#au:caught

A few minutes pass, then Ciner returns with two large duffel bags and a bundle of clothes. He gives me a once-over before he thrust the bundle at me. “Desperate times call for desperate measures. Follow me.”

I tote the bundle after him, its weight multiplied by the depressing state I’m in. When we reach a corridor one level up I start to wonder about our destination. The decor here resembles the Sith-y one below with a few more details like carved slaves bearing the wall-mounted lamps. Also, the number of doors has increased, as has the dark aura assaulting me. Single rooms for stronger Sith than acolytes I conclude. Ciner confirms my assumption after he stops in front of the door at the end of the passageway. He produces a code cylinder from one of his pockets.

“Let us see if this works. Academy policy reserves these rooms for apprentices. Since my orders tell me to leave Korriban I am not entitled to one. Yet administration should have updated my access authorizations by now.” He swipes the code cylinder in front of the keypad. There is a soft click and then the door slides open. It doesn’t admit us to a single room but to some kind of locker room. “Ta-dah! Welcome to the apprentices’ bathroom.” He wrinkles his nose. “Still subpar, yet a significant improvement when compared to the acolytes’ communal bathroom.”

I take a look around and can’t imagine what he’s used to if he calls this hall of polished dark stone and shining metal subpar. Ciner drops the duffel bags on one of the benches. I place the bundle beside them and remember to close my mouth. Flickering lamplight bathes the walls in a warm sheen. Vents provide a gentle stream of heated air, and for the first time in I don’t know how many days I don’t feel cold. Instead, I feel out of place in my dirty rags. Whoever handles the cleanliness of the place is bound to end up with a heart attack if they saw me touch anything here. I run my fingers over the surface of the bench anyway. Its smoothness makes it feel almost soft. Despite the soreness of my bones it invites me to take a nap here and now.

“Hey!” With a snap of his fingers, Ciner interrupts my awed reverie. “Do not fall asleep before you have seen why I brought you here.”

Healthy suspicion wars with exhaustion. “Why…” A good yawn keeps me from finishing my question. He’s going to tell me anyway.

“You can sleep once we are on board the shuttle. But first, we have to get rid of your smell. Whether you classify as a chemical or rather as a biological weapon the personnel will not care about. They will not allow you to join me in first class.”

I manage a scowl despite knowing he is right. With my current luck, I’ll end up with the animals in the cargo hold. Not that they wouldn’t provide a better company. Still, who’d spurn the opportunity to travel first class for the very first time in their life, because the seat neighbor wasn’t exactly their first choice for traveling companion?

Ciner smirks. “We will have to wash that dirty look off your face together with the rest of the grime.”

I become aware of the air’s humidity. Did he say wash and meant like with real water?

His grin broadens. “I doubt a sonic shower would be able to get the job done, so why not combine the necessary with the pleasant?”

He meant water! “Whom do I have to kill?”

Ciner laughs. “My only concern right now is to prevent you from killing yourself — without intention, of course — by short-circuiting your shock collar.”

“They are supposed to be waterproof.” Aren’t they? Slaves do work in rainy weather all the time. Maybe not on Korriban. It doesn’t rain on Korriban. But on other planets. There are so many slaves on other planets. Force, I’m a slave now, too. I’m …

“I will take it off to be on the safe side. Who knows whether you and Knash have not put too much strain on this one.”

A small sarcastic Ce’na inside my head congratulates me on my skill to manipulate the Sith. Yes, yes. I’ll work on that. I’m tired, okay?

Ciner takes off my collar and drops it onto the bench without a second glance. I struggle to look away from it. That’s one of my main problems right there. When I look back at the Sith his grin is still there and a mischievous sparkle in his eyes has joined it. Again I wonder at his age.

“Last one clean carries the bags!” he hoots before he turns to dash into the adjoining room dropping discarded pieces of clothing in his wake.

