift; one floor down was where the mess hall would be. The moment the doors opened, he was greeted by the indistinct smell of hot food that filled him up like tibanna gas. He drove on with purpose in his stride, cutting a line through the milling crowd until he reached his destination.

It wasn’t so much a mess hall as it was a mess city. In terms of proportion, it had more in common with the immense hangars of Star Destroyers - not that he’d ever seen one himself, of course, just the pictures - except, instead of shuttles and rows of starfighters, the mess hall was populated by an endless sea of tables and rowdy cadets. Service stations, chaotic with the bustle of hungry crowds, were dotted at regular intervals around the hall, vanishing into the distance. Jeryd looked up, and marveled to see an entire second floor that wrapped around the outskirts of the room, full of tables of officers in uniform. That was smart: close enough to keep the cadets in line, but far enough to remind them of their place. Against his will, he pictured himself looking down on the surge of bodies, disemboweling clawclams in his finest officer greens. And then, dashing his daydream, he dismissed the lording officers with a scowl.

At the nearest service station, the queue was 42 people long. He knew this because he had the time to count, and there wasn’t much else to do besides wait, and attempt to ignore the all-encompassing din. The service station was manned by droids and cadets alike - Jeryd assumed there was a rotation in place and that it would, one day, be his turn to don the unsightly white apron - their faces glistened from the heat and pace of the work, and their once-white aprons were painted with the contents of the myriad steaming and bubbling vats. Beyond the front lines, there were many more busying themselves about the kitchen, cadet and droid alike, side by side, slaving over hot stoves and pans. It was all very familiar, except for the ridiculous scale of it all.

Halfway along, a voice caught his attention. It belonged to an older cadet, with a long face and slick black hair. He was talking to a shorter, broader boy with beady eyes and a face full of teeth.

“Did you hear? Lady Vissica inspected the new blood today.”

“Oh, skrag, son. New blood is right.”

“Nah. They got off light with a few laps of the Citadel. Although, one kid did look a little busted up,” he added, thoughtfully.

“Seems like Darth Otter’s losing her touch.” The note of disappointment in the cadet’s voice was unmistakable. But he soon brightened up, “Hey, remember when she punched that Chiss boy so hard he crapped blue for a week.”

“No. I wasn’t there, Choffer. And neither were you.”

“Yeah, but I heard-”

“And Chiss don’t bleed blue, they bleed red like the rest of us.”

“Nonsense, chap. You’ve been spending too much time with those limp-dicked multiculture pals from Team Green. Where do you think the expression ‘As rich as a blue-blood’ comes from?”

“That’s the aristocracy, you anus wart.”

The exchange of insults came thick and fast; he’d heard enough. By the time he arrived at the service station itself, Jeryd was so hungry, he could eat a bantha. With a metal dinner tray in hand, he shuffled with the rest of them, lusting after the cruelly-lidded containers, each bathed in a warm golden light. His imagination ran wild, grasping at all the possibilities. But it wasn’t until he reached the end of the queue, and finally caught a glimpse of the menu, that he realized the extent of his good fortune. The droid, however, was unmoved by his smile.

“Next.”

“Yes,” he said, and with the gentle manners of a school boy, pointed out each of his choices, “Can I have the steak and dumpling stew, with a big old chunk of bread, and a side of Wookiee peas, please?”

The droid responded with a vacant blink of photoreceptors, before one of its long spindly arms reached out and snatched away his dinner tray. He studied the efficient work of the service crew with satisfaction; his tray was passed from droid to cadet, to droid, to cadet, and back again, filling up in no time. Once it was returned, he gave it a once over, to ensure everything was in order. In the middle of the tray, there was a pool of milky water, and in the groove beside it, a sachet of brown powder; an inch-high cube of what looked like dry sand sat at the back of the tray, while a thumb-sized tacky white ball rested in the neighbouring compartment, and finally, to the left of the tray, a long trough of smooth green cream. His inspection done, Jeryd turned his gaze on the droid.

“Excellent,” he smiled, “Thank you very much.”

On his journey through the labyrinth of packed tables, he noticed a pattern emerging: the heart of the mess hall was occupied by the older, more experienced cadets, whose jumpsuits bore the crests of their assigned teams - team loyalty was evident in their congregations, but what surprised him most was that these groups were mixed, with aliens and humans sitting shoulder to shoulder at the dinner table - it was completely unheard of; while the older cadets were exemplary in their behaviour, there was a boisterous brood of younger cadets who had been around long enough to exhibit confidence, but too briefly to know better; on the outskirts of the mess hall were the greenest recruits, huddled in quiet segregated groups of humans and aliens, trying not to be noticed. For once, it was a sentiment Jeryd shared.

After a minute of walking, the crowds thinned, and he found the cadets from his dorm. He was spotted by Kass Pheridae, she was made unmistakable by the frizzy ginger hair that she had wrestled into a pony tail, and by her considerable height. For a girl. She stood so she could move along the bench and make room for him, presumably because she thought he wanted to sit with them. She was ignored. So, too, was Cadet Thida and the Duros boy, who he thought was called Tolomy Pash, but he couldn’t be sure. They shared a table with another Rodian, and an alien with red eyes and tentacle hair, but neither of them seemed to notice the other. And they were dutiful in their ignorance of him, too, for which he was grateful. And yet, when he turned his back, he could almost feel their eyes on him. A feeling he hoped was just healthy paranoia, and nothing... unnatural.

Finally, he arrived at a table that was blissfully empty. An island in the storm. He sat, considered his dinner tray for a moment, then clasped his hands. Eyes closed, he muttered, “Gloria Imperium.”

[Halajiin Rabeak]

Study datapads lay on the desk in Halajiin Rabeak's private living quarters, much as Halajiin Rabeak lay flopped out in his fur on his bed, snoring lightly. The Nehantite's day had been a busy one, with morning classes and early afternoon exercise and training sessions which had been cut off early as some of the knights were needed to inspect the new arrivals. That meant an afternoon study period for most about the basics of the Force, and a nap for Hal in a room which much resembled his old one back when the Citadel was known as the Jedi Temple, and Hal carried the rank of Jedi Knight.

Now he found himself alone, all remnants of the Jedi gone from the Citadel except what remained under lock and key, while the Empire used the Force to train and brainwash super-soldiers for its own twisted cause, while the uniform jumpsuit of an Imperial Knight Cadet hung in his closet. Oh, if only the Empire knew who he was behind his veneer of Kyle Rayner.

