Darker Waters, Part 1
Nima Tyruti woke as she always did, suddenly and as if she had been switched on. She stirred, sitting up for a moment, and glancing around the room. It really was far better than she should have, though she knew that by the standards of the Emperor, it was a cramped little cell. There was a rather larger shelf for knick-knacks, filled with her holopad, and religious artifacts from across the galaxy, carefully chosen and carefully curated so that she never had too many of them. Those she didn't need, she gave away. It was foolish, unwise, and greedy to do anything else. On the walls were a painting and a calligraphic print. The print told the story of an ancient Jedi who'd saved a world--she had saved it from burning. The painting showed a chateau on Ryloth that never existed, the colors far more bright and vibrant than they'd been in Hannah's little toy, filled with cheap paintings.
But she would have given a thousand great paintings for Hannah's toy, long since lost. She'd have done it every day for a year, if it helped.
Some days, she meditated, floating over the carpet, all night. She considered the Force, and all its ways, its pathways, the future stretching out before her, and learned how to understand it. Other days, when she was here, she slept in the bed beneath her, which was soft enough that she constantly wondered whether she should get rid of it, sell it and use the funds to help feed yet more of the poor.
There were, after all, parts of even Coruscant that didn't yet accept the benevolence of the Empire.
As it was, Nima rolled out of bed, rising and glancing over into the door to the baths, which she admitted were luxurious. She loved water, and everyone had a few little things they couldn't do without. But she knew too what it could end up as, knew how many in their employ thought to skim something off, just a little. The next thing the galaxy knew, they had bath servants tending their every needs, and they dressed in gold and silk as their duties rotted. But the bath servants could be made to talk when there was an understanding shoulder, and all knew that Nima Tyruti would know what to say, and what to do, to get people to do what was needed.
(And so those people found themselves without jobs. But it was no matter, Coruscant had plenty in the way of safety nets. They lost merely wealth, unless their acts were too criminal. Then, there, Nima came in as well, as the High Mind-Healer of the Empire. She had no superfluous titles.)
She was going to take just a shower today. The twenty-eight year old twi'lek glanced in the full-length mirror, then over at the scents, and the bath soaps. She'd need none of them, not even Lexia's. Not yet. Instead, she made her way through the refresher to clamber into the tub, pulling the glass shut behind her.
Three minutes later, having spent the whole time making sure she was clean, she shut off the water and hurried out. She hadn't even really had time to enjoy it, particularly, but she was still loose and relaxed after that, and she dried herself quickly, smiling in the mirror for a moment before brushing her teeth. She'd do it again after she ate, before she went off into her more public parts of her day. She didn't obsess about clothing, but she did have to present a certain image.
Once she was dry, she began slipping into the outfit she wore most days. There was little need for complexity, and she'd heard subtle insults of clothing. Generously, Nima had taken no revenge on those spreading the rumors. She wore, almost every day, dark pants, designed to be able to serve as something vaguely formal in the generally less demonstrative Empire, but also be comfortable and not restrict any movement in a fight. Then a white cotton-shirt, well made but not particularly expensive, with gold-colored buttons. Dumu-Malik's boots, which went with, she'd been told, absolutely nothing. Finally,over the top of the shirt, a darker red jacket, with the latest logo of the Empire, a phoenix leading a flight of birds, stitched into above her heart. Then, all she had to do was grab her lightsabers and she was ready--the latest creation of them, that is. Nima had redone it carefully, and made sure to transfer Katarina's crystals without flaw, but she'd given the body a slight bit more curve, and elongated the handle on the shoto a fraction.
She took her knife, but declined to take Dumu-Malik's sword, it was not that sort of day. Then, once she carefully draped her lekku against her shoulders, out of the way, she settled down to meditate.
The darkness and the light interplayed, and between them rested shadows. The galaxy stirred and churned with constant motion, and its violent churning brought up endless sentient refuse, broken people who had been failed by the Republic. Its less violent churning, if directed right, brought forth candidates for power, strong-minded people who would be of use and who she could help too, in a different way. The course of history was almost something she could feel, in a way even Cronal had struggled with. He was too cruel, too nihilistic. He saw dark where there was light, and it was wrong to see the Force in the wrong way. It was wrong to view it as without its edges, without its bloody parts… but so too was it a failure, one that many of her enemies had paid for, to underestimate what the Force can do. Cronal had died, in the end, a lightsaber in his guts when he least expected it.
So now, she had his job, or at least a small part of it. The nudges she gave the galaxy were small, but they allowed her to see a little farther. That's why she saw it: Thrawn's smirk, staring at a screen, looking and seeing something that satisfied him. It'd happen soon, or perhaps it was happening now. But she could feel the malice, the hatred, the sheer arrogance of the Admiral. Of all the Emperor's decisions, not stripping Thrawn of his titles was the one that Nima hadn't yet resolved herself to working around.