Some people are born as natural leaders. You follow their orders because it seems the right thing to do, and often they are as astonished at your obedience as you are. If you’re lucky you will meet one of them. Then there are those born with a distinct privilege. They expect you to follow their orders, and most people simply will do so, because that’s the way things are. Those are astonished if you fail to obey. If you’re lucky you won’t have to deal with those kind of people too often in your life. Maybe Ciner could have been one of the first if he didn’t happen to be one of the second kind. I was only ever lucky when it came to finding trouble. Then again, I survived so far.

“I am right-handed, and I am in possession of a lightsaber. So, if you want to keep your head in case someone is foolish enough to attack me…” With a flick of his wrist Ciner deactivates the weapon and clips it back to his belt. “These walls accommodate some dark passageways. Any other questions?”

I scratch at the back of my head in thought. “If you feed sugar to a nerf, does its milk taste sweet?”

He blinks. “Not much longer and we will be rid of each other. Do us both a favor. Do as I tell you and keep your mouth shut.”

I refrain from telling him those are two favors. “Why not leave me in my cell?” I have a bad feeling about meeting his boss. At least with Knash I know what to expect.

“After the meeting. One does not keep a Darth waiting!”

We continue our small procession, walking in the middle of the hallways, him in the front, me three steps behind to his left. Wouldn’t want to risk my good looks to a lightsaber slash across my face. Ciner’s shoulders tense ever so slightly at each corner we approach. Not long and an army of ants is crawling along my own spine despite the lightsaber clipped to Ciner’s belt drawing the onlookers’ attention away from me. Reactions vary from indifference, over approving nods, to open scowls. Success always adds some more enemies to your list. Violence begets violence, mom used to say. Can’t argue with that. So far life has proven her right.

As we climb the stairs traffic thins and the air thickens somehow, like stepping out of a cantina on Tatooine during double-high if you exchange the heat for creepiness. Breathing leaves an oily slickness at the back of my tongue, tasteless yet still worse than a room full of decomposing bodies. Before we reach the elevator I already fight to keep the bile down. I most certainly don’t want to go further up. I hate the mix of contempt and pity on Ciner’s face. Chin up, chest out. I concentrate on shallow breaths through my nose. There aren’t that many of my muscles left to need more oxygen than that. Ciner’s lips curl upwards and the temptation to hit him wakes me out of my misery.

“That is the spirit!” he approves grinning.

Maybe I should just vomit onto his boots. We step onto the elevator and I realize I wouldn’t be able to stop once I started. The unnatural stillness of the air makes my skin crawl. Invisible tendrils slither across my body probing my every pore for entry. The pressure grows with the rise of the elevator. At the stop of its ascent I’m barely able to step out of it.

“You are wearing a suit of armor!” Ciner whispers.

“What?” The tattered remains of my clothes consist of holes kept together by some pieces of thread.

“Just imagine it,” he urges. “Concentrate! A full suit protects your body. The helmet filters the air. You are safe inside. Every attack glances off its surface.”

I wore armor when I was on Ord. It wasn’t close to the best the Republic military had to offer, but it was certainly much better than what I’m wearing now. I recall the weight of the breastplate, the softness of the padding underneath. I flex my fingers like I used to do to adjust the fit of the gauntlets. They connect to the black body suit, and the tendrils can no longer touch my skin. The air filters in my helmet never worked properly. I focus, and after a few more breaths a slightly moldy and stale odor replaces the rotten not-stink. My tongue still feels like it grew a pelt, but the urge to vomit lessens.

Ciner gives me a reassuring nod. “You are doing great!” His eyes show some red sparks, but otherwise he seems to be unaffected.

I scoff while trying to keep my imaginary armor in place. 

“No really. Several high ranking Sith reside here today. They all project their auras.”

“So this is some kind of dick-measuring contest?” 

He grins. “An apposite comparison!”

“Opposite comparison?”

“Apposite,” he repeats emphasizing the a. “It means fitting.”

He should say fitting if he means fitting, but what do I know. Once more I square my shoulders. “Let’s get this over with. I’m starting to miss Knash.”