The beep of his alarm clock signaled that it was coming up on dinner time, and it was with a lazy flailing of arms and legs that sheets were flung back, and Hal hauled himself out of bed to stand in the sunlight at his massive window wall, allowing it to sink into all of his bared fur. Sure, he might get an indecency complaint from a passing speeder driver, but it was their fault for looking, wasn't it? A good stretch and yawn, then it was off to his own private sonic shower in his en suite refresher. Kyle Rayner was truly the envy of the cadets as he had his own private room, even if it was jam-packed with cameras and monitoring equipment.

What took three minutes for humans took nearly six for furred species, and the Nehantite was no exception, especially as he felt the need to give his fur a good brushing to alleviate the static charge buildup his yellow pelt held after each go in the sonic shower. A pair of snug, lycra undershorts next, then his jumpsuit, Hal inspected himself in the mirror. It fit well enough, despite being a little tight in the crotch, and he had to admit its black and white color scheme really set off his fur. Giving himself a playful smile, Hal parted ways with his reflection to tug on his boots and head down to the mess hall for some chow. Months of meal cubes only had been brought to an end by the introduction of dehydrated food powders, and for once he actually looked forward to a meal. Sort of.

When he had arrived several months earlier, the number if Imperial Knight Cadets was fairly easy to keep track of, but since then two more waves had arrived, and now another truly massive one had joined the ranks of the IKC, who began to pose a threat to the number of standard, non-Force-adept Empire Cadets, officers, and special agency operatives who shared the Citadel as their home and base of operations.

Known to all of them by his alias of Kyle Rayner, Hal stood out like a sore thumb, but as more aliens had come into the fold he found himself growing more comfortable. Dinner would be nerf lasagna, with sides of some blue carrot thing and salad, and a glass of protein mineral vitamin drink which looked like brown muck, yet tasted like strawberries that weren't entirely ripe.

The simple thought of a dinner that wasn't meal cubes brought a smile to his face, though it vanished as he saw some new punk had taken a seat at his table.

His table.

Months of "Be careful, he's a Jedi," and "I think he might be an Empire mole," had left the character of Kyle Rayner on the outside of most cadets' circles, but he'd also proven himself in combat and knowledge, even helping to protect the Empress's boy-toy in that big mess on Pallaxides, and standing by her side in a historic meeting with the Alliance afterward. One of the adhesive sutures still remained above Hal's left eye from that mission, where a scar had mostly healed over thanks to plenty of topical bacta.

With great stealth, Hal set his tray down whilst his table-mate said his little prayer, and by the time the human could look up, Hal was seated across from him, stirring his powder and liquid sauce into something that started to reconstitute into a food-like substance.

"You must be one of the new class, huh?" Hal said, totally nonchalant. "They tell you about the Jedi guy here, yet?"

[Jeryd Redsun]

The appearance of some sort of dog alien took Jeryd by surprise. He stiffened just enough to correct his posture, and compose himself in the presence of an unwelcome stranger. The way he was so casual put him on edge, it reminded him of the way a predator stills itself before the deadly pounce. Luckily for him, he was no fat docile grazer, waiting to become manka cat food, nor was he some gullible greenhorn about to make himself the butt of some half-wit’s prank. He afforded the yellow-furred guy all of a second’s worth of a mirthless glance.

“Yeah. Good one.”

The sachet of brown powder was torn open, first; a beak was made of two fingers and a thumb, it dipped into the bowl of milky water, lifted, and flicked a few drops on the tacky white ball; the powder was poured into the water in one circular motion, and the sandy cube was dropped into the centre of it. For a moment, nothing. Then, the tacky ball started to grow, pulling fibres into bulbous tumours that browned at the edges, it stretched, transforming the close glutinous texture into a husk of light fluffy bread that was as big as two fists. The milky water bubbled and turned dark, it thickened as shapes rose to the surface, drinking up the remaining moisture, until it resembled a hearty vegetable stew. And sat proudly in the middle, a huge steaming steak dumpling.

Not another second was wasted. When Jeryd cut into the dumpling, gravy oozed out of the side, and with it, he swept up a mouthful of stew and shovelled it into his mouth. If this joker thought he was going to humour his rubbish about Jedi in the Imperial Citadel, he was sorely mistaken.

[Halajiin Rabeak]

On his own tray, Hal's lasagne grew and morphed into a rather unhealthy looking mess as he'd overstirred, causing layers of pasta to merge with the swelling bits of ground nerf, and it's overall structure to lean heavily to one side. At least his salad was fresh, and so he jabbed a fork into it while shrugging his shoulders and carrying on.


"Yeah, not kidding. One of the older cadets here was trained by a Jedi. They caught him on Phindarr. What I heard is that he took down nearly a squad of TIE fighters before the ISD overhead took him to ground, and then it took several platoons, some heavy armor, and both Lady Vissica and Lady Palara to actually catch him." Hal rattled off his own story with ease, though a hint of self-skepticism thrown in for good measure. "They say he's committed to the Knights now, though. I'll tell you what, I wouldn't want to get on the bad side of a Jedi. Who knows what weird and dirty tricks they know. Just thought I'd fill you in since you're new here and all."


With that he set about tucking into his meal, able to fit massive forkfuls of salad and lasagna into his animalistic mouth, though he left the blue carrots alone after a quick taste revealed they were positively nasty.

[Jeryd Redsun]

While the furball ran his mouth, Jeryd hunkered over his food, and attacked with strokes of surgical precision. A dig here, a mound of stew; a slash there, a knife’s edge of peas; he ripped chunks from his bread, and mopped the edges, and washed it all down with an upended tumbler. Still, he was talking. Prattling on about some Jedi, who apparently walked amongst them, and was a force to be reckoned with. What a first class laser brain.

“Listen up, story corner, keep your gossip to yourself. I don’t give a crap about the big bad Jedi that’s lurking under your bed. Get me?”

As if to draw a line under the whole stupid thing, he stabbed a piece of dumpling into his mouth with murderous intent. In burning his tongue, he had at least denied himself the temptation to breath anymore life into such unworthy hearsay. And, to think, when he woke up, yesterday, he'd discussed top-secret postings with Dodge, AT-AT piloting, over breakfast with Bosh, and, while he was buffing boots with Muldoon, they’d talked about the eager girls of Commenor, and all the things that made their knees weak. Normal things. Good, wholesome Imperial things. Not rumours of evil space wizards. Was this to be his life now?

