Twin tridents of lightning surged across the lowlying skies of Iscera. The congested atmosphere bled through in clotted tones of red and orange, as volatile gases reacted with the charged violence of the storm. Torrential gusts of wind and wet snow buffeted the hull of the Prodigal, layering the freighter with a secondary armor plate of thick ice. Bearing no exterior signature or running lights, the YT-1300 sat alone on an exposed pad, isolated from the main traffic of the Iscerian spaceport.
Lightning briefly illuminated the interior of the Prodigal’s bridge. Fable Astin sat tentatively, contemplating thestorm. Exhausted and sickened, the young Jedi ran her fingers through the matted tangle of her hair, draping the unruly mane over her shoulders. The tapered waistline of her flight jacket accentuated her slender waist and the lengthy lines of her legs and thighs. She winced irritably shifting position to relieve the pinch of her gray pirate leggings, which had gathered in the hacks of her knees. The slight motion rattled the heavy blaster at her hip and caused the lightsaber to fall into the cushion beside her.
Fable flipped the comm switch for the tenth time, waiting for the computer to bring up the stored message from the ship’s logs. The featureless image emerged from the mini-holovid, realigning itself into the face and upper torso of a woman. Prematurely gray with the burden of command, auburn hair curled at the shoulders of her uniform, which bore the insignia of a Rebel Alliance officer. “Greetings Captain Astin and to your Harrier Infiltration team. This is Commander Beatonn of the Rebel frigate, V’nnuk’rk.” Beatonn paused briefly, interrupted by the distant blare of a proximity alarm. “Your objective is very clear, captain. The Empire has begun construction on a communications bunker on Nysza III. Your orders are to destroy the bunker before it can be completed. Good luck, captain, and may the Force be with you.” The holo-communication ended amid static discharge and interference.
Fable toggled the erasure switch, deleting the transmission, it was a duty long overdue. Nearly 17 hours had passed since the completion of their objective, which had resulted in the untimely death of her technical officer, Arecelis Acosta. “Did you know that he was half Human?”
“I’d heard rumors,” Deke Holman replied. The auxiliary control lights cast a surreal aura over his handsome but grim face and the shock of fiery, red hair crowning his cumbersome head. A Socorran, he was dark-skinned and rugged, wearing the traditional gold hoop in his left ear lobe. Still damp from their misadventure on Nysza III, he leaned forward and stared into the holographic etching secured on the viewscreen. He recognized his own stout figure, framed on each side by his companions. On the right, his captain and friend, Fable Astin, smiled as he tickled her neck. To the left, Arecelis Acosta was playfully feigning a punch.
The Coynite was nearly 2.2 meters tall, powerfully built at the chest and shoulders. His body was covered with a fine blanket of blue-black fur, which was intricately braided around his neck and ears. In the etching, his thick fingers grasped at Deke’s forearm, easily making the circumference of his flesh. Arecelis’ other hand was balled into a fist as the Coynite feigned an incoming punch.
Deke shook his head, thoughtfully pursing his thick lips. “I’m really going to miss him.” He sniffed disdainfully, slumping against the back of the acceleration chair. “No wonder there was no security in that bunker. Who would have thought a Jedi would be there?” Rubbing his forehead, he sighed. “At least you were with us.”
“Didn’t do Arecelis much good,” Fable scoffed. Her body was bruised from her momentary encounter with Vialco, a dark Jedi assigned to the garrison. One feint and one block was all he needed to launch her across the width of the construction corridor. Trembling with rage, all Fable could do was stare up at him, as his mocking laughter echoed through the empty ceiling tiles above the complex. Her limited skills were no challenge to him and she had undermined herself by drawing her lightsaber in anger, opening herself to the dark side.
“Smells like a gundark crawled into the nav computer and died. It reeks in here!” The exacerbated Jedi threw her gloves onto the console, acutely aware of the stench permeating the bridge. During their escape from the bunker, they had been forced to dive into a construction tunnel full of stagnant water. The scent was prolific. “We need to get out of here. Is there a bar or something in town?”