A short trip down the corridor takes us to Darth Baras’ office. The doors beyond hint at even more important people, yet Ciner focuses all his concern on the bulky masked man greeting him as we enter the room. Gray dominates the interior as well as the man’s clothes. A huge desk instead of cells takes up most of the space behind the Darth. Otherwise a first glance at the office reveals not much more to set it apart from the jail I spent the last weeks in. Ciner bows and I do my best to imitate him. My pretended armor shrinks a size in the presence of the high ranking Sith. Maintaining it requires most of my attention. I keep my mouth shut and my gaze locked upon the ground. Self preservation compels me to remain as unremarkable as possible.

Exhaustion lets my thoughts get lost wandering the grain of the floor tiles. Only bits and pieces of the conversation drift through to my brain; praise for Ciner and the completion of his trials, his appointment to being Darth Baras’ apprentice, orders to travel to Dromund Kaas, the younger Sith kissing the older one’s @ss. None of this concerns me. I sigh when with a last bow from Ciner the audience comes to an end. This went better than anticipated. Darth Baras waves a hand and the door leading back to the corridor opens behind me. 

I already reached the corridor when Baras’ voice calls Ciner to a stop. “Take the slave as my gift,” the Darth adds as an afterthought. “Do with him as you wish. If he’ll be of use, by all means, take him with you to Dromund Kaas.”

“Thank you my lord. You are most generous!” Ciner bows again before he hurries me back to the elevator.

Once we stepped inside I grin. My fatigue faded away. “This is great. You don’t even have to send me to some other planet. You can just let me go now.”

Ciner shirks from my look. His fist meets the wall of the elevator with a crack and I can’t help a flinch. He takes a deep breath and finally meets my eyes. “I can’t do that,” he states.

“But…” I clear my throat with a cough. “But he said you could do with me as you wished.”

“And what is it I wish?” he asks softly. “To act against the law? To throw away the first gift given to me by my new Master?” He shakes his head. “Do you not see that this is but a new test? I cannot let you go.”

I let his words sink in for a moment. The urge to hit something — or someone — threatens to overwhelm me. I blink back tears of helpless anger. “You gave me your word,” I croak. 

As he glares at me his eyes turn red. “I know exactly what I agreed to.” His voice has turned to a quiet calmness which shouts of danger lying beyond. “I remember your words. ‘If you’ll get me off this planet!’ you said. And that I will do. I will take you with me to Dromund Kaas, just as Darth Baras suggested.”

“But that’s not what I had in mind when we made our deal, and neither did you!”

The frown wrinkles on his forehead deepen. “You are right. It was not my intention to be responsible for you. I have more important things to do than to babysit a murderer.”

“I am not a murderer,” I yell. 

An unseen fist slams me back into the wall. “It is not your place to raise your voice against me. You have been convicted. I am neither interested in a confession nor your remorse. But you might want to avoid to get on my bad side. Gratuitous gifts are known to break on accident now and then.”

Some kind of energy, a purple light, not exactly a bolt, erupts from the stone container and zigzags its way between the silently waiting statues. A whisper brushes through the air and sends shivers up my spine. The hair at the nape of my neck stands on end. I am not easily spooked. Something is horribly wrong. If only I knew what it was. There is nothing to see, except Ciner, who has dropped into some kind of fighting stance, red lightsaber at he ready, the training weapon in his offhand. My hands rest on the butts of the blasters, but since I don’t know how to shoot a shimmer and an eerie sound, I am in lack of any targets.

“This is not good!” Ciner exclaims as he starts sprinting towards me. “Move!” he shouts. “Get out of here!”

I jump out of the doorway barely fast enough for Ciner to slither past me.

“Close the damned door!” His yell drowns in an explosion.