[Halajiin Rabeak]

"Oh, I get ya," Hal shrugged. "I just heard you and your class got to go run laps this morning. Mine didn't have to. Mostly because we didn't fuck up by not knowing the answers to things. But, hey, fine, you obviously don't need any advice from someone who's been here for a while."

His fork cut away a section of his strange lasagna-esque foodpile, and he contemplated it for a moment. It wouldn't do for this new little snot to know Hal had to do fifty push-ups on his first day, so he kept that to himself while working at that next forkful.

[Jeryd Redsun]

“You don’t know the first thing about me.”

The words tumbled out before he could put a leash on them. It was a knee-jerk response, fuelled by pride, and defiance. He retreated a few inches, straightening up in his chair, and pulled his gaze away from his antagonist. And what? If some lippy dog alien could boast about not having to run a circuit around the Citadel, then he, Jeryd Redsun, had every reason to be proud. His father was a captain, and his grandfather had been a major. Hells, even Aryn was a frakking junior lieutenant. Loyalty, service, strength - these were the foundations upon which the Redsun family was built. He was a true son of the Empire, not some alien tourist got lucky because he could float rocks.

In the space between crowded tables, he saw the bobbing of a familiar nest of curls. From under it, appeared Nebbil, drinking in his surroundings with moons for eyes. Jeryd tensed as his gaze swept over him. For a second, it looked like the scrawny greenhorn was going to join the others, but instead, he found himself caught in his owlish glare. When that freckled face brightened with the light of recognition, he felt a stab of ice to the gut, and watched as he zig-zagged in their direction. By the time he was upon them, there were death threats in Jeryd’s eyes. All it took to stop the little twerp in his tracks, was a subtle shake of the head. Again, Nebbil backtracked, and slunk off to sit with Kass Pheridae. Perhaps, this time, the message had been received loud and clear.

Safe, Jeryd sank back into his dinner.

[Halajiin Rabeak]

Oh, but I know so much about you already. Hal's mind gloated inside. You're a little self-important brat, too good to associate with others. Must be upper-class, or from a distinguished military family. Probably both. You want to stand out on your own, which is why you avoided everyone else to come sit at the empty table, and then you were miffed when you couldn't get your stoic mealtime silence. You pretend not to be worried that there's something here beyond your understanding or control, and you disregard advice given to you, which means you think you know everything already. In less than two weeks I could get you to break down in tears, if I wanted to. You're so easy to read that you're less an open book than a single-sided pamphlet.

Dozens of biting comments played upon Hal's tongue, which had been made sharp by years of snide remarks and stinging retorts, but just as one readied itself from his magazine of smack, a new and even better opportunity presented itself.

"You're wrong, I do know the first thing about you. I know that's your new classmate," Hal grinned. "Why doesn't he come join us?"

The Nehantite gave neither time or opportunity for Jeryd to object before he stood, nodding to Nebbil and waved him on over. If Jeryd intended to ever lie or perform any act of deception whatsoever, the kid desperately needed lessons in hiding his facial expressions. The fact that Nebbil had been greeted with a glare of intolerant arrogance had opened new doors through which Hal could further read the new recruit.

[Jeryd Redsun]

When the dog alien beckoned Nebbil over, time slowed. Jeryd watched, helpless, as the curly-haired cadet turned a finger on himself, and mouthed the inevitable ‘Me?’ A half-cocked eyebrow leapt, lifting him out of his seat. There was a stiffness in the way he moved, and his walk had been reduced to a sort of lopsided shuffle from the burden of six lashes and a five kilometer run. He folded himself onto the bench beside Jeryd, groaning like an old woman.

“Hello, gents,” he sighed. Jeryd noticed he had eyes only for his new furry chum, which meant that he was not completely stupid. Somehow, from under the shadow of the beatings and humiliation, Nebbil surfaced, as bright as a new day. First came the pleasantries, “Nebbil Hoob.”

A pink and eager hand sprang out across the table.

[Halajiin Rabeak]

Hal slid forward on his seat, paw extended to take the offered hand in a firm and gregarious shake. "Kyle Rayner," he replied. His pearly-white, animalistic teeth were on full display in his smile, glistening almost as much as the hair oil in his impeccably-combed headfur.

So this was the problem child of the new batch. It was easy enough to surmise from the bruises, limp and exhaustion, but what sealed the deal was Jeryd's complete and utter ignoring of the newcomer once he sat down. Hal couldn't believe his luck - the troublemaker and the uppity snot of the group, both at his table. This was going to be fantastic.

His reconstituted lasagna momentarily forgotten, Hal studied the contrast between the two boys, and it couldn't have been wider unless one of them had been of a different gender. Everything about Jeryd spoke of ambition, self-disipline and conviction, while Nebbil looked more like he had accidentally shown up here instead of at the comic books and candy store. Hal was going to like Nebbil, he was sure of it. "I was just talking to your classmate, here, Nebbil. But I'm rather curious: how'd you two wind up in the program? Everyone has their own reasons for joining the Imperial Knights, after all. As for me, well, the opportunity to become the first Nehantite in the Knights was one that I just couldn't be allowed to pass up."

Couldn't be allowed because if you'd resisted, you'd be dead. His brain muttered inside his own head.

Oh, shut up. They don't have to know that. His base natures grumbled.

[Jeryd Redsun]

“You’re also the first Nehantite I’ve ever met,” Nebbil confessed, “It’s funny. I expected you to have a really exotic accent, but you sound just like everyone else.”

He spooned up some stew and started blowing on it. The faint whistle of his teeth was annoying, but it did little to disguise the long silence filling the space between them. And, despite his own grim determination to distance himself from the friendly exchange, Jeryd gave Nebbil the most fleeting of looks. He was still blowing, still staring at the thick heap on his spoon. It was strange. No stew was that interesting. At last, Kyle cleared his throat.

“Fine.” With some reluctance, Nebbil lifted his gaze, “I used to valet for a hotel near the Hanna Wild Game Reserve. It was all fancy types. Big business, mostly. Conferences, safari trips… some even thought of themselves as big game hunters, and turned up dressed like army commandos.”

