Kamino

[Ason Antilles]

The monstrosity felt nothing. His nostrils breathed in deep the scent of his own burnt hair, but it was nothing. Shivers ran through his skeleton, but they were forgotten. Even the withering of his cells escaped his notice.

 

Then a percussion split through his chest in the most violent way, and he still felt nothing. He had not been given the ability to comprehend it. Pain was a warning he lacked. He approached the man with all of his ferocity, saliva globules launched like flechette blasts with each breath. He would devour this man, his crooked rows of metal teeth humming as they readied to dig in.

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In the next room, sapphire assailed the creature's figure. It fell back toward the wall, landing directly on a control to a door and opening it. The Hutt's eye would catch a glimpse of what would seem to be the offspring of a Wookiee and a creature of pure, concentrated ugly roaring down the hall.

 

Now the metallic frame stood upward with its bare digits absent of their weapon. Menacing still, it leapt toward the weapon halfway between the slimeball and the sithspawn like it was racing for its life. The weapon on the floor seemed to growl, ever hungrier as its wielder approached.

[Torin]

A small space fighter slowed out of hyperspace near Kamino and proceeded to slowly descend to the planet's watery surface. The black ship settled onto a remote landing platform, opened its hatch, and exposed Torin and his wounds to the harsh elements of Kamino's pounding storms.

 

The Sith crawled from his resting place, awakened only moments earlier by the sound of his auto-pilot beeping alerts at him. He still held the black cloak against his chest to supress the bleeding wound. With each second he grew weaker. His legs shook under the weight of his body. It angered him to see his body becoming so frail, but the anger and hatred were lost. It would take time to implement what he had learned during his long trip; with the way blood seemed to ooze from his chest, he hoped the skill would not take too long to master.

 

These were some of his last thoughts before collapsing on the bridge leading to the safe interior. His body stayed in the rain, soaking in the water. Light emerged from a nearby sliding door, broken by a tall shadow. Help for the injured Sith had arrived.

[Dashel Illioni]

If the creature charging him was something created by his master to test him, then Uriel would prove equal to the task of being a Sith. After all, it was not like the creature before him would understand just how badly over-matched it was. Its sense in the force was all pain and rage without the intellect to guide those emotions in a constructive manner, not to mention completely lacking any access to the force.

 

Even someone with Uriel's level of rudimentary command of the force could see several possibilities ahead of his opponent and act accordingly. One possibility really leaped out at him among those he saw before and he acted mere footsteps before the creature could close the massive arms around him.

 

Using the Force to power his leap, Uriel leaped up and back, high enough to clear the creature's extensive reach and land upon an angled surface. He let his weight settle briefly, using it to compress his muscles for leaping out and over the creature.

 

His boots retained their traction on the rain slicked surface of the Kamino, leaped high and long to land on the other side of the platform. He landed lightly and spun about to face the creature which had yet to realize that its target was no longer in front of him.

 

Uriel nearly lost his footing on the slick surface of the platform, going down to one knee in an effort to stay upright.

As it was, he realized that being one knee gave him a better firing position and decided that for the time being it would be advisable to stay down. The creature was across the platform and that meant he had time to line up his next shots.

 

Uriel pulled the trigger of his sidearm, this time ready for the explosive effects it generated at muzzle point. His first shot missed the creature, taking out a chunk of the balcony in front of the Wookie ”“ cyborg.

The creature turned towards him and resumed its charge.

 

There was no pity in the Sith's eyes as he leveled the overpowered weapon directly at the creature and pulled the trigger a second time. Guided by the force, the shot was aimed at the creature's leg in an effort to knock the creature over the side and into the world ocean below.

[Dahar Raikanda]

Darkness...

 

"Dahar! Come in boy, it's time for dinner!" Dahar heard his mother call to him from the house. He had time to throw one more marble. This one was for the jackpot. With a deep breath he wound his arm back and tossed with precision. It rolled and rolled and... a miss! Raphael laughed knowing he was now the official marble champion of the block. Then, all of a sudden, the marble started to move again. It rolled and... a direct hit! Dahar smiled, grabbed his bounty, and ran home for supper. Raphael cried and trudged away.

...

 

"You can do it son!" Dahar hears his father yell to him from the stands. His large opponent takes a swing at his neck missing by only inches. Dahar raises his sword to strike his enemy. The two parry as the battle rages on. With a grunt Dahar charges into his opponent. It seems like their blades barely touch as the man is thrown far back and to the ground. The young champion moves in to claim another life with glory. He gives an evil smirk as he raises his blade above the unconscious warrior's head.

...

 

The last moments of Dahar's life play out in front of him like a movie. He is in a starfighter tightly grasping the controls. With a quick jolt he can tell he's been hit. He tries to take evasive maneuvers. Time slows down as he looks out of his ship. In what seems to take an eternity a huge laser starts from one of the Imperial ships and slowly but surely makes its way to Dahar's locale. Time stops for a moment as he stares down the bolt that is about to be his doom. Then suddenly a flash of light and...

 

Fog...

 

A thick haze is all he can see. The young Jedi attempts to look down but sees nothing. No ground, no hands, no body. Instead of the expected panic he feels a calming wave rush over his body. It is unlike anything he has ever felt. Euphoria wouldn't even begin to describe it. He feels truly at peace as if all the secrets of the universe have been revealed to him.

 

For a brief moment Dahar realizes he has become one with the Force. But as soon as that discovery comes to him he feels himself being pulled. At first a slight tug but then a violent pull that rips him from wherever it is he was.

...

 

His eyes open in terror. He flails violently for a moment trying to escape what he perceives to be a prison. It takes him a moment to realize he's in a bacta tank. He calms himself before hearing a muffled exchange of words. Not to be impolite he gently knocks on the wall of the tank. A few more muffled exchanges and then a loud hissing sound. The liquid slowly drains out of the tank until it is completely empty. The door slides open.

 

"Mr. Raikanda, welcome back." A large slender creature reaches in a friendly hand to help him out. With a puzzled look Dahar takes the hand and is lifted out of the tank.

 

"What happened?"

