Treachery, Faith, and the Dying Light

[Micah tol Powl]

M I R I A L

"...there are those who do not believe, because they do not see. I've never seen the wind. I've seen the effect of the wind, but I've never the seen wind. The voice of Halrormalenth is like the wind. You feel it. You know it's there. The whispers are all around you. The wind, the grass -- but what is faith if not the evidence of things unseen?"

The young Pantoran sat on his speeder bike, legs thrown over the side as he looked on from his perch at a gathering of Mirialan adolescents who had come to hear the message of the Primeval. To have their questions answered, their doubts assured. It was a powerful thing, to pray together, to witness someone come to the faith. To come forward on bended knee as a lost soul, and to rise as brethren. It was an incredible thing, a faith that could unite Human and Pantoran, Mirialan and Hutt. But, above all, to see the sapient mind gripped in the struggle of logic and doubt, and to all illusion aside and embrace truth. The only truth. The truth which transcended flesh, or stars, or science.

It was beautiful.

"You're Chiss, aren't you?"

The question came from below, as the azure-skinned youth turned his eyes down to see a Mirialan girl with the a lighter yellow-green, chartreuse complexion looking up at him as though he were an object of curiosity in a museum. Kicking his legs up, the boy pushed outward as he popped up off the bike, landing on the ground next to the girl. "Not exactly," the purple-haired youth answered cryptically.

"But you're..."

"Blue."

The Mirialan just blinked at the frankness of his answer. Then again, this was Mirial. If your skin tone was in the yellow to green range, you blended in. Being blue, like baby blue-blue, the tweenage youngling stood out from the crowd. "I guess you must get that a lot," the girl offered, blushing with embarrassment at what seemed something of an apology for her having said something about his race.

Which, he didn't want her to feel bad. "Yeah..." the boy offered, which was plainly and obviously a lie, but he let it linger as a pleasantry before finally admitting, "...not so much. Chiss have bright red eyes," the youth explained.

Tilting her head to one side, it was clear that the Mirialan wasn't about to stop her investigative journalism. "Wroonian?"

"That one I do get a lot," the boy answered honestly, a small smile softening his features. Looking into the girl's sapphire eyes, he said, "I'm Pantoran."

"I'm Kaliss," the girl supplied, sticking out a hand in what seemed to have become the universal greeting. "Nice to meet you, Pantoran,"

The boy moved to accept the offered hand before the realization of what she'd just said struck him. Wait, did she..? Wincing internally, the boy tried to maintain his smile as he clarified, "My name's not Pantoran. My species is Pantoran!"

It really wasn't that difficult.

"I thought you were Wroonian?"

...or apparently, it was that difficult.

With a sigh, the boy ran a hand through the mass of unkept dark hair as he looked at the girl and pondered whether it was worth it to try and salvage this conversation. "I'm Boo," he offered finally.

"Is your world far away?"

The honest curiosity was both refreshing and startling. Or perhaps he'd just spent far too much time with people who preferred shadowplay and hidden agendas. "Orto Plutonia? Yeah."

His home wasn't Orto Plutonia, but it was the homeworld for his race. So that answer worked as well as any.

"What brought you to Mirial?" Kaliss asked next, planting her hands on her hips as she added, "We're not exactly the hot spot in the galaxy."

Was that a comment on the weather?

"Orto Plutonia's a cold world, so I actually like it here. Nice chill, no snow melting down your neck," the boy answered brightly, some genuine cheer slipping into his voice. It was nice. Just the bike, the breeze, and open land beneath a canopy of stars. He couldn't get this on Coruscant, that was for certain. Patting the speeder bike, the boy turned back toward the girl and explained, "I came for the Jariff swoop races, but then I heard there was a reclamation so..."

He trailed off, his eyes tracing a path back to the prayer meet and religious instruction which they were both ignoring now.

"You race?"

That question brought a more knowing smile to his face. Corellians would have described it as a 'Sith-eating grin'. It was arrogant. It was confident. "When my boss lets me," the boy remarked cryptically, taking a step back even as he gestured toward the Triple Z Swoop. "You wanna see the bike?"