“This is pretty much a dry world, capt’n,” Deke replied. “But when I went to pick up those rations, I passed a little theater on the boulevard. Evidently, it’s the last show before the winter break and the owners are giving away tickets.”
“Did you get any?”
“Didn’t have much of a choice. The kid nearly knocked me down trying to give the last two away.”
“What’s it called?”
Posing valiantly, Deke stood up and put his hand over his chest. In a deep voice, he declared. “For the Want of an Empire.”
“Wonderful,” Fable grumbled, leading the way out of the flight cabin. “l can’t wait to see this.”
Against the elaborate backdrop of the stage, the clashing of swords echoed from the inner recesses of the set. The dual ended abruptly, with the edge of one prop sword slicing cleanly through the other, detonating the small charge inside to provide the dramatic effect of a lightsaber exploding through metal. Panting and fatigued, the actors separated, retreating to the far edges of the mock cave.
Fable focused on the mesmerizing movements of the lead actor. A subtle trick in the theater lighting enhanced the malevolence of his character, a tragic hero bent on destroying his one-time friend and companion. Captivated by the last moments of the scene, she sat on the edge of her seat, waiting for him to speak.
The audience gasped as the sword sliced the air only millimeters from one actor’s face, feigning the dreaded death blow. As his rival died at his feet, the hero turned toward the audience. “Come my good fellows,” he announced in a clear, resonating tone, “let us part this sad scene, and through our good company, make the journey shorter.” The curtain closed as the stage hands emerged to reset for the final act.
Fable sat back in her chair. “Did you see that?” She covered her mouth, laughing anxiously into her hand. “His technique is almost flawless.” Scanning the glossy holo-program, she whispered. “What’s his name?”
“Jaalib Brandl.”
“I want to meet him.” Turning on the wary Socorran, she squeezed his knees tightly. “You speak Iscerian, don’t you? Talk to the owner.”
Grumbling under his breath. Deke moved away from his seat and toward the aisle. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Through most of the final act, Fable sat with the actor’s image across her lap, comparing the picture with every minute expression of his youthful, almost adolescent face. The Force was with him and she felt it, moving through the audience with a tangible presence. She marveled at the dangerous parallel dimensions of reality and the lay, where a young councilman began a slow rise into the inner circles of high government, only to discover corruption in every facet of its existence. In act two, he initiated a campaign to end the deterioration of the bureaucracy. But as his vision expanded in the third act, it became a ruthless autocracy, bent on exterminating its enemies and all who opposed it.
For the final scene, the hero stood alone in a splintered universe of his creation, devoid of hope, life, family, or friends. In a final affirmation, gazing out over the audience, he briefly met her eyes and held her captive. On his dying breath, he gasped, “For the want of an empire … all humanity was lost.”
Collapsing to the stage floor, the hero perished amid a thunderous echo of applause. Fable was one of the first to stand, eagerly applauding the performance, and joined the audience’s shouted accolades as the minor characters retu
rned to the stage to take their bows. From the side wall, she spotted Deke waving for her to join him in the aisle.
“Come on,” Deke whispered, leading her out of a side door. “Most of the actors stay and hobnob with the audience; but a stage hand told me that Brandl’s already heading back to his quarters.”
“There he is!” Fable shouted, as the door slammed shut behind them. “That’s him!” she gushed, recognizing the actor’s costume robes. “Brandl!” she shouted, sliding down the icy stairwell. “Jaalib Brandl?”
The actor hesitated as the young woman scampered across the ice toward him. She was moving too rapidly for the footing, sliding precariously with every stride. Dropping his bag. Jaalib stepped forward as her legs slipped from beneath her, anchoring the young woman in his arms. “That was quite an entrance,” he teased.
“That was quite a performance!” Fable countered. Flushing crimson with embarrassment, she stepped away from him and laughed nervously, covering her reaction with a smile. “Where did you learn to use a sword like that?”