 

"Well sir you were in a battle and took some serious damage. We don't exactly know the details but you were dropped off here by an Imperial shuttle. They paid us in advance for your stay. You are welcome to remain here for as long you like. We were also instructed to transport you wherever you would like to go when you are ready."

 

The memories of the battle slowly returned to Dahar. He could still see that huge Death Star when he closed his eyes. He remembered his ship getting hit and trying to retreat. After that everything was a blank. The Empire had dropped him off here? He questioned their motives but hoped they were simply being decent. Maybe he had been on the wrong side of the battle. Before his exit the Imperials had attempted to destroy the superlaser. Was there really a reason for all the fighting?

 

"Sir," the tall sentient snapped him back to the present moment. "I'm afraid your clothing was, well, basically disintegrated in the explosion. We took the liberty of recreating your garments from the shreds we recovered from your charred body. Also we removed this from you when you arrived. It had actually melded into your skin, quite unpleasant indeed." Dahar held out his hands to receive a pile of clothes and a charred lightsaber. He held his Jedi weapon in front of him and attempted to ignite it. A small spark of fire fell from the emitter. "Great", he thought to himself. There was, however, still a connection between the Jedi Knight and his weapon. He could feel his unique imprint still inside of it. Hopefully this meant the crystal was still intact as that would be the most inconvenient part to replace. The rest could be repaired but the crystal was a gift from Master K'munee.

 

"Thank you." Dahar bowed graciously. He dressed himself and was lead to his temporary quarters. In his room he found the Kaminoans had left him a new datapad, credit chip, and comlink. It came to mind that perhaps he should check in with the temple. His part in the battle was over but there was always something to be done. He attempted to open up communications with the temple to no avail. Dahar then logged on to his own encrypted account. A message popped up.

 

"Dahar Raikanda, Knight of the Jedi Order, this is a private message on behalf of the Grandmaster. You are to travel to Tython and aid in the completion of the new Jedi Temple. Your arrival will be anticipated. End communications."

 

Well, that certainly was something to do. Dahar felt there was no need to waste any time. He requested his hosts to prepare a transport to Tython. A few hours later they were strapped in and ready to go. The transport lifted into the rainy sky and blast off into hyperspace.

[Sheog the Mad]

This beast was quite the challenge. Sheog coughed as the Sithspawn of whom/it/thing he fought stumbled backward under his continued assault of sapphire energy. The creature glowed from a hidden fire of energy, which withstood his blast. He focused on the beast as it revealed another of its kind, which seemed to be fighting an ally bunt as it was. Apart from the energy, which controlled his dark enemy, Sheog could sense nothing in the force. His greed and gluttony drove him. That was all that mattered at this moment in time. His gluttony spoke to him in a burping slobbering tone: The energy within this creature would make a delicious meal. His greed had no opinion on the battle.

 

Like a wraith, the beast charged for its discarded, oddly growling, weapon for a beast was the only thing it truly was. Controlled by instinct. Led by nothing other than hate and the power of the dark side. It was no strategist. Towards its leaping form, Sheog placed well-aimed bolt after bolt from his maser. He switched swiftly to a one handed firing form and with his other; he poured the harsh liquor from his canteen into his gullet. It strengthened his stomach for the coming feast. It wished to devour him. His gluttony was far greater than its own. This beast was going to be a delicious meal.

[Ason Antilles]

And just like that, the mottled mess of fur was nothing more than a memory. Its howls were swallowed by flame before they met the air.

 

Sadly, if Uriel were to turn back toward the platform, he would see the frame of a Kaminoan that had been grotesquely disfigured. Its limbs were even longer than usual and it approached on them like an acklay. The grace with which the species moved was replaced with a roughness as the hardened skin, which more ressembled bone at the extremities, met the rain-covered platform. It stretched one arm back and then from its arm came spikes of ossified Kaminoan threatening to embed themselves in the man.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The energy was poured into the beast, but even as he fell back to the ground again, he readied himself to get up. His hands grabbed the spear which was now reverberating the room with its cry. It would dodge this time if Sheog were to fire that gun at its body, and in but a few seconds would be sinking his tooth into the glutton.

[Sheog the Mad]

Once more, the beast fell back against his blue-firebolts and once more, it did not die. The energy in its core only seemed to grow stronger with each bolt. As the beast's metallic hand grabbed for the growling blade, Sheog called upon his gluttony and greed to intervene. It was about time for a switch-up. His stomach began to roil as a ship driven from its moorings, and his maser dropped with a clatter to the white floor. An evil door had been opened inside him. Pain and fire began to pour into him. It would consume him if it were not removed.

 

His desire for this meal drove him deeper within the stomach of the force. Through it's devouring waves he could sense the Sithspawn, readying a strike. Only worthy meals fought back. The fight made their consumption all the sweeter and filling. The black hole of his gluttony wished to devour this beast. What would be better than a pre-digestion? The force carried out the glutton's orders, increasing the fire inside him, rearranging structures and creating a weapon worthy of a glutton.

 

Sheog's slimy maw opened and the entirety of his stomach contents flew forth towards the Sithspawn, expelled by the gluttony for a greater feast and the greed for a greater influence and applied through the force's influence upon his body. The very basis of his former meal had been changed. What had been a meal of fish and worms was now fully ignited magma, acidic beyond measure. The harsh liquor was like a burning net, keeping the mass on course and accurate, and adding to its causticity. The entire corridor was filled with the flaming bile, and the corridor was to be consumed. Sheog pushed himself backwards the full weight of his gluttony and greed bearing down upon him. If the beast were to somehow survive and attack, he readied his vibrosword, prepared to smite down the delicious meal and devour it.

[Ason Antilles]

The creature's weapon howled as the bile began to corode both it and its bearer's metal. Still, the hulking mass pressed on and the flaming bile covered tooth was heading straight for the Hutt and was likely to connect with at least one blow.