As the Mirialan stepped in a for a closer look at the speeder, the girl brushed up against the Pantoran tween. The boy's azure face flushed a shade of violet, as he moved back away from the girl.

He was conflicted. Needing some distance between them and yet... it wasn't that he wasn't enjoying the conversation. Except no one was talking right now, so it hardly seemed a conversation anymore. But what could they talk about? Was she even a believer in the Primeval? "So... you... like Pontiff Undari's messages?" the Pantoran inquired between halted breaths.

His heart was racing, his hands sweating, with some anxiety which now afflicted him. Was it the girl?

"Yeah, but I think Jintama gives better messages," the Mirialan answered, revealing herself a follower as she looked up from the bike to glance up at the boy who was shrinking back to the safety of the shadows.

Bounding forward, the girl closed the gap he had built between them, grabbing his hands as she asked, eagerly, "Can we go for a ride?"

The boy's mouth fell open, but no sound emerged. He didn't know what to say. A pit had formed in his stomach, threatening to overwhelm him with very real waves of vertigo and nausea. And then a chime echoed, as a small light flashed on the side of the metallic bracelet that the boy wore.

Saved by the bell.

"You... your wrist is beeping," Kaliss remarked, letting go of his hands as the Pantoran now found himself able to breathe again.

Oblivious to the Pantoran's distress, the girl looked away as a name echoed on the breeze. "That's my mom, I gotta go," she announced, before turning back toward him. "Nice to have met y..."

But the boy was gone.

---

He had pulled the speeder into the shadows of a warehouse, in an industrial area that seemed distant enough as to afford some privacy for the communication.

Lucky thing. No one would be able to hear him scream.

"Perhaps I was not clear when told you that failure would not be tolerated."

Screaming would have been a welcome relief. Clutching at his throat, as though trying against reason to find the invisible hands which seized his throat closed in a vice grip, The boy's eyes were bulging, as though ready to spring from out of his head, as he wrestled in vain against the unseen forces strangling the life from out of his body. Then his eyes began to roll back in his head. As his body weakened against the lack of oxygen, his muscles began to spasm. A wet spot formed at the front of his trousers, the dark stain spreading down his legs as the urine ran down into his boots.

It was then that the hologram dropped the outstretched hand, as grip holding the boy up let go and the Pantoran crumbled to the ground. He lay there, gasping for air, fading in and out of consciousness as he stared up at the multi-scan hologram of a black robed figure.

"It was... only... a... game, Ma... Master," the boy uttered, struggling to speak. Tears and mucus ran down his race. His blanched complexion offered no blush of embarrassment, but he was humiliated.

"You came in third."

Competing in the race had been Boo's own idea. Something to blow off steam. Something to get away, to Primeval territory. To a place where people shared his beliefs. It wasn't supposed to have been a life or death competition. And it sure as hell wasn't supposed to have been some sick Sith evaluation. He'd had fun. And he'd still earned a trophy. "Third place is..."

"...the second loser."

The child just fell silent, curling himself into a fetal ball before slowly pushing himself up from the ground until he was kneeling before the hologram. His body huddled tightly for the shame of having wet himself. His face downcast in shame for the tears and snot that soiled it. He said nothing, because there was nothing to say.

"If that is what you are, then perhaps I have no further use for you."

Four years ago, the Pantoran had made a devil's bargain. Kill me now, or kill me later. That was the choice that the man in the hologram had asked the boy to accept. The decision he'd forced upon a seven year old youngling. To die today, or to die tomorrow. But tomorrow was only promised to him if he pleased the man with his service. There were no doubts about what he was or his place in the Order. He was a tool. Less human than even a slave, merely an instrument to be used and discarded as its purpose was fulfilled.

"I am what you make of me, my master," the boy said finally, his head bowed deeper as defeat added to his shame.

"Words. You would do well to remember them. And to believe them, more than those fictitious gods you cling to."

The boy bristled at the contempt of his faith, his eyes raised defiantly to look up at the hologram.

"I am your god, my young apprentice."