In place of the hesitancy, there was mischief. Nebbil smiled with his mouth closed, as if there were secrets hidden on the other side. “Some were real buttholes. And all buttholes were lousy tippers. So, I… helped myself.”

For such a weedy kid, when Nebbil snapped his fingers, they really snapped. It was like the resounding crack of dry wood. Jeryd stared at the space above the table where Nebbil’s hand had been, wondering what exactly had possessed him to do such a thing. It wasn’t until he returned to his meal that he found out. In his left hand, where once there had been a fork, there was a knife. And in his right hand, the knife had been replaced with the fork. Once his brain caught up, the utensils were swapped with an angry clatter. Twisting to confront his amused neighbour, Jeryd brandished the knife with menace, “Don’t… ever do that to me again!”

Before Nebbil could respond, he returned his attention to his dinner tray, and slid it, and himself, a whole arm’s distance away down the bench. After an awkward beat of silence, the conversation resumed without him.

“Of course, they caught me in the end. I’m not proud of it, but times were hard. Besides, it’s not like they couldn’t afford it.”

[Halajiin Rabeak]

Were Hal free to be Hal, he knew he'd be slacking off and not paying a lot of attention during a meal, and the quick, yet effective mind-trick Nebbil pulled - complete with hand-wave - would have surely caused Hal to swap his own flatware. But the precarious nature of his false persona and continuous deception necessitated the Nehantite be on highest alert at all times, and so he simply watched and laughed as Jeryd did exactly as he was instructed. A mind-trick was no small feat, especially for a youth who had apparently learned it on his own. Nebbil would be one to watch out for in the future, should he get training to hone, perfect and amplify his basic technique into something truly impressive.

"Easy with the knife, there, Prep School," Hal reached out and pressed the blade down with two fingers. "That was a good trick, Nebbil. I've only seen a handful of newcomers who are able to control a Force ability that well on their first day."

His fork returned to the mess that was his meal, and he worked on putting away another bite, barely needing to chew before washing it down with what passed for a drink. "I went to a game reserve not too long ago, on a mission. It was me, Khoovi, Lady Vissica, and a platoon of Stormtroopers. Protected the Empress's suitor from an attack by some deranged dark-sider. That's where I got this," he tapped at his duty ribbon. "And this," he then pointed to the mostly-healed scar over his eye. Another week or so of bacta treatment and it should disappear entirely.

[Jeryd Redsun]

“The Empress’s suitor?” Nebbil’s peaked eyebrows crashed with a nod of approval, “Damn! They sure know how to upscale your responsibilities around here, huh?”

By this point in time, Jeryd had discovered that Nebbil Hoob was either easily impressed or eager to please. In all likelihood, he decided, it was a combination of both. For his part, he had no interest in fanning the flames of Kyle’s ego, so he held his tongue. He’d met his sort before: full of nothing but tales that none-too-subtly hinted at the list of achievements they couldn’t wait to bore you about. Sometimes it was wealth, sometimes status, sometimes it was women, but, whatever it was, guys like Kyle Rayner always had a story to tell. And, when the first words to spill out of a person’s mouth were nothing but idle gossip, it told him to take their words with more than just a pinch of salt.

So he kept his head down, and soldiered on through the rest of his meal. And that, in itself, was no small feat anymore. Nebbil’s trickery had put him on edge. When he thought of himself carrying out his commands against his will, his stomach turned. It wasn’t right. He was strong, he was smart, he was disciplined, and yet, he danced to this scrawny kid’s tune all the same. The shame of it painted his face pink, and his knuckles were coloured by a white hot flash of anger. Why couldn’t he just be left alone?

“...seen a lot of action, then,” he was still talking, and, sensing he was about to touch on something sensitive, his voice suddenly became low, “What’s a dark-sider?”

[Halajiin Rabeak]

Hal's left eyebrow went up as his fork paused halfway to his open mouth. "You... don't know what a dark-sider is?" he asked. The question was pointless, as it only verified Nebbil's lack of understanding, so Hal moved on, his fork being set down as it was education time, not mealtime.

"The Force is a living thing, and its what we here in the Imperial Knights Cadet program are here to learn how to master," he began. "It's a form of energy we can tap into in order to do amazing things. Like you, Nebbil, with what's known as a 'mind trick.' That's from the light side of the Force, and was a common Jedi skill. The Jedi used the light side, which can heal, inspire, create and defend. The light side is the side of good, and typically one of selflessness, respecting the will of the Force, though there are always times you can simply use it to save your butt. The dark side is one of chaos, harm, destruction and deception. That's the side that the Sith used, and it can be devastatingly powerful, but also can harm yourself in the process as it eats away at your body, mind and soul as it wishes to control you, instead of allowing you to co-opt its abilities and work within its will. You could say that both sides are inherently flawed, as they're unbalanced. Personally, I prefer the light side because there's less drawbacks, and quite frankly I don't like to hurt people unless I absolutely have to. Here in the Knights, however, we rather run a line down the middle of light and dark. Some call it grey, but I just call it being a Knight. We're here to keep peace and order, so normal people can live safe, normal lives. Some think of us as living weapons, but I like to think of us as how the Jedi used to be long ago: selfless peacekeepers. This whole facility used to be the great Jedi temple, if you didn't know."

[Jeryd Redsun]

“You sound rather taken with these Jedi Knights, Rayner.”

As he spoke, no effort was made to make eye contact with the alien cadet. Nehantite, was it? Whatever that was. Instead, he allowed his remark to drift down to earth under the weight of its implications. Once he was satisfied the point had sunk in, Jeryd turned to Nebbil, and spoke in an undertone, “The Jedi are nothing but traitors. You’d do well to remember that.”

“Oh, I know. My grandpa told me all about the Jedi, and how they tried to assassinate the Chancellor, and take control of the Republic.” Nebbil considered his pitiful lump of bread for a second, then tore a piece off, “Made him sad to talk about it, too. Some of his best friends were Jedi.”

While Jeryd almost choked, he explained, “They fought together during the Clone Wars, y’see. He was there from the start, at the Battle of Geonosis.”