[Sheog the Mad]

Would nothing kill the beast? The corrosives were doing their job, but slowly. There seemed to be another force at work. Sheog's eyes grew even wider as the beast, dripping with bile and completely engulfed in flame, continued its charge. A distracting howl came from the beast's spear. Sheog's fat hands gripped the perforated handle, perspiration and slime combining to make a slippery surface. An invisible hand gripped his mind. Like a puppeteer, the hand took control of his very being. He was consumed with a burning hunger. Along with a bitter annoyance at the screeching blade. The blade's howls reminded him of his countless trips to Bulkhead-Mart, and all the children that made that store such a blissful experience. He'd wished for their destruction. Now he was going to destroy their embodiment.

 

Forward he charged, his maw gaping in eternal hunger. As the beast charged from the burning fires of his bile, he brought his blade forward, thrusting the demon's dragon tooth blade to the side. The blade cut a searing line down his fat side, cutting through adipose tissue, but not deep enough to disembowel him. The blade tore into his bag of white worms, spilling the contents upon the fire-heated floor. As the worms hit the tile, they began to sizzle and pop, before bursting asunder. Roaring in anger at the loss of his meal, Sheog brought the full weight of his blade and bulk down upon the spear's shaft, right below the strange tooth. One he got rid of the annoyance that had destroyed his meal; he was going to make a feast out of its master.

[Dashel Illioni]

Uriel pulled the trigger on his weapon, and absolutely nothing happened. The trigger pulled backwards correctly, but the weapon failed to respond on any visual level.

 

Cursing he recycled the weapon's action, hoping that a round had merely jammed instead of something more serious. As he did so, his eyes strayed from the monster still charging towards him.

 

In that second, it found the strength to move forward far more rapidly then what any sane creature in that condition would have been able to do.

 

Uriel looked up and began looking for another way out. In his desperation, he let go of much of the passion that had been guiding him to the Darkside, and the Force slipped away.

 

Fear flooded through him, followed by shame, and then anger at his weakness.

 

With the anger came the strength to set him free of that fear, and in that moment he forged enough of a connection to the force to have insight into why the weapon would not fire.

 

Uriel waited a moment, then felt a slight rumble through the weapon indicating that the capacitors had recharged, then again pulled the trigger. Pyrotechnics again ensued and this time his rounds punched into the creature, pushing it further and further back until it nearly stumbled over the edge.

 

His arm flicked back, then forward and the whip end, guided by the force, stung the creature once more and toppled the thing through the hole in the railing punched through earlier by Rahalin.

 

It howled all the way to the impact on the landing pad so many stories below. Uriel rested for a moment, then caught a surge of the Darkside from nearby. Nowhere nearly as powerful as his master, it was still enough to intrigue him. Moreover, he felt his Master's touch nearby that surge.

 

Uriel entered the complex, both his weapons drawn, seeking the source of the Darkside that sang so sweetly to him.

[Dashel Illioni]

A Sith whom had mastered the force never worried for their own safety. While Uriel had not mastered the force, he had enough control that this newest threat's attack did not surprise him.

 

Instead, it only angered him further. Ahead was somewhere he wanted to be, behind him was a threat that would prevent him from going there.

 

The threat had to go, but the Force told him that against this beast, only the weapons of the Force would prevail.

 

Uriel turned even as the hardened spikes hurled by the Kaminoan impacted with the transparisteel windows of the door he had just entered. The creatures asymmetry and the fact that it was so far from being perfect only served to further anger him. With that anger came a surge in the force, and with it the awareness of hundreds, maybe thousands of week minds easily dominated by the Force.

 

He called out to those minds, determined to bend as many as he could reach. Two dozen, then three, and part of a fourth actually responded to him.

 

The creature, meanwhile had howled when he had seen his prey turn, seemingly at bay.

 

Uriel smiled at the thing, stepped forward and palmed the lock pad next to the doors. He then mocked the beast, turned and preceded deeper into the spire to a point the force led him too.

 

Even as the beast had begun assaulting the door, he had gathered a dozen, maybe two dozen individuals of weaker minds, dominated by the power of the Force. He could sense many more coming towards him, but these early ones he had plans for.

 

The Force told him that one among them would survive, and forever after be his servant. He gloried in the power that the force had given him.

 

He sent his minions forward, but not before arming them with more than just the makeshift weapons they had brought with them. To these, the earliest and most loyal of his knew servants, he gave the gift of fire and ice. Fire burned upon the makeshift weapons each carried, while cold radiated from around them, the better to slow the beast outside by stealing life's heat away from it even as he burned.

 

Uriel reveled in the depths of power the Force gave him, know that the next time he did this he would do it by his will alone. He sent his minions force, a small tide of flesh to overwhelm the monster in the corridor behind him.

[Sheog the Mad]

The blade burst asunder under the weight of his strike. Almost instantly, the heavy beast fell to the ground, nothing more than a heap of Sith metal, no more alive than his fourth cousin (twice removed) who had been on Alderaan in its last day. Rumor is that he died of heart disease. The force flowed around him, showing him to the only edible part in the dark beast: its still-beating heart. He smiled as the heart was illuminated in his vision. Reaching a chubby hand through the chest guard of the demon, he slowly detached the glowing red muscle from its dark cage. He retrieved the shattered Kryat dragon tooth as well, placing one in each of his pouches.

 

Deciding it was better to eat something he was absolutely sure was not poisonous; he emptied the entire contents of his worm pouch into his awaiting gullet. He belched contently, the white worms quenching his gluttony for the time being. He was in a word, tired. Sheog was fit by Hutt standards but was not used to battle. He leaned heavily upon the white wall and slipped past the smoking demon and into the room from whence it had come. Activating his datapad, he sent a message to an old friend; Dorjooba. His other hand rested lightly on his Chiss-made maser in the off-chance of another freak encounter with crazy kaminoan cooking or Sith beasties.

[Dashel Illioni]

The control of so many people, without training, took an immediate toll on Uriel. He fell to the ground, physically too weak to rise, raw wounds appearing on his body beyond the abilities of the technology that was part of his cellular structure to heal rapidly or even effectively.

 

His eyes turned a sickly yellow, and quickly ruptured, leaving him blind and helpless. The Darkside took a toll on those whom grew arrogant and upon the ignorant.

 

From the ground where he lay quivering, helpless and furious at that helplessness, he watched the wall of living flesh tear into the monster that had attempted to pursue him. The Darkside saw fit to let him know that for the price it was now extracting, it would provide power.

