Archive: If anyone wants to =)
Archive Date: January 4, 2000
Author's Webpage: http://digitalmidnight.simplenet.com/
Category: AU, Drama, Angst
Disclaimer: George is god. I just play around.
Feedback: PLEASE! I love to know if my little surprises actually work on
y'all.
Notes: Thanks to Kate and Destina for the last minute betas =)
Pairing: Non Q/O
Rating: G
Series: Out of Darkness
Summary: What if the Sith had won...?
Coruscant
The last rays of Coruscant's sunset drifted down from the high windows like diffused fire, bathing the room in lurid light. Tiny motes of dust danced in the burning streams, the light glinting from them for an instant, then gone. The man leaned one elbow against the arm of his chair and reached out, idylly slipping his hand within one beam. The light tinted his flesh, gold and rose, sparkling with brilliant flares from the set of his rings. There was no warmth in it and after a time he let his hand drop.
Before him, the Janeri Ambassador was finishing her petition, the liquid sound of her Standard speech blurring in his ears, one syllable to the next. He nodded wearily as she concluded, the guard at his side moving to smoothly intercept the datapad she presented, adding it to the stack of others which would require his eventual attention. "Thank you, Ambassador," the seated man told her politely. "I shall give the matter all due attention."
She bowed deeply, a fluid motion like a wave passing through her thin frame. "He is most gracious," she said softly, her formerly polished speech dropping into the word forms of her people. "We are humble."
"You are too kind," the man assured her, his thin smile a coolly polite expression which never reached his dark eyes. The Ambassador bowed again and, at his gesture of dismissal, retreated gracefully. The massive double doors opened silently and closed behind her exiting footsteps, the light glinting in sparks from their engraved edges.
The man sighed softly, rotating the stiffness from his neck in the guise of turning to the guard who stood beside him. "How many others today?"
"One," the guard replied crisply. "A judgement."
The man's pale brows rose slightly, the only acknowledgment of any surprise. "Indeed? Very well, then. Proceed." He settled back into the chair with every semblance of ease. The guard bowed, then nodded to one of the other uniformed squad who encircled the room.
Silent signals were given and when the doors opened again moments later, it was to admit two figures, both humanoid, one large, one small. The larger man was tall, sandy hair cut severely short, the smart lines of his black trainer's uniform stretched taut across his broad shoulders. His charge, whom he guided with a hand at the nape of a shaven neck, was a boy not yet into adolescence, the round faced stamp of childhood still prominent in his features.
They halted at a respectful distance to the seated man, the trainer bowing low and, when the boy did not immediately follow, jerking the child down with a rough hand and a muttered growl. The boy bowed gracefully enough, but turned his face up, his wide eyes fixed with quiet interest upon the man in the chair.
The man returned the gaze, looking away only when his guard extended a datapad to him. The information upon it was brief but concise, laying the matter out in clipped military language. The man raised one brow, glancing back to the trainer and his pupil. "Insubordination, bordering on mutiny. A heavy charge for one so young. And a strange thing to bring before me. There are channels and procedures for such things."
The trainer stiffened. "With all due respect, sir, this is not the first charge against his record. Standard procedure does not apply. His rating..."
"I see," the man said, cutting the explanation short, one hand waving slightly impatiently. "Very well." He glanced again to the child, whos eyes had never wavered, watching him intently. The boy showed no fear or dismay at his position, as though the grasp of his trainer were negligible, something to be ignored.
That gaze gave the man pause, killing the first hastily formed words of judgement within his throat. Narrowing his eyes, he regarded the child. Decision came swiftly, action hard upon its heels. "Dismissed," he said quietly, the gesture of his thin hands sending the guards from the room. When the trainer, gape mouthed, did not immediately follow the man's hard gaze turned upon him. "I said 'dismissed'," he repeated, his voice a low hiss. "I will examine the boy before making judgement."
Color drained from the trainer's face and he bobbed another quick bow before hastily exiting. The heavy doors slid shut quietly, leaving the man and boy together in the fading sunlight, the room silent around them.
