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Disclaimer: George is god. I just play around.
Summary: What if the Sith had won...?
Thanks to Kate and Destina for the last minute betas =)
Out of Darkness: The Eyes of a Child
Year of the Empire 1,457
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.
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