The floor trembles perceptibly, yet not enough to make me stumble. Still I don’t feel in the mood to investigate the door any further than I already did before. The cloud of dust, and hail of small debris raining through the opening emphasize my opinion. “Close it yourself…” I mutter as I retreat further into the antechamber. Speaking at all proves to be a bad idea, though. I hide my nose inside the collar of my tattered shirt. Even with the dubious protection of the threadbare cloth I am coughing worse than after my first cigarette. Kark, I lost sight of the kriffing Sith. Where is he? I blink and resist the urge to wipe my eyes. Grinding the grains in won’t help. I glance back over my shoulder. My impeccable timing lets me witness a figure covered all in black cloth emerge from the cloud of dust. Behind it at least one more shadow is moving. The way the dust swirls around them makes them look a lot more corporeal than tricks of light. I have found my targets. Unwittingly I already drew my weapons. I don’t waste time aiming. I am still coughing anyway. Ciner should be somewhere behind me. I switch to semi-automatic and strew blaster bolts in the general direction of the doorway. All my instincts scream at me to turn and run. I oblige halfheartedly by walking backward as fast as the bones and stuff littering the floor allow. Running is only an option when you are faster than whatever is after you. Wherever these gestalts came from, they did it rapidly. My initial advantage was that they were searching for Ciner more determinedly than I did. Their heads, too, are wrapped in black material. They swivel this way and that, as if to pick up the Sith’ scent. Where has he vanished to? Has he left me behind?

After several bolts tear smoking holes into the dark fabric of the first pursuer’s clothes their interest in Ciner dwindles. The figure steps down the stairs. Not one but two others follow it through the open doorway and the still swirling dust. All of them carry what seem to be some kind of long vibro-blades. Hit by another shot the leading one sinks to his knees. His weapon clatters to the floor. The remaining foes start in my direction. I fire shot after shot. Right, left, right. My feet are on autopilot, picking up pace. So do the figures. The first incoming blow is aimed at my head. I dodge to the side, still firing. I hit the floor in a roll. The bones beneath me crunch. Splinters pierce through my shirt. I ignore them, come back to my feet, and resume shooting. My opponent jerks as I hit it square in the face. Instead of dropping dead it charges. Kriffin’ son of a — the stab is aimed directly at my chest. Just before it is about to connect, the figure is yanked into the air. I shoot till it stops twitching.

Ciner stands a short distance behind me, hand raised in the by now familiar gripping gesture. The third enemy lies dead at his feet. He unclenches his fist and the dangling body crumples to the floor. With a wary gaze trained on the door to the inner chamber the Sith stoops to pick up his training blade. He must have dropped it in order to save me.

“Thanks!” I mutter. Heated blasters still in hand I do feel a bit foolish. The Sith is more efficient with his bare hands than I am with a weapon.

He looks at me and gives me a curt nod. “Thank you for distracting them.” His brows draw together. “Are you alright?”

I follow his gaze and notice the spots of blood on my shirt. I am not squeamish about blood, but whenever it is my own, there is this short moment where I have to remind myself of the fact. With fingertips, awkward because I am still holding the cooling blasters, I pick at my shirt. The blood hasn’t tried yet, and it doesn’t stick. I brace myself before I pull the shirt up to my chest and try to get a look at my side. It can’t be bad. It would hurt more if it were, I assure myself.

Three strides and Ciner is beside me. “Let me have a look!” It’s an order and again he doesn’t wait for consent before he starts to examine the wounds. The tips of his fingers brush and prod my skin in an oddly familiar way. “There are some bone splinters stuck in there. I will get the water bottle and the kolto.”

Numbly I watch him rummage through the backpack. Instead of being grateful for his help I am fighting a confusing jumble of feelings. My friend Iz would have done the same in his stead, but he isn’t Iz. And I am not a pet. My brain takes a detour around the s-word. The wounds aren’t in a place where I can conveniently reach them. I’d have asked for his help. Why couldn’t he just wait for me to ask? The rational part of me tells me to calm down. The wounds need to be cleaned and it’s the outcome that matters. Yet the feeling of being at the Sith’ mercy threatens to overwhelm any levelheaded thought. I shouldn’t worry. I fulfilled my part of our deal. Nonetheless this only serves to underline the hold he has on me. Whatever leverage I might have possessed is gone now since he got what he wanted.