The scrawny boy transformed, swelling with pride. And it wasn’t hard to determine why: if there was one thing Jeryd knew, it was military history. His father saw to that long ago. It was accepted that the Battle of Geonosis marked the moment the Clone Wars began. And if Nebbil’s grandfather had been there from the start, and had survived to father children, then that meant…

“Your grandfather. Was he-”

“A clone? You bet. CT-2468. Evens, they called him.” That made him smile, “Big guy. Like you.”

Historically, clone troopers were known to be 1.83 meters tall. Jeryd stood at 1.85 meters, but to be compared to an actual clone trooper was enough to buoy his spirits. The sag in his shoulders lifted a fraction.

“My grandfather fought at Ryloth, Felucia, and Mygeeto. He retired a Major of the Imperial Army. Coran Redsun. Heard of him?”

“Afraid not,” Nebbil confessed, and brightened, as he said, “Hey. Perhaps they knew each other.”

“Yeah.” Jeryd gave a nod, “Perhaps.”

“What about you, Kyle?” Nebbil prodded a spoon, first, at Kyle, then at his stew, “Got any family in the military?”

[Halajiin Rabeak]

Hal listened with interest as the boys spoke. He hadn't been around for the Clone Wars, as they were well after his time, but he'd read about them, and had heard Reverend Solomon speak about them first hand. It was all a giant mess that the Jedi of the time were too blinded by Yoda to see. Yoda had been the cause of so many problems, it seemed, and had been unable to even prepare that Skywalker kid for what he needed to do. Then again, what did Hal expect from a tiny little freeloader whose IQ was so low he couldn't even speak correctly?

Plowing through his lasagne, the Nehantite shook his head. "No, not really. Maybe some second cousin, or something, but my family's not really had a military history. Dad was a research engineer. Grandpa built cars," he replied with a shrug.

An idea suddenly occurred to him, and it was too good to pass up, so he pauses his fork where it was, and looked directly at Nebbil from beneath his mostly-healed brow. "Though I'd be careful what you say about Jedi. We've got a cadet here who says he was trained by one. Was telling Jeryd here about him, earlier, but Jeryd doesn't seem too worried."

[Jeryd Redsun]

“You don’t say!” Nebbil’s eyebrows took flight. When he glanced at his neighbour, and saw the dark look he was wearing, his enthusiasm was deflated. With a tilt of the head, he decided on a more diplomatic approach, “Well, if he’s here, it doesn’t matter what he was before. I was a thief. He was a Jedi apprentice. Now we’re both cadets.”

The whole thing was set aside with a shrug. Content, Jeryd started mopping up the remnants of his stew with the last chunk of bread. However, it seemed Nebbil Hoob had a curiosity that was not easily sated. Bright with intrigue, he leaned forward on his elbows, and muttered, “So, who is this guy?”

[Halajiin Rabeak]

Hal's nonchalance faded away while Nebbil's curiosity blossomed. Setting his fork down, Hal looked about as if wary he might be overheard by the wrong ears. Leaning in as well, he glanced from Jeryd to Nebbil, and whispered, "Me."

[Jeryd Redsun]

The response to such a simple word was stark and instantaneous. Nebbil jolted upright as if he’d just received an electric shock, and stared at Kyle, slack-jawed. Jeryd looked like he’d just heard a blaster shot. There was alarm was written on his face. Alarm, and readiness. It was the reaction of someone trained to face danger. Except, when Kyle didn’t spring into action with a laser sword, the alarm turned into anger. For the first time, he knew he was telling the truth. No-one in their right mind would ever say such a thing inside the Imperial Citadel unless it was true, and, even then, to make such a confession here was plain madness. His eyes swept the length and breadth of this strange furry alien, measuring him for the first time in a whole new light. And then, he left.

Without any fuss or theatrics, Jeryd removed himself from the bench, gathered his things, and walked away. It left Nebbil, who had watched the whole thing unfold, dumbstruck, with nought else to do but try to play it off cool. The silence was broken with a hiccup of nervous laughter.

“Heh. Don’t sweat it, man. I’m sure he’ll come round.”

[Halajiin Rabeak]

Everything about the reactions of both boys was telling. Nebbil, the curious, inquisitive puppy lapped up all of the mystery, not looking for an angle but simply in awe. There was good in him, and with the right words and the right support, he could be a good ally. But Jeryd was proud, independent, and noble. To be made a fool was the most damming thing one could do to him, and Hal had just pulled the rug out from under his feet in front of the whole class, as it were. If he were to be saved from the Imperial machine, he'd have to be broken, first.

None of it was spoken aloud, or even so much as hinted at, as Hal maintained his smug smile, watching as Jeryd made his exit. It didn't matter that Jeryd knew Hal was trained by a Jedi, he'd surely find out before bunking down for the night anyhow. The Jedi who shot down eight TIE fighters. The Jedi who escaped capture multiple times. The Jedi who Rossos Atrapes himself had put into the Cadet program because he believed a Jedi could be reformed. The Jedi who got his own private room, with his own en suite refresher and sonic shower, up in one of the towers of the old Jedi temple. Yeah, the rumor mill liked to feed on that one prettyhard.

Leaning back, the Nehantite took up his fork and cut the last piece of his lasagne monster in two, loading up a mouthful. "Well, he'll try to come around, but we don't have to let him," he replied. "After all, this is the cool kids table. Not just anyone can eat here, y'know."

[Jeryd Redsun]

Two Years Ago…


“You’re stalling. I know you’re stalling.”

“No, I’m thinking.”

“Thinking about your rancid hand. You’re hoping for a shift.”

“Aryn,” Jeryd surfaced from behind his cards, “For the last time: that is not how it works. The shifts are random, and happen only at the start of a round. Trade.”

The Commander of Coins spiralled onto the growing pile of disposed cards. On the periphery of his vision, Jeryd saw his brother shuffle in his seat, restless with anticipation. He had a winning hand. Again. He reached out tentatively, and drew a new card from the top of the trade pile; it hit him like a hammer blow. The Evil One. He was doomed. Aryn knew; his eyes were smiling in the same way Father’s did when he had you at a disadvantage. He poised like a viper, ready to strike. The buzzer buzzed.

“Call!” he barked, as bright as the midday sun. His order was punctuated by a familiar fizz-crackle that had a remarkable effect on his face. The horror was bathed in blue, from the stark glare the cards produced whenever they changed. “No. Nonono… that’s not fair. That’s not fair!”
Jeryd’s eyebrows gave a lift that was half sympathetic, half inquisitive, and wholly insincere. “Your move, big bro.”