 

His weakness became so overwhelming that he nearly cried out with it, begging for help from whomever might still be sane enough to render some pathetic aid.

 

That was not the way of the Sith, though, and Uriel knew that he would never pay this price again. He would heal, he would learn, and seize the power that was rightfully his on his terms.

 

His captive pawns fell to the creature in their entirety taking down the monstrosity pursuing him, but not by damage. So many piled on the thing that it eventually toppled from the platform, taking the entirety of his mind thralls with him.

 

One Kaminoan guard, and two Zeltrons, summoned through the same act of desperation that had caused his pain, were the last to arrive at the scene. Neither of the three were enthralled as the many earlier unfortunates, but all three had heard the summons at some level.

 

The Kaminoan chuckled, "Ah, I see someone left another mess on the floor. Guess I will call the Droids to clean this one up too."

 

The older Zeltron knelt down before Uriel and examined the blind eyes, felt the trembling musculature and despite the now deformed creature in her hands, smiled. This one had a strength she could admire. Few beings ever saw past Zeltran beauty to understand that they were just as deadly warriors, and this Kaminoan was among the more common type.

 

From the simple, sturdy and modest garments she now war, she drew a monomolecular dagger. From his viewpoint, the guard was unable to see her action. She turned, thrust upward, and took the man in the throat but in such a way that neither of them felt the slightest touch of blood.

 

She turned towards her daughter and said, "Only the weak ever gloat."

 

From the pouches at her belt, she withdrew bacta patches and began applying them to the wounds that were now bubbling on Uriel's body, occasionally erupting in small clouds of yellow green puss.

 

"Take anything of value from this guard and call the droids to clean up this mess," she said to the silent youngster at her side. She raised her comlink to her lips and called for other droids to carry Uriel to his quarters. Both Zeltrans followed him there, making sure he felt no undue pain.

 

Once there, sent her daughter back to the lessons the child had been studying when both had felt the Uriel's overreaching summons.

 

She turned to Uriel and began examining the wounds on the man's body. Most had stopped erupting, and the power of bacta and the nanites that were a part of his body began to slowly heal him. His eyes, she noticed, had cleared enough that she saw that his blindness could be healed over time.

 

A medical droid was summoned and consulted. Once she knew Uriel would survive and heal, she set about figuring out what her next step would be.

 

She summoned a droid and gave it a simple instruction. Find anyone whom serves this man's master, and tell them that Marta, servant of Uriel Stonedog and at his bequest, requests a meeting between the two servants to determine how the servants of their Master shall increase their Master's bounty."

 

Marta chuckled at the formality and near absurdity of her message, but then too, she was having fun and figured whomever read it would understand some of the humor there.

[Sheog the Mad]

Sheog gulped down another bowl of Kaminoan sushi, barely leaving time for the enjoyment of twelve cooks combined work over three hours. He did not really try to leave time for tasting, the food was simply not worthy of his tongue. Fish was horrendous, but it sate his appetite. He heard an impatient cough as he reached a grubby and chubby hand for another bowl of the disgusting sushi. He responded with an impatient belch before turning around to see a droid standing before him. It cocked its head to the side as if to raise an eyebrow at him before beginning to speak. He glared at it in response.

 

”œMy master requests an audience...”

[Dashel Illioni]

Uriel and Marta arrived at Bay 33, beholding Sheog's ship, The Demented Madness for the first time. Nearly recovered from this recent over exposure to the Dark Side, Uriel still walked with a cane, limping slightly due to the excruciating pain that continued to linger. He keenly felt the weakness that the limp revealed, revolted at the thought of how hobbled he must look.

 

The physical diminution placed second to the blindness remaining from his bout on the Kaminoan bridge. Uriel had needed to be physically guided to the Docking bay, his ability to see severely hampered by his eye's sensitivity to sound. Any noise above a few decibles was enough to make those yellow stained orbs burn with agony and ensured that Uriel stayed away from any light brighter than a dim glow.

 

Once he had steadied himself and felt capable of it, Uriel and his small entourage had approached the massive space yacht that the Hutt Sheog called home. Before they even could step foot into the thing, they had been approached by a droid that fairly screamed Assassin Droid. It had carefully approached them, obviously scanned them, and one assured of its duties had simply notified them, ”œMy Master has had a wonderful meal prepared for you, and dinner will begin shortly. Please follow me to your stateroom.”

[Sheog the Mad]

The Demented Madness lifted from its docking-bay as Sheog's guests began their pre-dinner preparations. Sheog made his way through the kitchens examining the handy-work of his top iron-chef (which had been bound to serving him through an obscure fine print section in a television game-show contract the poor man had signed. Poor bugger. His family had been the first secret ingredient in the final episode of the show ((which had earned record-breaking ratings)). He had cooked them well. Deliciously well. Perhaps a bit too much Ithorian Spice)

 

Human food was intriguing to him. Not the greatest, but tolerable. He would eat it with his fine guests. Any fellow apprentice to his mysterious master was a friend to him. And an eating buddy. Gluttony was as much his master as was the mysterious Sith behind their training. Unfortunately for the cook, Sheog's curiosity and gluttony got the better of him in the kitchen and the cook and his fifteen ”˜assistants' had to refresh a dish or two. Or twenty. But who's counting? Not Sheog! He was quite pleased with the dishes. They were better than he had expected.

 

To the beggings of the kitchen staff, Sheog evacuated his own kitchens. He decided to content himself with observing the holonet's many channels, but as usual, a vast majority were info-commercials about useless garbage that only senile beings in over-priced retirement (attached to casinos) homes would order. (Although the patented Ground-Grinder-Dineder© did catch his eye. It could take out weeds, arraite the ground, plant crops, and roast a chipmonk all in one!). He decided to settle on his usual channel, the sports and news channel. Useless facts and news bulletins ran past his hungry mind as time marched on.