When he returns Ciner tilts his head and points at the blasters. “Maybe you could put these away and hold the shirt up properly?”

I holster the weapons, compress my lips, and lift the shirt again. I watch the Sith open the bottle and pour some water over my side. It’s cold. The wounds burn only a little bit. Water trickles down my pants. The cloth starts to stick to my leg. I watch as Ciner washes his hand in what is left of the water. I sigh. “Could you maybe just pull these splinters out and put a kolto patch on the wounds? Nothing here is going to get significantly closer to sterile.”

His shoulders stiffen, but soften immediately. His expression is hidden beneath his hair falling in front of his face as he leans forward to treat my wounds. He takes a deep breath. “A shame we cannot bottle these emotions of yours for future use. One could get drunk on just one sip.”

Should I feel flattered or worried?

Grinning he looks up, his eyes a green and red sparkle between strands of gray hair. “Relax! It is a Force-user thing. I am not going to pounce on you.”

“I’d prefer you didn’t!” But I loosen up my muscles as he applies the kolto plaster. Without the additional strain I almost don’t feel the wounds at all.

“There you go,” Ciner says as he gets up. “Almost as good as new!”

I let the hem of my shirt drop. “Now you sound like a used-speeder vendor!”

He chuckles. Then he opens his mouth, thinks better of it, and closes it again.

“What?” I inquire.

“Nothing.”

I give him a flat stare.

“You asked!” he states. “I came up with a clever jibe, but then thought better of it, because I assumed in your current situation you would not appreciate jokes about being sold.”

“That’s oddly considerate of you.” I don’t manage to keep the suspicion out of my voice.

He fidgets with the med supplies still in his hands before he looks up again. “I do not know what I did to anger you, but it was not intentional. You helped me, and I am still in your debt. I will try not to make your life any more miserable than it already is.”

It’s not exactly what I’d call a pep talk, but he is right, I asked. Not knowing what to say, I nod. Although he brought me back to reality rather abruptly, I also realize I did enjoy our excursion. Most of it, I correct myself as my gaze shifts to the heap of black lying beside me.

While Ciner stows away the medical supplies, I pass the time with inspecting the body. It doesn’t respond to a prod with the tip of my toe. For good measure I kick its weapon out of its reach nonetheless. “Where did these guys come from anyway?” I ask.

“They were inside the statues.”

“Are you kidding me? Those statues are some kind of fancy carbonite blocks?” I haven’t been aware you could freeze someone in carbonite for that long. Maybe that’s why we had to deal with only three of them despite the number of statues. Then again, I have never heard of anyone coming out of carbonite this fast. Did we trigger the thawing process earlier? Maybe by unlocking the first locks? No, the guys would have been awake since Ce’na opened the tomb if it were so. On closer inspection the body doesn’t look overly well fed with the black fabric of its clothing hanging loose and crumpled about it, yet nobody survives this long without food and water. I barely managed with what scarce food I got.

“Not carbonite, sith alchemy!” Ciner explains.

I give him my do-you-take-me-for-a-fool stare. “Like in the old togruti folk tale, where the sorceress turns the guy who dared to reject her into a garden ornament?”

Ciner shakes his head in resignation, but concedes. “Close enough.”

“Are you pulling my leg?” I squint at him. “Next thing you’re going to tell me you kissed them awake?”

“Though I have on occasion been told I am an accomplished kisser, I am skeptic my skill would suffice to raise the dead. Not that, so far, I have been tempted to try.” His mouth twists slightly in disgust.

“Dead? Necromancy? Wow, you must think I am even more stupid than you let on.” I believed in poodoo like this until I was about 10.

He squats down beside the body next to him. “Even a true believer’s faith can be bolstered by the occasional proof,” he asserts as he rips the cloth binding the corpse’s head apart.

What emerges isn’t the face of someone breathing mere minutes ago. Dried, leathery skin stretches over bones, laying bare a mouthful of surprisingly healthy-looking teeth in a grin of taut lips. Two shriveled prunes stare out of far too big eye sockets. It’s… “How did you do that?”