“Trade!” Aryn spat, as if the word tasted like dung in his mouth. Jeryd knew it pained him to say it; he dared a smile while he watched his brother toss a card onto the pile, and replace it with another. Oh. He brightened when he saw it. And then, slowly, smugly, he revealed his hand: the Master of Sabers, the Ten of Flasks, and the Queen of Air and Darkness.

“Twenty-two,” he said, making a meal of his words, “Your move, little brother.”

“Stand.”

That made Aryn clench. And, as he unveiled his new hand, he fixed his brother’s gaze with unflinching cruelty. The Idiot. The Two of Flasks. The Three of Staves. Aryn bellowed like a dying dewback, and Jeryd soared out of his seat like a rocket, fists punching through the glass ceiling of brotherly one-upmanship.

“That’s right!” he crowed, and blew a kiss to the sky, “The Idiot’s Array! Nobody expects the Idiot’s Array! Now then, big bro… show me the credits!”

While Aryn drowned beneath the storm clouds of his defeat, Jeryd unleashed a vigorous volley of pelvic thrusts, “Show… me… the credits! Show… me… the credits! Show…”

With an almighty crash, the table was upended, scattering cards and credit chits all over the floor. Aryn was on his feet, as rigid as frozen carbonite. Behind his wild eyes, Jeryd saw a spark – sometimes, a spark was all it took.


####

Later, when the bleeding stopped, the shouting began in earnest. Aryn caught the brunt of it, having retreated to his room with a busted nose, he found himself under siege from both their parents. Jeryd heard Father’s fist pummelling the door, and he imagined Mother, pacing, with the finger of damnation held aloft.

“What in the seven hells were you thinking?” his father said, “He has a big game coming up, you cretin!”

“Fisticuffs! On Family Day!” trilled Mother, “The Minister of Familial Harmony would be appalled!”
“Have you seen what you’ve done to his face? If he needs surgery again, it’s coming out of your pocket!”

“…playing sabaac, like a couple of rotten scoundrels. And gambling! Under our roof! If your grandfather was alive to see this…”

“If I find out he is unfit to play, I swear, on the Emperor’s bone’s, you’ll-”

“Weximan!”

On and on, it went. And soon, following another controversial choice of words from his father, his parents turned on each other. Meanwhile, Jeryd was left to clean up; first, himself, then, the room. There wasn’t much left standing, and the upturned table was now broken in half – it had belonged to Grandfather. Just looking at it made his back ache. He went to work, righting chairs, sweeping up glass, re-potting plants. Then, there were the sabaac cards, all 76 of them.

With broad sweeping motions, Jeryd gathered them up in his arms, until an intimidating pile sat in the centre of the floor. They were reorganised into five separate piles: Sabers, Flasks, Coins, Staves, and the Face cards. Thoughts of the fight, and of the things he’d like to do to pay back his brother, they all faded; there was pleasure to be found in repetition, and fixing even the simplest of things. His mind cleared. It was just him, and the sabaac cards.

“The Six… of Coins…” he said, under his breath. And, sure enough, when he turned the card over in his hand, it was, indeed, the Six of Coins. A flutter of alarm sent shudders down his spine. It went to the correct pile. Tentatively, he picked up another, “The Commander of Flasks.”
His heart sank. Right, again. This went on for some time, slowly stripping away the illusion of coincidence, until…

“Officer on deck.”

His father, Captain Weximan Redsun of the Imperial Navy, appeared in the doorway. Jeryd rose with a snap, and stood at attention. His heart was throbbing so hard it sounded like turbolaser fire in his ears. For a moment, there was silence, as his father took stock of the room. He was a tall man, but slender, with perfect posture. His thick hair, still naturally dark, was muscled into immaculate submission with a gel that made it shine like black glass. And his moustache, trimmed and uniform, was teased at the tips with just a hint of styling wax; it ticked whenever he was about to say something serious.

“Jeryd,” he said, and pierced him with his watery glare, “Why do you let him do it?”

“I don’t… let him. Did you see the state of his-”

“Don’t… mess me around, son.” With one hand up, to keep at bay what, undoubtedly, would’ve been a familiar series of self-pitying objections, Captain Redsun, turned his disbelief skywards, “That is the language of a loser, and I want to believe you’re better than that. Aryn!”

At his call, Aryn entered the room. He was as tall as their father, and about half as wide again in the shoulders, and where their father’s nose was long and hooked, Aryn’s nose was broad, misshapen, and discoloured. Jeryd’s chest swelled with pride. When their eyes locked across the room, their father intervened, striding into No Man’s Land, and with a firm finger, he summoned his boys to either side of him. His hand clamped onto Jeryd’s shoulder like a vice, and he saw the flicker of discomfort in his brother’s face, too.

“I’m going to say this once: you have been gambling in my house, you have ruined your grandfather’s table, and you have upset your mother. If either of you so much as look at the other the wrong way, I will personally summon the Deviant Correction Unit. Do you understand? This… is Family Day!” he hissed, “Now, act like it. Shake hands!”

Hands met with a forceful clap; the shake was vigorous, and went on long enough to make Jeryd’s knuckles hurt. One day, he was going to be bigger than his brother, he promised himself, and then he’d crush each of his chunky fingers, one-by-one.

“So, all set for the big game?”

Suddenly, Jeryd had his father’s undivided attention. He gave a nod, “Yes, sir.”

“Yes, you’d better be,” his father’s unbroken glare probed for doubts, “The eyes of many important people will be on you that day. Don’t mess it up. And remember, it’s not enough for a man to beat his opponents – you have to break them. Trample their spirits so far into the dirt that they will fear to even look you in the eye. Become the apex predator, for the law of the wild, son, is also the law of gods and men.”

Jeryd braced himself, and then…

“It’s like when I won the Imperial Youth Rally Championship.”

“You won the championship?” On cue, Aryn waded into the fray, all smiles, clapping his father on the shoulder, “More like you seized it, like a true champion! The stories don’t do it justice, little brother…”

The stories of his father’s stunning victory over reigning champion, Hondo Magaffi, were not unknown to Jeryd, who had shared the same house as his brother his entire life, and had heard the same tales with startling regularity. And they always began the same way.