“An actor needs a variety of exotic skills,” Jaalib replied with a grin. “It’s the only way to insure longevity in this profession.” Retrieving his bag, he whispered, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a long flight ahead of me tomorrow. Good night, Miss … Miss …”
“Fable. Fable Astin.”
“Good night, Miss Astin.” His smile deepened. “Fable.”
“Good night,” Fable sighed, watching the outline of his robes vanish in the shadows of the theater courtyard. Teeth chattering, she stared into the darkness for a long moment.
“Come on, Fable!” Deke complained. “It’s freezing out here. Let’s get back to the ship.”
The pressure in Fable’s lungs was building rapidly. Trapped by stormtroopers in the construction tube, she was desperate to find a quick escape for her infiltration team. They were 15 minutes off schedule with a load of thermal detonators on their backs, each timed to go off in less than 40 minutes, regardless of their safety. If they did not reach the objective site soon, no one would be alive to complete their mission.
Fable reached in front of her, tapping Arecelis on the shoulder. As the Coynite turned, his features began to distend and shift, blending into the harsh, angular jaw of Vialco, the dark Jedi they would later encounter in the command station. “Had you given yourself to the passion, he might still be alive,” he taunted. “Your feelings can do little for him now,”
Yanking the lightsaber from her belt, Fable lunged savagely. She faked a left feint, deftly bringing the lightsaber down and across to the right.
“That’s it, girl! Anger is the control. Your fear is the power. And your fear is great, little one.” His voice reverberated through the darkness, washing over her consciousness. “You have taken your first small steps toward the ultimate ecstasy. Now awake and open yourself to the true power.”
He’s in my room! Fable thought frantically, struggling with the nightmare. The lightsaber flared in her grip, burning her hand, and she dropped it to the floor. As the weapon clanked against the deck plates. Fable woke frantically to find herself standing in the center of her cabin. She recoiled in horror when she saw her seared palm. Dropping to the floor, Fable curled into a fetal ball on the floor and rocked from side to side, desperate to quell the pain. The young Jedi called on the power of the Force to control the injury; but the throbbing wound’s anger did not subside, nor did she feel the sense of inner peace that came with the summoning of the Force.
Fumbling with the light control beside her bunk, Fable cradled her injured hand against her. She snatched the lightsaber from the deck and threw it into the mirror, shattering glass fragments across the small personal gear locker. Stumbling to the sink unit, she tripped the sensor, stifling a scream as the jets blew cool, moist air over the cauterized wound. As the soothing jets blew over her and her tears, she slumped to the floor. In one moment of grief, one step from the path of light, she had changed the course of her future, betraying herself, her love of the Jedi, and the teachings of her mother.
On the table beside her bunk, the holo-image of her mother grinned inanely at her. In the fragmented remains of the mirror, Fable saw that same face, younger and smoother; but there was something noticeably sinister about the features — her features.
“Fable!” She heard the frantic pitch in Deke’s voice as the Socorran hurried through the cabin hatch. Pulling herself up from the floor, she slowly moved along with him as he guided her to the bunk. “What happened?” he gasped, examining the ugly wound carved into her flesh.
“It was him,” Fable whispered. “He was here.”
“Who?” the Socorran demanded, wrapping the burn in sterile gauze.
“Vialco. At least that’s what he calls himself.” She winced as the burn pulled at the tender skin. “He’s coming for me. To turn me to the dark side. And there’s nothing I can do to stop him!”
Ignorant of the Jedi’s true troubles, Deke snarled, “You know I’ll go down with you, capt’n. What do you need me to do?”
Hiding her frightened face beneath the shadow of her long hair, she whispered, “Deke, I need you to run a background check on Jaalib Brandl. Do you have access to the civilian database?”
“Having access and getting access is the same thing to me. But how’s that going to help, Fable?”
“Please Deke, I can’t explain it right now,” she whispered, perceiving the jealous glint in his eyes.
Deke nodded, rising to his feet. “I’m on it.”