“I did not do anything.”

Eyebrow raised I point at the shredded remains of what used to be a formfitting shirt and the cauterized cuts beneath. “Yeah, sure looks like not anything.”

“You might call me the Aratech Scythe among the used speeders, but slicing someone up with a lightsaber doesn’t have that effect on people.” He points to the corpse’s face.

There is no way of denying it. I have seen my fair share of dead bodies, and only those left long enough to dry came close to this. Shaking my head I get up. “Let’s just say there are things I don’t understand, and I don’t want to.” I gather the backpack. I take another long look at the mummified face. “Please tell me you don’t grow crops with sith alchemy.”

Ciner chuckles. “We do have some excellent common agro-genetic engineers in the Empire. Not all of us spend their time scaring Republic children.”

I laugh and follow him as he heads back towards our exit. “Those eyes of yours turning red is a good start, but you should consider to add some fake horns for additional shock value.”

“Horns?” he sounds somewhere between doubtful and amused.

“Yeah, horns! Like those of a Devaronian. Have you ever seen one?”

“Not that I can remember.”

“You’d remember if you had, believe me…”

Nothing disrupts the carefree banter on our way back to the top of the plateau. Climbing up the shaft towards daylight seems almost easier than our clamber down. A short holo call, then we wait for the shuttle to pick us up. We sit on the edge and watch the ants scuttle below us.

“Just out of curiosity,” I break the silence, “if you are an Aratech Scythe, what kind of speeder am I?”

Ciner doesn’t take long to consider the question. “You’re a battered Tirsa Prime.”

I huff and roll my eyes. “That’s — inspiring?” Who’d want to be a Tirsa Prime, battered or not?

Ciner grabs for the controls in response which results in a short scuffle. I surrender the pad too late to move the brick any further. “Great!” the Sith exclaims. “Another try lost.”

“Maybe we should take a look at the map. Are there any hints on it?”

“There are not!” Ciner still insists he has it memorized. He gives the brick another tap. “Where are you supposed to go, you little bugger?” he asks softly. The brick remains silent.

Not like it has an agenda of its own, it’s just a brick, of course it doesn’t respond. Yet, in the back of my mind Ce’na starts to hum a familiar tune. “Wait!” I get up and concentrate to remember what my friend had told me about the old nursery rhyme. The words had been Twi’leki and her lekku had moved to the rhythm of the melody. Something about a dewback in a garden, capering between the flowers. I recall Ce’na jumping across some low fence on our way home one night after the club. “I am the little green dewback!” she had called in a singsong voice. And then she had started to turn, first one way, then the other, until I had to catch her from toppling over. Just for a moment I close my eyes in an attempt to preserve the memory. “Try to turn the thing first left, then right. Or the other way around if that doesn’t work.” Ciner gives me a quizzical stare. I dismiss further explanations and shrug. “Just try it.” What would a Sith know about nursery rhymes.

It actually takes several more tries to get the turns right and realize you have to tap the little green dewback on its head afterward. The instructions for unlocking the door prove to be rather simple. Like a touch-to-open cupboard you have to press the corners of the stone, then draw two Sith glyphs. Probably the dead guy’s initials or some such. I wonder how Ce’na got them, then shrug off the thought. She had her sources. 

I am not sure what I expected. The squeak of rusty hinges, the smell of decay? The stone slab barring entry to the tomb sorely disappoints, moving aside with barely a sound after Ciner draws the appropriate signs in the dust on its surface. There isn’t even any blood involved in the process. No rush of moldy air makes our torches flicker. Okay, we don’t carry torches, but that’s beside the point. Truth be told, the whole process pales in comparison to ‘Raiders of the Rakatan Tomb’ despite me humming the theme under my breath. At this point the angry ghosts should start shrieking and moaning in the dark depths of the burial chamber. They don’t.

“Opening a Sith tomb shouldn’t be this underwhelming!” I complain, feeling somewhat betrayed after all the effort we have been through.