After a few moments the man gestured again, beckoning the child closer. "Come here, boy." The child did as directed, coming to a stop at the foot of the man's chair. He stood neatly at attention for all that his grey initiate tunic was slightly rumpled, with a stillness uncommon for his age. The man regarded him, finger tapping lightly against his lips as he studied the child.
Bending, he placed light fingertips beneath the boy's chin and tugged upwards. The child didn't flinch, turning somber blue eyes up to meet his without reaction. But it was not the mindless stare of dulled intellect - it was the stare of an equal that met him, unafraid, unawed. Not challenging, for that would have been foolish indeed. No. There was no defiance in the boy's gaze. Only a steady, firm awareness that required nothing from the world around it to make it a reality.
He looked into hundreds of eyes every day. Eyes filled with trepidation or outright fear, with schemes and the lust for power, with greed and envy. He had seen every look in every type of eyes, but never any so completely untouched with fear. It was a constant, a miasma that surrounded those in his presence, one that he took as his due and used as his tool. But here, in the eyes of a child, there was no fear. No loathing. No anger, no greed.
Perplexed, he let his nails dig into the soft flesh of the boy's chin, drawing curving red crescents in the pale skin. Still the boy did not flinch but there, at last, was a spark within his eyes. Something almost challenging, but not to the man. No, it was an interior challenge within the boy himself, the fragile jaw tensing against the man's grasp. He felt the Force stir around them, felt the boy shunt whatever he felt, pain or fear, into the dark grasp of the Force, the spark in his blue eyes fading as quickly as it had come. And there, again, was the steady, sure awareness, undisturbed by lesser fears.
Chuckling, the man released the child's chin, his thumb stroking across the red initiate marks that stained the boy's cheek. Three to each side, framing those blue eyes in spatters of vivid blood. Eleven years of age, then, and close to the point of culling. The man shook his head slightly, settling back into his chair. "Have you no Master, boy?"
Blue eyes blinked, a genuine flash of surprise, as quickly discarded. "No, sir," the boy replied, his high, clear voice ringing through the room.
The man made a disapproving noise, breath hissing against his teeth. Leaning forward once more, he stretched out his hand, snapping his fingers sharply.
The boy bent forward at once, simple unquestioning obedience to a familiar command. The bare curve of his skull, skin as soft as any babe's, fit easily into the man's hand. The nape of his neck was pale, gently flushed where the skin creased, and there, where the small silver record disk pierced the fold of skin between the first and second prominent vertebrae.
The man unclipped the disk from its holding rod and released the boy. Smaller than his smallest fingernail, it slipped easily into the reader set into the arm of his chair. The boy straightened and stood, impassive, as the little screen flashed through his initiate marks and the comments of his trainers. The man glanced through them quickly, fingertips drumming lightly against the chair arm as he read.
A double alpha midichlorian count. Accomplished, a quick study. Exceptional as a pilot, or with anything mechanical. Quick and skilled with weapons, advancing easily. A keen mind, given to orderly thought and the grasp of tactics.
Superb marks, through all six years of his training, but the comments that followed were damning. Disobedient, stubborn, far too independent and strong headed for his own good. Quick to speak his own mind, even in the face of a trainer's order, and sometime to abandon orders entirely. Dangerous, one comment marked. Unpredictable and unreliable, stated another. Unfit for duty.
In other words, a simple choice for culling. But with marks so high he could not just be disposed of, as a beta or delta count would be. Sighing, the man leaned back, lacing his fingers across his chest as he regarded the boy before him.
Blue eyes met his, sparkling and clear. No fear, still, though the boy knew well that his life lay within the balance. The man smiled, a humorless expression. "Tell me," he said softly, his tone conversational. "What do you think will happen to you, when you leave here?"
"Wiping," the boy replied promptly, no trace of fear in his voice. "A complete wipe, then a low service position. One you don't have to think for. That's what Trainer Maris said."