Heavy snow blanketed the exterior lots of the Iscera spaceport, throwing layer upon downy layer over the hulls of the freighters docked in the outer arena. The steady flow of large, cumbersome flakes cut visibility nearly in half, hampering Fable’s efforts to see through the viewscreen into the internal docking bays nearby. “What have you found?” she asked, sitting down in the co-pilot’s chair. A cup of soup warmed her good hand, bringing a small measure of strength to her exhausted body.
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Deke sighed. Staring into the terminal, he watched the information scroll across the screen. “The civilian logs don’t show very much, Jaalib Brandl, 17 years old, orphaned at age 12. No known relatives within the Imperial sectors. Lived with a family friend, Otias Atori, and then left to pursue a career in theater. There were no records of him even existing before the age of 12.” He sat back in the chair. “That’s when I got suspicious.”
“Suspicious?” Fable probed. “Why?”
“The Imperials have a sneaky practice of creating people, swapping records to implant operatives among the populace. The only way to trace them is through their records. If you look hard enough, every once in a while,” he smirked confidently, “you’ll find a hole.”
“Like no records before a certain age?”
“Uh-huh. So I started cross-referencing in that Imperial database we intercepted. Only I forgot to use his first name. Look what came up” The image of an older man appeared on the screen. There was a brooding, sinister edge to his handsome face, a piercing glare and an arrogant smirk that gave the impression that he was posing. “See any family resemblance?”
“Lord Adalric Brandl,” Fable read the information. “An actor?”
“And this was his biggest and best role yet.” Deke tapped the control panel. A restricted information bar flashed across the screen as he accessed the code.
Fable set her cup aside, afraid that her trembling hands might spill the hot liquid into her lap. “An Imperial Inquisitor? Brandl’s father is a Jedi-killer?”
“The Alliance has official notices about this maniac all over the network. Avoid at all costs, executive order 2354. This guy was bad news.”
“Was?”
“Evidently Brandl went rogue and took off, prompting a galaxy-wide manhunt. They found him,” Deke shuddered, “following a string of corpses that he left from one sector to the next. And when they finally caught him, he went berserk and committed suicide.” The status line scrolled over th
e image of Brandl’s face, flashing the word “deceased” across the screen.
“What’s that?” Fable pointed to the corner of the terminal.
“It’s an Imperial code about notifying next of kin. This one means the body was never recovered.”
“Never recovered? Never recovered by the family or never found?”
“Can’t tell you, capt’n. Wasn’t there.”
Fable strummed her fingers lightly against her thigh, feeling the lightsaber’s slight weight against her hip.
“I’ve seen that look before,” Deke grumbled pensively. Fumbling with the control panel, he reached into the mass confusion of the circuitry boards beneath the shield generator controls and relieved a dusty bottle of Socorran raava. “Here,” he gave it to her. Then removing the earring from his lobe, he handed the golden loop to her as well. “I noticed the port manager is Socorran. Give him the earring and tell him you need a ship. Then give him the bottle him know that he can discuss the terms with me.”
Fable wiped at her cheek, feeling the moisture beneath her fingertips “You’re a good friend, Deke.”
“That’s what they tell me,” he sighed, propping his legs against the console. “Now go on,” he fussed, “before I change my mind.”
Quietly, Fable walked into the corridor beyond the flight bridge.
“Fable?” Deke whispered, as she hesitated, lingering beneath the bulkhead. “If Brandl’s alive, he’s got nothing to lose.”
“At this point, Deke, neither do I.”
The hyperdrive cue pulsed, startling Fable to consciousness. She rubbed at the bruise swelling on her forehead where she had knocked it soundly against the canopy of the X-wing. “No bad dreams?” she sighed with a half smile. From above, an abrupt movement distracted her and before she could utter one sound, the body of Arecelis came crashing through the cockpit shield, bringing the icy grasp of space. As the air was drawn from her lungs, Vialco stood over her, straddling the cockpit and mocking her with his deep, throaty laughter.
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