It was a moment before the youth trusted his control enough to speak without forfeiting his life for the tone it would take. When he had calmed himself, he said only, "Such is the way of the Sith."

So it was. So that wasn't a lie.

"You will go to The Wheel. There, you will await my further instructions," the hologram commanded, before flickering out as a final warning was heard.

"And I will decide whether you are Sith."

 

[Micah tol Powl]

T H E • W H E E L

"Pass and ID?"

The Wheel was a truly massive engineering marvel. Three million tonnes of spinning durasteel dedicated to the altar of corporate greed. Casinos. Clubs. Auctions. Anything you could buy on credit, you could find it here. Situated by itself in the Mid-Rim, the Wheel benefited from a confluence of intersecting hyperlanes which brought in traffic from the Core and Wild Space, and all points in between. Hutts. Black Sun. One Sith. The Republic. Allegiances didn't matter, only money. Those who possessed it lived like kings for while they could hold on to it. Those who lost it found themselves turned out into ghettos that would have made the projects on Coruscant look like diplomatic quarters. The upper levels catered to a revolving door clientele of tourists, made possible through the exploitation of migrant workers stuck paying through the nose for hovels in the so-called 'brown sector'. Habitation areas adjacent to the sewage processing.

The azure youth glanced up at the distinctive figure in the green and yellow uniform. Wheel Security Forces, posted as customs and port control agents as the young Pantoran staggered through a line of folks disembarking from off a commercial transport at the elaborate space station. He'd switched transports twice, exiting Primeval space and crossing into the Republic from out of neutral space, then voyaged to the Wheel so not to raise possible suspicions. Departures logged out of Bastion or Mirial tended to garner undue attention this far toward the Inner Rim. As it was, the Wheel already struggled to balance Red Raven, Black Sun, and Hutt clientele without incident. Add the Republic and One Sith patrons, and the last thing anyone wanted was the Primeval joining an already volatile mix.

"...Naboos is crazy baby. Don't forget that boy told you get, that, dirt off your shoulder..."

As he passed an identicard to the officer, the boy's eyes were drawn up toward the flash and color of the holographic renderings overhead. A Gungan hip-hop group performing in an advertisement for a concert.

"Plutonia Courier Services," the customs officer noted aloud, as he passed the commercial identicard through the reader. Holding the identicard in one hand, the man looked at the screen on the datapad before looking the boy over. "What are you delivering?"

Sliding a courier bag from off his shoulder, so that he was holding it against the side of his body. "Financial dispatches from the Banking Clans... I think," the tween answered, seemingly confused as he patted the small satchel.

Gesturing to a table next to where he stood, the officer motioned for the boy to put the courier bag down. "All right, let me see the parcel."

The youth's eyes slid around the room as he removed the bag from off his shoulder. People were standing in lines on either side of him, lost in their own problems. As he set the bag down on the table, the boy's hand trailed through the air as he withdrew it. "You don't need to see the parcel," the boy uttered in a low whisper.

"I don't need to see the parcel."

Slinging the courier back back over his shoulder, the boy used his other hand to leave a flimsiplast religious tract down on the table. "You're going to read about the Primeval gods."

"I'm going to read about the Primeval gods," the customs officer echoed, picking up the tract.

"You can go about your business."

"You can go about your business," the officer repeated, tucking the tract away as he prepared for the next person in line.

"Move along," the Pantoran uttered vapidly.

"Move along," the customs officer demanded, impatiently motioning for the youth to continue on his way. As the boy moved past the reach of the guard, he heard the familiar request. "Pass and ID?"

Exiting out of the port authority section, the boy found himself standing at the apex of the red light district. The red light district which was the bulk of the commercial enterprises on the station, both legitimate and illegitimate. Call girls beckoning customers into casinos. Prostitutes outside brothels, and flesh markets the displayed human merchandise from behind the glass.

"Gunganlicious: Resurrection. The galactic reunion tour, here at the Wheel!"

Turning his eyes up, the youth admired the holographic advertisement for the concert. Perhaps there would be something interesting for him on this assignment after all. Sargon knew... the boy had no idea why his master had sent him here.