“There I was, three points down and with one minute to go.” His father hunkered low, eyeing his imaginary opponent with practiced intensity, “Weximan Redsun, the young upstart from Manarai Military Prep, about to become another notch on Magaffi’s belt. He was wearing this stupid smile, and strutting like he was part of some ridiculous fashion show. Then I gave him the look.”

It was at this point, Aryn joined in, lowering himself beside their father, brandishing his own invisible racket. He mimicked the look, which wasn’t half as blood-chilling as Captain Redsun’s. They swayed in sequence, rocking rhythmically from foot to foot.

“It was the look of a hunter,” his father continued, “Sizing up his prey. Magaffi took one look, and he knew it was over. He had been reduced to something less than a man, he was a thing, a morsel to be chewed up and spat out. Still, he had to do something. So, he lined up his shot. Next service…”

In his mind’s eye, his father saw Magaffi send the ball soaring into his end of the court, and responded with a dazzling backhand from his imaginary racket.

“Thwack!” said Aryn, who watched the invisible ball bounce once inside Magaffi’s half, and then out of his reach. He gasped in astonishment. Their father was undeterred.

“There were mumbles amongst the crowd. A flock of babbling nunas, to me. Like all winners, I had my eyes trained on my opponent at all times, and I had the eye of the nexu.”

A spark in his eyes, a flash of movement, the second service was returned. Aryn’s shoes squeaked on the floor as he dashed this way and that, embodying their father’s floundering opponent. He stumbled, and failed to make the return in time, crying out in frustration.

“There was a change in the air now,” said his father, eyes locked with what appeared to be a bust of Emperor Palpatine, “The reigning champ had lost his cool. The crowd fell silent. Twenty-eight seconds on the clock, and I was still a point down. Magaffi had everything to lose… he took his next shot.”

“P-ching!” sang his brother, wide-eyed with disbelief.

“The shot was returned, a vicious forehand. Magaffi tried, but there was just too much power behind it, and all he could do was watch it glance off the rim of his racket. That was when he cried out. It was the sweetest sound.”

Their father rose, and started to pace the room while the Phantom Magaffi replaced his racket. His tongue crept along his bottom lip, and his eyes were as cold and hard as ice crystals. Behind him, Aryn played the part of a spectator, reduced to biting his fingernails.

“Twenty-two seconds left. This was it. The final service.”

First, his gaze tracked up, following the lift of the ball, and then, he moved. A sharp backhand, a shuffle of feet, a forehand, followed by another backhand, followed by a volley, then a forehand, and then, staggering, his father reached out, and sent the ball back towards Magaffi. He watched. Aryn watched. Jeryd waited. And then…

“Yeeeesss!” Aryn cried out, leaping, and punching the air.

“One inch inside the line, the rallyball bounced, and Weximan Redsun became the new Imperial Youth Rally champion. Magaffi was on his knees, crying like a child who dropped his candy. Tarkin was there that day, and that’s why Hondo Magaffi pushes pens for the Trade Bureau, and your father captains a fracking Star Destroyer.”

With a firm hand planted on Jeryd’s shoulder, his father looked him in the eyes, and arrived, at long last, at the point:

“So, I know a thing or two about being a captain, son. And you’re the team captain. Do you know what that means? It means you lead. It means be strong. It means take no crap. It means you will have the biggest pair of balls in that locker room, and all the other shit stains on the team will know it. You are a Redsun. You are a winner. You are the man.”

[Jeryd Redsun]

In the privacy of the cubicle, Jeryd wept into his hands. His eyes stung, his throat was raw, and his chest heaved from the rigors of holding it all back. The walls of his composure were tall, built, brick-by-brick, upon years of denial. Now, a rising tide of fear and panic threatened to overwhelm those walls, and come pouring down the other side. He gasped, and choked, masking the pitiful sound behind tight clenched fingers. Outside, the refresher was empty, but sound carried on its sparse walls, and someone would surely hear if he didn’t get a grip of himself. A sigh rattled about in his throat as he dragged his hands down his face.

What was he doing? No-one cried in school. What a loser!

Angry with himself, he thumped his head with the heel of his palm. He was overreacting, like some hormonal little girl. He wiped the wetness from his eyes and sniffed. It was nothing. It was… it was just a lock on a door. For the longest time, he reconsidered the open latch, the green indicator. He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. In the fresh silence, he dared himself to try, just one more time to prove it had been a fluke – just a freak inexplicable occurrence. And, if it was, so what? He didn’t need it explained. He just needed it to never happen again.

“Come on, you bastard,” he muttered, and shook his head, “Come on.”

His hand was trembling. When he swallowed, it felt like duracrete going down his throat. His heart was thundering against his chest. One sharp breath. He reached out, and swiped. Snap. The latch slid shut of its own accord.

“RAAARRGH!”

Jeryd hurled himself at the now-closed cubicle door, and pounded it with his fists so hard that the metal warped. The whole door trembled and groaned on its hinges. When his head rebounded off the ringing metal, he threw himself back at it in frustration, thumping once again. But before despair could take him a second time, Jeryd noticed the approach of footsteps from down the corridor outside, and the sound of voices. He froze, and listened. Had he been heard?

The door to the refresher gasped open and boys’ voices filled the room:

“-transferred on a maximum-security maglev.”

“I can’t believe they also took out that power generator in the Under City, and hit a tractor beam emitter on the surface at the same time.”

“Well, the tractor beam thing is only rumour.”

“Of course, it is. No-one wants to admit that a small team of rebels managed to successfully assault a military installation. But how else do you think they managed to escape?”

Inside his cubicle, Jeryd sank, fetal against the cold hard door. He listened intently while they spoke, he heard the thud of boots, and the sound of piss streams that roared like pod-racers off the long empty walls. Every sound was amplified, and every breath was a risk.

“If it’s all true, then it only goes to prove how dangerous the Jedi can be.”

“The Jedi?” One of the boys repeated, thick with disbelief, “I didn’t take you for a conspiracy nut, Arcus.”

“Okay, so tell me this: who else has mystical powers and carries laser swords, huh?”

“Terrorists, that’s who. These traitors are a disease that needs to wiped out.”

