A Lesson in Denial

[Lúka Jibral]

Coruscant was a manufactured world. Whatever efforts nature had once taken to shape the planet had long ago been buried beneath five thousand levels of durasteel and duracrete, eons of habitation, and a thousand generations of history, politics, and civilization. The ecumenopolis that dominated the globe stretched from pole to pole, burying mountains, continents, lakes, and almost every other aspect of the planet that might be considered in any way natural. It was a world that was no longer alive: a cybernetic, artificial husk upon which Imperial society teemed like an infestation, bringing about the planet's slow decay.

Yet, civilization would not simply let the world die in peace. It was not enough to have stripped away her ecosystems, paved over her geology, and plundered the natural mechanics that had allowed her to breathe and flourish in her ancient days as Notron. Civilization could not live with the murder of a world on their conscience, so they resorted to subterfuge, exploiting their technology to puppeteer Coruscant into some hollow semblance of life. Mirrors in orbit redirected the light from Coruscant Prime, spreading equal warmth to all aspects of the planet's surface. The WeatherNet, an intricate array of humidifiers, thermalizsers, cloud seeders, and other technologies manufactured weather patterns on a schedule, a timetable of rainfall after sunset, fog before dawn, winds of tailored intensity to fit a faux but mild seasonal pattern that allowed the wealthy to experience an illusion of the passage of time. There were stories of how, at its most absurd and ostentatious, the Galactic Republic had once broken regulations to schedule an afternoon shower, to better accommodate and welcome a diplomatic envoy and make them feel more at home.

Tonight, the forecast called for light rain, and as Lúka stood before the Imperial Citadel looking out at Coruscant's lie of a horizon, he felt the first droplets begin to settle on his cheeks. Despite it, he stood firm, smart and patient, hands clasped behind his back as a gust of wind arrived as ordered, whipping the lower edges of his long jacket gently around his ankles. Perhaps it might have seemed as if discipline was what kept him present, his Jedi, Inquisition, and Knightly training providing him with the meditative calm to ignore the minor distractions of rainfall, and remain steadfast in his resolve to watch the sunset. That was not the case, however. Lúka's presence was not without purpose, and his patience would not be without reward.

He fought the urge to glance at the chrono strapped to his wrist: they were beyond the appointed time of their arrival, of that he was sure, but nothing would be served by confirming it. They would arrive in their own time, because of reasons and factors far beyond Lúka's control, and nothing would be served by his impatience. So he waited, silent in the rain, as the minutes slowly ticked past.

Perhaps this task was beneath him. Perhaps it was a responsibility best passed off to one of his Cadets. There certainly were those who would have obliged the request: Cadet Redsun would have done so completely without question, his trust in Lúka earned and near-absolute; Cadet Par'Vizal would have obeyed, but likely would have felt the task was beneath him as well, a fact that Lúka would surely hear about at length. But no, it had to be him. Anyone could stand and wait, but for this arrival, this precious and private delivery, it had to be him.

More moments drifted past. Despite his calm and focus, Lúka felt the faint stab of irritation: not for his own sake, but for the sake of Doctor Anastasia Xivelle. She was the intended recipient of what was due to arrive, and its importance could not be understated. Her work, both her official obligations to the Imperial Knights, and her covert assistance to his own efforts in recent weeks and months, was invaluable. Doctor Xivelle needed this. Lúka's hands began to tighten slightly into frustrated fists, wishing there were a means for him to convey that importance to whoever was responsible for the current tardiness.

At long last, Lúka heard it: the whine of a repulsorlift in the distance. It was faint, weak even, the distinct discordant stuttering of disrepair grating on Lúka's ears. As it came into view, the sight was even more underwhelming: a scruffy old speeder bike, in stark contrast to the scruffy young rider whose scrawny limbs clung awkwardly to the controls, wild eyes frantically searching his overwhelming surroundings for some indication of where to go. Lúka offered an almost imperceptible nod, calling upon the Force to extend an invitation to the rider, drawing him in like a lure on a line. As the swoop came to a halt, the display of absent grace as the rider dismounted was perhaps the greatest insult the grand plaza before the old Jedi Temple had ever received: an impressive feat, given how many times these stones had found themselves beneath the feet of a certain Gungan representative to the Republic Senate. A cargo container was fumbled with, a package wrapped in polyplast retrieved clumsily, and held out towards Lúka with slightly shaking hands.

As Lúka accepted the delivery, the rider's hands failed to retract, his eyes fixed fearfully but expectantly on the Imperial Knight, voice apparently stolen from him, at least for the moment. Lúka's eyes narrowed.

"The stated delivery time has elapsed," he warned, sternly. "I am required to pay nothing."

A few trembling words found their way to the rider's lips, more of a squeak than anything that deserved to be called a voice.

"Please, mistuh, you have to! If I ain't get paid one more time, my boss is gunnuh kill me, fuh sure!"

Lúka's upper body turned ever so slightly, a glance cast over his shoulder to the towering structure behind, and the Imperial banners suspended from its walls. With equal slowness, he turned his gaze back to the delivery boy.

"And you presume that I will not?"

The boy let out a yelp, and perhaps a contribution from his bladder as well. A sigh escaped from Lúka, the sight too pitiful for his mild frustration to survive. One hand clutching the delivery, the other extended, fingers uncurling to reveal a credit chit, one that the Force levitated from his palm and conveyed towards the rider. Fear remained, but it was joined in the young man's eyes by awe and reverence, up until the moment that he snatched the chit from the air, and fumbled it into his data device. One brief transaction later, he held it back out towards Lúka, staring expectantly at his fingertips for the chit to move again of its own free will. Lúka obliged, brushing his coat aside for a moment to allow the chit to find its way back into his pocket.

"If I am forced to suffer these delays again," he warned, "You will not find me nearly as forgiving."

The rider nodded frantically, apparently possessing enough intelligence to seize his opportunity for escape, and leapt back onto his swoop, the engines screaming in dismay as he raced off towards the edge of the Imperial security perimeter.

Lúka waited until the speeder disappeared from view before he allowed a smile to creep onto the corner of his lips.

His return to the Citadel was not rushed, but he did move with purpose, the kind of purpose that ensured the Cadets and other Knights he passed along the causeways and corridors did not think to question why an Imperial Knight was marching past them with a polyplast carry-bag in hand. The pace was not entirely by design, however: the rider's tardiness had resulted in his own, and while his arrival at his destination was not explicitly or formally planned, he had stated an approximate time, and the prospect of being late irked him. It didn't matter, and yet it did: from others, it was acceptable, understandable, the result of different standards and priorities, but Lúka regarded his own organisation and promptness as a sign of respect, and a standard that he held himself to. His resolve wavered, and he glanced at his chrono. Eight minutes. He winced. Nine.

As he turned the final corner, he forced himself to slow, forced a certain calmness into his stride and demeanour, and in answer to some unspecified compulsion ran the fingers of his free hand through his hair. Seven more paces and he was there, standing outside Doctor Xivelle's doorway. He allowed himself a single moment of pause before he pressed the chime, letting his expression fall into a smile as the door slid open.

"Sorry I'm late," he offered, the faintest hint of a sheepish tone in his voice. His arm raised enough to display his precious cargo. "I brought takeout. Hope you like Neimoidian."