 

****

 

The Demented Madness enters hyperspace towards Mechis III

 

****

 

Sheog bellowed with laughter as he continued watching a holovid of the destruction of Black Sun citadel on Coruscant. Watching people leap to their doom was always a joyful time. That and perhaps the crown jewel of the criminal underworld's echelons of power being destroyed. It cleared the way for higher powers and less annoying competition. A gentle cough by his slime covered protocol droid alerted him to the presence of his long anticipated guests. He sighed and changed the channel to something more bearable to human-kind, the absolutely boring and droll sport of ball-base. (Though Sheog had to nod approvingly at the final pitcher of the ”˜Larger-than-average-beings' magnificent beard. All natural they say... Jedi Brand Boot Polish© said many of the people on the holonet. ((Made by Oxnaer Incorparated's Corrilian division the polish was. Advertised to make jedi's boots ”œSexi-sleek.”

[The Chameleon]

Three men orbited above Kamino. A world of clones and giraffes. The trio were common spacers. No real home or allegiance, just whomever had the most credits. An for now, it was their current client. A man in white clad battlesuit. No name, just credits. They had been sent to Kamino to find who was in charge, and to deliver a disk.

 

Gaining clearance to land, the old shuttle descended to the surface. The trio made their way through the storm and ran inside. They asked one of the locals the infamous..."Take us to your leader" phrase.

 

Hopefully they had one....

[Dashel Illioni]

Uriel's consciousness returned before the techs had finished decanting him from the clone tank. More than one of the techs tending to his rebirth felt the first tendrils of the dark side clinging to their throats while they went about their duties, but inevitably the feeling passed and they finished their various duties without incident.

 

The time spent awake in the cloning tank gave him ample time to reflect upon his last memories on Hoth. A hidden curse of cloning meant that he could remember the entirety of the moment that Sheog's various weapons had impacted and the resultant pain. He could also remember why the Hutt had reacted and he winced inwardly at the thought of his failure.

 

He never allowed himself to fully access the force and thus give that anger an outlet. The Darkside meant power and freedom, but using it meant disciplining oneself to avoid the corruption that so often fettered Sith Lords or so his master had often intimated.

 

Eventually, the techs and physicians finished their various tasks, and Uriel found himself free of the cloning tube. A quick sonic shower cleaned the remaining cloning flood from his new body. Stepping from that shower , he stopped to look in a full length mirror hanging from the room's wall. He saw in the mirror the same face and being that had always stared back, albeit his cyborg components were slightly more prominent in his skin, but instead of looking disfiguring they were far more subtly blended.

 

A quick internal check confirmed that there were changes there too. Just how different needed to be fully tested, but in Uriel's mind that testing would need to be done in transit to or in situ on Hoth. Folded needed on the counter were a new bodysuit and a full set of clothing. A quick inspection of the gear revealed that it had several special features built, obviously custom fitted and customer engineered to work with his electronic systems.

 

Once he had the clothes adjusted properly, he hooked the various weapons into place and walked out of the dressing room. Sitting outside were Marta and her sister Delaney, both of whom stood and silently applauded as he left the dressing room.

 

Delaney surprised him by speaking first, her child's voice breathless with some excitement. ”œMaster Uriel, it is good to see you that survived the cloning process. Several improvement were made to the genetic and electronic portions of the base material, you will find a detailed report waiting for you upon your ship, the Chayat for the return journey to Hoth.”

[Slicer]

"With the same genetic structure plus our patented memory program, a clone is be completely identical to the original person."

 

It was the third tour so far ever since NeoGenesis had announced its grand plan to help heal the scars of the galaxy. He had to admit he was impressed by the scale the company was attempting. Yet with all things there were naysayers, and that was why he was employed. To help the naysayers calm down by giving out these tours. He knew similar tours were going on at the facilities of Naboo, and Trulalis but, Kamino was well known for its cloning abilities and everyone always wanted to stop here first.

 

 

”œAs we all know know, there have been many problems with cloning over the years. However we at NeoGenesis have overcome many of the hurdles that normally plague such endeavors. Have you ever wondered why some prominent figures seem to be served grievous mortal wounds that no one should recover from, only to look completely fine three days later?

 

I will tell you now, no your leaders and heroes have not been replaced by robots over the years. Instead they were perfectly cloned! We have had a hand in the forefront of that technology. ”œ

 

He paused excited about the part of the tour. They had entered the area where the clones themselves were being built. An area that seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see and then some.

 

”œ In order to create a clone, a sample of a subject's cells is taken and its genetic code is duplicated. This in turn is implanted into a cell where it is allowed to grow and develop into an exact duplicate of the cell donor. An important aspect of this process is the use of vats for the clone to gestate which are artificial wombs that are filled with nutrients as well as organic catalysts. One of the reasons for this is to prevent any external influence from interfering in the growth of the developing clone. It of course is possible to alter the attributes of a clone's physical appearance by varying the intake of the nutrients into the vat and by altering the catalyst solution. Of course that is not what we use that method for even though it is key information to have. This method allows for us to accelerate the cloning process by many times the normal rate. At our current peak, this allows for a fully formed adult clone body being produced in a matter of weeks.”

[Qaela]

Qaela piloted her ship through the ever present storms that ruled the surface of Kamino. Her destination was one of the smaller cities. Obscurity was always a friend, there was no point in keeping her clone in the Tipoca facilities where everyone went.

 

During the trip, she worked some with Qyrisa on her Force skills. They tried to figure out why she was better able to sense Qaela's emotions, but didn't come to any conclusion. Qaela still thought it might have something to do with them being related and having grown up together. She had little trouble reading her sister most of the time, but that was to be expected due to her more advanced training and experience.

 

When she wasn't with her sister, Qaela spent her time sitting in the cargo bay staring at the clone of herself. It held so many possibilities, so hopes. She had been battered and beaten all of her life, but this body had seen none of the hardships that had worn her down. It was like an alternate version of herself.

 

She knew intellectually that if she were to transfer into this or any other clone, that her memories of those hardships would be intact, but that didn't matter. The psychological scars might remain, but she believed they would be balanced out by the fresh physical body, almost like a cleansing.

 

For the first time in months, she saw true hope for her future. Even the brief hope that she had for Ca'Aran was quickly shattered by the realization that he would never accept her once he knew what she had done, but this was more lasting. It was a fresh start, something she had never had before.