"Ah," the man breathed. Maris. A quick tap recorded the name in his personal memo file - a trainer should not be so free with their tongue. Turning his attention back to the boy, he studied the child. "Does that frighten you?"
The boy seemed to consider, hairless brow creasing slightly as he thought. "No, sir," he replied at last, and there was truth in his voice. "But it isn't what I want."
Another smile touched the man's lips, this one genuinely pleased. "What do you want, then?" he asked mildly.
Again, the slight moment of consideration, the crease between his brows increasing. The Force all but swirled around the boy, like a low level hum, and when he spoke there was the touch of it in his words, lacing the high tones of his child's voice with the suggestion of command. "I'd like to be a pilot, sir."
The man laughed, delighted. The boy's expression showed nothing, neither acknowledgement of his attempted coercion or of its failure. Wide eyes betrayed nothing, staring back with steady intensity as the man chuckled, the laughter welling up with purely honest humor.
At length, wiping at the corners of his eyes and still softly chuckling, the man shook his head. "No child," he said almost gently. "You won't be a pilot." The boy said nothing, standing quiet. The man smiled, turning his attention to the screen which still displayed the boy's record. It came alive at his fingertips, one final record slipping seamlessly into place beneath the others as he keyed it in. "But it would be a senseless waste to send you to the lower level sewers."
Something bright and wild flickered for a second, dancing lightly through the Force before it was released, even the ripple of its passage fading. The man smiled, nodding slight approval. "Good," he said softly. "Very good." Slipping the disk from the reader, he gestured. The boy bent forward once more, standing steady as the man clipped the disk back in place. The man watched as the color of the little disk darkened from silver to red, then nodded in satisfaction, sitting back once more.
"Your name, boy," the man demanded, tone abruptly sharp. "Let me hear it from you."
The child started slightly, confused, but answered as ordered, clear voice crisp as he snapped to attention. "Kenobi, initiate Obi-Wan, sir."
"Obi-Wan," the man repeated, rolling the syllables across his tongue. "Very well, then. Obi-Wan. You are a resource, boy, and to waste resources is foolish. I have given you a Master. As of now, you leave the rank of initiate for that of apprentice. You will be sent to training appropriate for such, in addition to whatever duties your Master desires of you. This is a privilege that many vie for and very few achieve. You would do well to remember that."
The boy's shoulders straightened more, chin held high. "Yes, sir," he declared sharply, but his blue eyes were narrowed slightly, studying, the mind behind them quite obviously working.
The man chuckled, pleased. "You're very quick, my young apprentice. See that it serves you well. I dislike being disappointed." A touch of a fingertip against a signal opened the doors, allowing his guards and the stocky figured trainer once more within.
The man narrowed his eyes slightly, then dismissed the trainer with a negligent wave of his hand. "The boy is no longer your concern," he said sharply. Pale faced, the trainer bowed once and hurriedly backed away, leaving with almost comical speed. The man shook his head slightly, then gestured to one of his red uniformed guards. "Khay. Apprentice Kenobi is to be taken to the north training barracks. His Master has been assigned and shall contact the boy there in due time. Meanwhile, see he is enrolled in all appropriate levels of training, with particular attention to weapons and tactics."
"Sir." The guard bowed and turned to go, gesturing sharply for the boy to follow him. The man halted him with a gesture, regarding the child.
"Obi-Wan," the man said mildly. "I abhor mistakes."
The boy's small chin jerked up, blue eyes glittering with that steady assurance and no small touch of pride. "Emperor Palpatine," he acknowledged firmly. Only when the the man nodded, gracefully gesturing, did the boy turn away to follow the guard. Even then, he glanced back once, a quick searching look of crystal eyes that hid nothing... and a great deal.
Palpatine smiled, settling back into his chair as another guard handed him a datapad, thumbing it on automatically without seeing, his eyes fixed with speculation to the small straight shouldered figured that marched resolutely from his throne room.