“That’s what they’re saying on the Holonet.” Arcus conceded, “It won’t be long before they start screening for these freaks. Hey, did you see that report about-”

With a clunk, the door slid shut behind them, drowning out their words. He was alone again.
It would be another five minutes before he left the relative safety of his cubicle. The face that greeted him in the mirror belonged to someone else, someone pathetic, and weak. Cold water washed away the offensive redness, and the mopey puffy face was hardened with slaps.

“You’re a Redsun. You’re a winner. You’re the man.”

It was a long walk to the stadium, and the entire school had been decked out in the navy blue and silver of the Manarai Mantasharks; there were posters on the walls, and banners hanging from the ceiling, scarves, shirts, even hats and socks had been pinned onto every surface possible. That the administration even humoured such unconventional decoration spoke volumes of the importance of the upcoming game – if the Mantasharks won, they brought the championship home with them. And, as he wove between the crowds, he was met with cheers of support, whistles, handshakes and pats on the back. He smiled at every one of them, and heard not a word they said.

As soon as he was able break away from the milling crowd, he did. There was still some time to go before the start of the game, but his team would be preparing, and he was expected. He didn’t look where he was going; his feet led him along a familiar route, until he arrived at a large door. On the other side, there were voices, a rowdy din of conversation, even laughter. Good, he thought. They were in high spirits. He could not bring them down at a time like this - they deserved this victory. Fingernails bit into his palms like manka cat teeth. He closed his eyes, pressed his forehead against the cold metal, and counted.

“Officer on deck!”

Jeryd swept into the room, beaming. His arrival turned heads, prompted whoops, and drew the rest of the team into his orbit.

“Where are my sharks? Looking good, Tion.” Tion, the tallest and thinnest member of the team came in for a hug, and Jeryd obliged, simultaneously ruffling the immaculate ginger locks of the guy beside him, “Otoras, my man! Mighty Mox, how’s the arm?”

Jeryd moved on, to clap hands with a boy whose shoulders were broad and covered in freckles. He gave a sly grin and made an obscene gesture with his free hand, “Getting plenty of exercise, chief.”

“Ha! First-class wanker!” All smiles, Jeryd found Gerudo next, “Brought your A-game, champ?”

“A-game’s the only game I’ve got!” He said, and they bumped chests. There were fist bumps, too. On and on, it went: the handshakes, the small-talk, the pats on the arse. And, soon enough, the smiling didn’t hurt anymore. Inside their circus of nonsense and noise, he reclaimed for himself an ember of normality, it kindled in his chest like a fire, spreading out to the tips of his fingers and toes, chasing away all the darkness that had haunted him only moments before. This was who he was: Jeryd Redsun, Captain of the Manarai Mantasharks, about to take back the championship for the first time in five years. Everything else was just bantha dung.

Changing into his wegsphere kit was like shedding his skin for a new one. By the time he’d pulled on his blue shirt and silver pants, laced up his boots, and fitted his knee and elbow pads, his transformation was complete. The corners of his mouth curled, and the mundane troubles of the everyday pinged off him like he was made of durasteel. It wasn’t a new skin, it was his armour. One patrol around the locker room was enough to decide it was time, and it looked like Coach Aric agreed, for he cut through the chatter with a piercing whistle. He stepped aside, giving Jeryd the floor.

“Okay, boys, gather round.” They took a seat or a knee, helmets clunking at their feet, “This is it: the big one. We’ve trained for this. We’re ready, and the championship is within our grasp. But today, I don’t just want to beat the Spacehawks – I want to break them. When we go out there, they will be smiling their smug little smiles, expecting to add another notch onto their belt. Five years, it’s been. Five years. There will not be a sixth – not on my watch. We are going to trample those Sparilli spunk-guzzlers so far into the dirt, that, when we leave, they won’t even be able to look us in the eye.”

There was cheering, and laughter. Gerudo and Mox high-fived, but behind them, Coach Aric was ashen, and was giving Jeryd a look. He had always been more lenient with the team when it came to typical Imperial standards of decorum, but perhaps ‘spunk-guzzlers’ was crossing a line. Jeryd was undeterred: the boys were loving it. He remembered his father’s gaze – the look of concentration in his eyes that was, at once, fire and ice, and he turned it on his team.

“This is survival of the fittest, and we are the apex predators! For the law of the wild, boys, is also the law of gods and men. Now, where the fuck are my sharks!?”

The boys jumped up with a roar; there was fire in their eyes, now - they were ready to win. From amongst the scrum, Jeryd spotted Coach Aric across the room, and grinned. But Coach Aric did not share in his enthusiasm. In fact, the look he was wearing snatched the smile straight from his face, and put a chill in his bones. It was the same look as before: cold, hard, and focused into something so tangible it felt like it could pierce flesh. That was not disapproval in his eyes, it was hatred. As the team moved out, Jeryd tore his attention away from the coach, and led the charge.

It was the last time he played wegsphere.



Present Day…


Outside the dormitory, he waited. The corridor was empty, and there was no sound coming from within. He wasn’t sure how long it had been – a few minutes, maybe. Perhaps, they were out, or even asleep. No, he told himself: it was too early for that. Through the heavy metal door, he imagined his bunk, where it was, and the route he’d have to take to reach it. There were four bunks on either side before his, one belonging to Cadet Thida, another to that Duros kid. He took a breath. His fists clenched. There was the kiss of cold metal upon his forehead. He closed his eyes, and counted.

The doors parted with a grinding hiss, and a final clunk that rolled down the long corridor behind him. Then, all eyes were on him, and the silence hit him like a wall. First to catch his eye was Kass Pheridae, she towered alongside Thida, hugging herself with those long ungainly arms. It was clear, from the way they stood, and the way they stared, that their conversation had just been interrupted. They watched in silence as he walked by, and, just before he was out of earshot, he heard whispering, and a shimmer of laughter. The Duros kid was on his bunk, and, the moment he passed, his bulbous head surfaced from behind a datapad. Did he even blink? What were those red eyes thinking?

Nebbil was sat cross-legged on the floor, next to his footlocker. He scrubbed feverishly at his boots, and didn’t even bother to look up. So, that’s how it was going to be? Fine. He’d been the outsider before, the difference was that he had no interest making friends with the likes of Nebbil Hoob and and Kyle Rayner; they were nothing like him, and he didn’t need them. He wouldn’t change to fit their mould; he would find another way to serve. The Empire was his first love, and that was all that mattered. Even if, sometimes, it felt like it didn’t love him back.