 

Moving around was now getting more and more difficult with the weight she was gaining around her stomach. She was carrying triplets and they were growing at twice the normal rate. It wouldn't be very long before the armor that she had received on Dubrillion would no longer fit her even though it had been created with extra room for her stomach. It was already too tight to wear comfortably.

 

It would not be long before she would deliver these children and give them over to Ca'Aran. After that, her life would be over. As she thought about it, she found what she was doing to be very ironic. Here she was, putting effort into setting up a clone system for herself to give herself life again should she be killed. Yet, at the same time, she knew that all purpose in life would soon be over and that there would be no point on living except to exact revenge against those who had wronged her.

 

She pondered that seemingly irreconcilable logic until she came up with an answer. She was preparing for her death should she fail in her revenge. She didn't care about dying, not after her triplets were born. All she would care about after that was exacting her revenge. Teyati needed to die, as did all her supporters who had helped her. There were a good number of Sith who needed to die as well. Same with the Jedi, simply because of the massacre of her Sisters at their hands in the past.

 

Qyrisa could help in that. The girl had potential and could easily carry on for the Nightsisters after Qaela died. It was ironic that, for all of her hatred toward Teyati for using her as nothing more than a tool, she was doing the same to Qyrisa. She only had a few months with which to equip her sister with all that she could to allow her to become a force that could properly benefit their Clan and protect them against the outside Galaxy. It would be a lot to do in a very little time.

 

* * *

 

The Kaminoans were not a very friendly species, but at least they didn't bother with sugar coating things. Qaela was in the middle of negotiating with them for the development and maintaining of clones for both herself and her sister. Money was the main issue, as was their stubbornness.

 

Qaela wasn't in her armor, but was in a set of charcoal robes that she had personally altered to give more space in the stomach. She was frustrated at things because she wasn't able to use her normal methods to persuade the Kaminoans. Not only was she nearly the size of a bloated whale, but the Kaminoians were simply not sexually attracted to humans. Her attempts to use the Force to manipulate the negotiator in her favor were failing due to her unfamiliarity with their brain processes. That and they were simply not interested in anything other than money.

 

They clearly had plenty of experience dealing with Force users and had numerous cloned Force users waiting use. They were wary of all Force users, even at this smaller cloning post. Money, they claimed, was the only thing that would get her a clone and money was something Qaela simply didn't have. She was now cursing herself for not taking the time to sell the Dark Dreams while they were on Coruscant, but she didn't want to risk being tracked by Sith or worse. Even then, she knew she couldn't have gotten the money she needed from that old ship to grow even a single clone.

 

At last, after twenty minutes of arguing, Qaela got up in frustration and left the clonemaster's office. Without money, they wouldn't even take in the developed clone that Qaela had brought. She thought of all that she had and realized that none of it was valuable enough to raise the funds needed.

 

As she stormed back to her ship, Qyrisa followed in silence. There was one last thing she could do, and she really, truly didn't want to do it. It was humiliating enough as it was, but it was doubly worse considering the situation and what the near future held. There was no other choice, she had to do what needed to be done and swallow her pride and fears of rejection.

 

When they were back in her ship, she put on her helmet and accessed the network that Ca'Aran had set up. She set it up for a simple voice message and said, "Ca'Aran, I am on Kamino trying to set up a clone for myself should the worst happen. These beings refuse to negotiate without money and that is something I do not have. I would be greatly indebted to you if you could arrange for enough money to have three clones prepared and an additional one maintained. Once this is done, I would like to meet up with you again. I am with my sister right now, two of the clones are for her."

 

She hesitated then added, "I love you, Ca'Aran." It was the truth.

[Delta73]

A comm was returned with a money order of 10 Million credits. Just in case she wanted a few more clones.

 

 

There was also a message attached. "Love you too my lady."

[Qyrisa]

The past few days had been rather productive for Qyrisa. While they were making the journey to Kamino her sister had started to train her in the ways of the Force. They had started with very simple tasks, such as levitating a caf cup and moving chess pieces from across the room. The first day or two had been mostly successful, though she never could defeat her sister in chess. After about half of a Standard week, Qyrisa was growing more and more competent with her skills in the Force and the simple tasks she had struggled with only days before. She was learning at an incredible pace, even by her own high standards. She did not want to tell her sister this, but she was beginning to think that she had a more natural connection with the Force than Qaela. She felt that with enough training she would be stronger in the Force than Qaela ever could be, but at the moment she was careful not to let this confidence turn into cockiness as they would negate all potential she had.

 

I must not let on that I have a stronger sensitivity to the Force. Raw potential is nothing compared to intelligence. Qaela always will have me beat there.

 

The training that she had gone through on Dathomir had been physically exhausting, but Qyrisa's introduction to the Force left her mentally drained after every lesson. Qaela spent a lot of time in the cargo bay with her clone and it was during this time that Qyrisa would practice her Force skills. While nothing had been said between the two sisters it was known that after Qaela completed her quest she would no longer have a reason to live and it was then that Qyrisa would take her place. There was not a lot of time for Qyrisa to fail with her training. She had to perfect everything Qaela taught her.

 

The two had spent some time trying to figure out more to the bond that they shared, but little progress had been made. The original thought that it was merely a connection the two possessed due to their relationship as sisters and all that they had endured together as children was currently the only theory that seemed to make any sense.

 

A few days later the two arrived on Kamino. They went to a smaller cloning facility, which was no surprise to Qyrisa. Qaela always took the route which would put her near the fewest people possible. She had never been one for attracting crowds around her or allowing someone to track her, but that was not to say that she was awkward in the company of others. She had a way with words and knew how to bend others to her will.

 

They exited the ship and headed towards the clonemaster's office. Qyrisa donned a simple brown robe and kept the hood up so she would not have to make eye contact with anyone and could avoid conversation. With her weak social skills stemming from her isolation from the outside on Dathomir she tried to avoid speaking to others at all costs. She was also afraid that if she were to speak to one of the Kaminoans she might say something to ruin the chances of Qaela getting her clone.

 

Qaela argued with the man in his office for nearly half of a Standard hour. Qyrisa stood in the corner and watched how Qaela interacted with the man. It was obvious that Qaela had grown accustomed to using her looks to negotiate, but with a Kaminoan that would get her nowhere. Qaela eventually stood up and angrily walked out of the office when the negotiations were not going her way. Qyrisa simply nodded to the man and followed after her sister. Qaela stormed up the ramp of the ship and marched towards the front of the ship. Qyrisa knew better than to follow her sister with her current mood and retreated to her room to continue honing her skills in the Force. Qaela would fetch her when she was needed anyways.

[Qaela]

It did not take long for Ca'Aran to respond, and when he responded, he did so with quite a bang. He had given her more credits than she had ever dreamed of possessing and had done so in such a short time she was astonished. Somewhere deep down, she knew he had access to mass amounts of money and power, but since she had been either unconscious or heavily drugged during her stay on Dubrillion, that knowledge hadn't sank in. That he could throw around ten million credits in such a short amount of time without even really haggling over it blew her away. It was just another reminder that she was nothing but a backwater girl from an uncivilized tribe of barbarians compared to him.

 

That thought, as well as the sheer shame of having to ask him for money was too much for her at this moment. She had locked herself in the cockpit and let the tears flow. She had almost nothing left to her. Her looks were gone, replaced by a bloated stomach, swollen ankles, and a hunched over back. She had lost her dignity a long time ago. Her emotions were all over the place and lacked control. She didn't even really have any direction or plans beyond surviving long enough to give birth and then go out in a blaze of glory. She wasn't sleeping well due to nightmares and the physical discomfort of her stomach. What was to be her greatest accomplishment in finally becoming as powerful as everyone else had turned into her most humiliating defeat because of Ar-Pharazon's treachery and lies.

 

It almost seemed pointless, hopeless. Even her unblemished clone floating in the cargo bay could only offer so much. There was nothing left for her. She was tired, so tired of this mess. It was too much for her to handle and it exhausted her. She wanted nothing more than to just end it all right now. The now familiar visions of her failures and heartache kept coming back to her. Death was a warm, comforting future that she yearned for.

 

Qaela's hand went to her belly and caressed it. This was the only think that kept her from ending it all. She couldn't hurt Ca'Aran by killing herself and dooming these three. Not after what he had done to her. He was the only one who hadn't turned on her. Him and her sister.

 

She slowly calmed down and regained control. All she had to do was put one foot in front of the other and keep going. Her sister didn't deserve to suffer for her own fatalism and failings. She at least deserved a chance at immortality.

 

She left the cockpit and stopped by the small refresher in her quarters to clean her face. When that was finished, she got Qyrisa and returned to the clonemaster's office. He fixed them with that annoyingly placid stare that was so lifeless that it reminded her of the bank teller on Coruscant.

 

Now that she had the money, the clonemaster was far more reasonable to negotiate with. It didn't take long before they were going in to be scanned and have various tissue samples taken for the cloning process. The clone from the cargo bay was being transported to a permanent facility to be maintained and ready should she ever need it.

 

Qaela had one more clone made of her. This one would have the same altercations to her Force potential that she had now after having gone through the ritual. The other one, the one from Coruscant, would serve as a backup in case she needed to go back to her pre-ritual self. Qyrisa would have two clones made, though it was up to her what specifications they would have or if they would be just copies of herself now.

[Qyrisa]

As Qaela finished up the last bit of her business with her clone, Qyrisa began to think about what she would want her clone to be like. She was still uncomfortable with the thought of a clone, but she knew that it was her only option if she wanted to continue on. Bringing the Witches of Dathomir into power on the intergalactic scene was her overall focus and having clones ready would only serve to support this.

 

Qyrisa walked over to the clonemaster to begin the process of developing her clone. The clonemaster took her over to a large datapad and began asking her several question. He asked her what age she would want the clones to be at maturity. Qyrisa stopped to think for a moment before replying,

 

"I want one clone to be 20 Standard years old. The other clone I would like to be 16 Standard years." She wanted to have the chance to live the life of a teenager again. She would have the mind of someone much older, but would still possess a healthy amount of youthful energy and questioning.

 

When the clonemaster asked about physical attributes she knew what she wanted without hesitation.

 

"For the clone that will be 20 I want nothing changed. I want it to be an exact copy of how I am today, except for the age. As for the 16 year old clone, I woukd like for her height to be reduced just a tad and I would like her natural strength to be upped. I don't want added mass though. I'd like to keep a ladylike figure." The clonemaster was busy punching all of this into the datapad and without looking up he asked about the physical appearance of the younger clone. Qyrisa began to run off a list of traits, all of which fit the basic model of beauty for humanoids. She was going to use any advantage she could.

 

The clonemaster asked a few more questions and then told her that everything that was needed was there and that they were finished.

[Qaela]

The orders were made and the money transferred. Qaela oversaw the transfer of her clone from her ship and into its storage bay before being satisfied that all was in order. At last, she decided that it was time to contact Ca'Aran once again and meet up with him.

 

It was a moment she dreaded, but had to be done. She was nearing her delivery date when she would be giving her triplets to him. She also wanted Qyrisa to have the benefit of a powerful ally and hoped that they would get along. Qyrisa would need allies in this Galaxy and Black Sun was a very powerful organization in its own right.

 

As they prepared to depart this depressingly rainy planet, she sent a message to Ca'Aran saying she would meet him on Dubrillion as soon as he was able. If they arrived before him, she would simply stay in deep orbit until he was there since she wasn't exactly sure how well she would be received by Black Sun.

[Nishant]

The DUVUCUS came out of hyperspace over Kamino, and descended briskly. Sidus was unfamiliar with the particulars of the planet's cities, but the droids operating his master's ship accessed quite easily the information necessary to bring the ship safely and unhindered to one of the less-traveled of the planet's above-water cities. Sidus liked the constant storm. He liked how it looked from space, how the lightning flashed over pure blue, and he liked it just as much under the downpour of rain. This planet itself was a veil of many layers, behind which to securely hide his master's ship for when Ar-Pharazon required its use again.

 

When the DUVUCUS was safely docked, Sidus stood. Before making his way out, he imparted a final order to the droids. "No one from this planet is to enter this ship. Keep it locked down unless I or the Master return for it."

 

Then he exited, and when he left it the ship became, yet again, impervious to external influence. He met the dock master and stared blankly at the Kaminoan until the creature spoke a greeting and a desire to know the purpose of his visit.

 

"I will be leaving this vessel here for an indeterminate amount of time. I want its presence confined to your knowledge alone and I want your consistent presence here to monitor its safe keeping until I return." And if my master returns, well, I don't need to speak for his authority. "Whatever fee you propose will be paid. I will give you what I can now and whatever else is due when I return for the ship. I will also be requiring a transport, anything with a functional hyperdrive, off planet."

 

It didn't take long to hash out what details remained, and thus the DUVUCUS was secured, out of sight, out of mind, on Kamino. Following the event, Sidus was cruising a light transport off world, and quickly punching coordinates for Coruscant, a destination he had not informed anyone on this planet of.

[Zadkiel]

No one can confidently say that he will still be living tomorrow.

 

You must remember this each day of your life. You are not guaranteed a tomorrow, a next week, or a next month. With this in mind, you must throw yourself entirely into what you are focused on today and live for the moment. The excitement, the adrenaline, the next breath of cool air drawn in as you stare down death's rictus grin.

 

This planet permits those with excess money or the will to commit great acts of violence to laugh at that grin, because here...You can die more than once and simply wake up in another body, without scar or malfunction. Immortality granted to those who commit the greatest and worst acts within the Galaxy.

 

No one stops to think that they should be told No,

 

This inability to accept Death seems to play into the natural desire of the Sith to play at seeking immortality, but for the rest he questions their motives. Is it fear that prevents them from accepting the inevitable when they meet their better on the battle field? Is it their own secretly harbored ideas of Glory or Immortality that lets them have their own clones here, simply waiting for the day they fall?

 

Pride? To think that they alone can choose when to accept the hand they are dealt.

 

His stride is slow, focused.

 

His cloak is drenched from the torrent of rain outside, wrapped tight around his form. The lightsaber at his hip hangs heavy like the heart of the guilty. Blue eyes peer out from beneath his hood, tendrils of the force slipping through the structure with insidious intent. Detecting each life like a blip on the radar as he makes his way towards the turbolift.

 

The laboratory below is inactive; guided by his hand he reactivates it and he begins the process of prepping this planet for genetic cleansing.

[Rookwood]

...Your fate, will be that of Oblivion. Rubies will fall into The Trident, blood from the chest of a dying prince, and in your last breath, you will whisper the name of a woman. Storms shall consume you, and you shall be buried where you fall by the flowing of the river...

 

A slow draw upon the strings of a harp lets off an eerie character, weeping from the man standing atop the bow of a rotting ship, pure white hair blown back by the rage of the storm. Within his own heart, another storm was calming, settling like the ocean’s waves as they beat upon the primeval vessel beneath his blackened boots of burned leather. To the eyes of deep lilac, the repeated patterns of the never-ending stormstruck emerald sea went unseen, as they looked not upon the corporeal realm, but upon that of The Force.

 

What he saw troubled him wholly. The visage of his own death concerned him little, for his death would be by another’s hand, and would be the will of The Force. What grieved the man were those whose deaths were by the hands of others, caused by a great malevolence. He had watched the galaxy burn for too long without action. Those who had been forgotten would steal away that which would be used to destroy. The long-played notes mixed with the spattering cry of the rain to reason a melody from nature itself. So was the nature of The Force. It took the effort of sentience and varied it with entropy, to form the very threads of the universe.

 

A silvered gleam, mirrored upon the murky sea, told of the rise of a city close at hand, and towards it the man turned the effete ark. As the corpse of the vessel splintered upon the ringing reef, the man hauled himself to the top of the pier. Within his visage, lay the city of Tipoca. His conscience beguiled him to linger there, gloved hands reposed upon blackscale holsters, brandishing duel slugthrowing pistols. Their names were etched into time itself, for with them, The Old Masters had defeated the Blackfyre bastards on Drukenwell. Upon his left hip, lay Ninepenny, and upon his right, lay holstered Summerhall, a gift from those more ancient than himself.

 

Change was coming, and he was its preceptor.

[Raven Nasra]

The Rosenrot emerged like a child from the womb of hyperspace. It was a sleek craft of elegant design, owned by Terra. Raven Currently was in a deep sleep, brought on by her recent destructive outbreak. Her sleep was deep, but it was no respite from her horrible mind. Nightmares plagued her until the ship landed on the storm swept balcony. When Terra awoke her, Raven was not in a welcoming mood. Yet she kept it under conrol, it would not due to kill one of her friends over a fitful sleep. So she walked slowly through the storm into the cloner's cityship. Looking for the one that called her. The one that had disturbed her sleep with visions of death.

[Rookwood]

Streaking burgundy glow alit the duracrete platform, highlighting bedims and augmenting shadows, a cacophony of stains and saturation, undertoned with creeping tendrils of crimson light. The man, hands recessing upon blackened belt, glanced up at the ebon craft that emanated the scarlet luminosity, eyes heavy-lidded, accentuated by a small argentite gleam hidden far within their reaches. Examining the edges and shape of the shuttle, like one who had long expected its arrival, the man stood within obscurity, content to scrutinize the terminus of the Rosenrot’s arduous journey.

 

The shade of The Force, true in spirit, full of life and vigour spun about the occupants of the vessel, and from one being, The Force was truly strong. It was to her, the fallen bird, half-trained, crested in rage and hate, he had overtaken within the dreams of a forgotten sleep. Visions to her had beckoned, and she had answered the call. She had come at last to the world of storms and water. With silent step, the man advanced to her vision, and in the ephemeral brilliance of thunderous stroke of lightning, he saw her haloed in light. Heliotrope in eye and lock, her personage was unmistakable, but to the man her celebrity was of little importance. With gentle words, he spoke, bittersteel in voice, kind in essence

 

“Iron and will, sister... Whom do you seek?”