Eventually, though, after a few more brief, flickering visions, she was ready for her day. It was still some minutes before dawn, but she was quite hungry, and she still hadn't done her usual sweep in the Force to see that all was well.
She stretched out her senses, and after a moment she felt a problem. In a building filled with frenzy and work, the emotions crisp and clean as a winter's day, the one melting person stood out. She rose, slowly, already thinking on what she could do. It was in the kitchen.
People stopped, turned to look at Nima as she carefully strode through the halls. She knew she'd never be assassinated here, but it'd been tried before. Only two years ago, a bounty hunter had broken through her defenses. She'd been forced, quite unfortunately, to kill him.
Nima Tyruti stepped into the kitchen, and everyone stopped. She was there, often enough, but still, the breakfast sizzled, the smell of meat and eggs and dishes from a thousand worlds filling her nose as she looked and found a short human man in his twenties. She pulled up her mental file, and found his name. Pierrono, a refugee that she had taken into her residence.
Every single cook, including the rather rotund Malinicen head chef, had been hurt. They did not belong to her, but their care did.
"Pierrono, are you okay?" Nima asked, quietly.
Last week, Vana's child had been attacked by one of the gangs that still clung to Coruscant, despite all of her efforts. After her first choices had failed to find them, she had gone herself, and killed the ringleaders and captured the others for trial, and some of those for re-education camps.
So he knew what it meant, what her regard, what being cared for by Vizier (another of her titles) Tyruti, first-in-line to the Imperial Throne, truly meant. His heart was sick with problems, and she would do what she could.
"My wife, they say she has cancer," he said, flushing.
Civilians always seemed surprised, no matter how many times she did it, when she could read them and their emotions perfectly.
"I will send Healer Offee to tend to her," Nima said. Offee wouldn't be hurting anyone ever again: to help others, though, was a worthy penance. "And you, you may have the week off, and more if you wish. You will, of course, be paid."
Money still baffled Nima, but the Empire had not yet, and likely never would, eliminate currency. There were bigger battles to fight.
"The Emperor said that he wanted him to make tonight's dinner for Clone War veterans. It's the fifteenth anniversary, after all!" The Head Chef said, voice trembling.
Had the Emperor been scaring the servants? Nima grit her teeth, letting her annoyance off her emotional leash. "I will take care of it. He will do without his service. If he refuses to see reason, I will manage how I can."
There had been several times, in the last five years, where she'd nearly fought the Emperor over his decisions, over the mistakes he'd made. His Dark Side was nothing like hers, was warmer.
Nima was a placid lake, emptied of life, calm and cool and powerful. She would, given time, drown his flames if he set himself up against her.
They were
hers to care for, as the galaxy was.
She smiled, aware that the others had backed off a step, feeling her cool fury, the willingness to murder that crossed her face for a moment. "Is there anything you need besides that?" Nima asked the grieving husband. Then she turned to the room. "Or you? If you are down hands, I could help for a half-hour."
She set aside time, every so often, for such acts: for recognizing that one worked with one's hands, that one was not above such labor, not truly.
They hesitated, and then the Head Chef shook his head.
"Please, feel free to ask if you have any problem," Nima repeated, not for the first or the last time.
******
She wondered if the small cell was supposed to scare her. Jedi were used to living rough, and she wasn't going to bend, wasn't going to fall to the Dark Side or the evil whims of the Sith, just because she could barely sleep some nights from a hard bed.
It was going to be another day of meditation. Perhaps Anakin would take her out to train. He was the only one who visited, and she supposed she should appreciate that he didn't allow monsters like Cronal to get in there to break her. Instead, he tried to…
"Nima, you there? I'm back from a battle, and I had some questions."
He was trying to get her to help him with his ideas. His schemes.
"Such as?" Nima asked, as she always did before she refused them.
Anakin opened the door, stepping in. He was tall, lean, and hard-faced, changed from the war he was waging against the innocents of the galaxy. If she had her way, he'd lose, they'd all lose, and the Jedi would triumph, and nothing would ever change that.
"See, I'm working on anti slavery policy in this one system…" Anakin began, stepping closer and presenting the holopad. "And I was thinking that we'd make association with slavers illegal. Anyone who provides them with goods that aid in their slavery--"
The words burst out, against her will. "No, because then you have food suppliers implicated who have nothing to do with it! It'd merely make it so that nobody was willing to report indications of slavery." Nima leaned forward, and then realized… oh. She bit her lip, and a part of her wanted to take the advice back, and a part of her didn't. Improving the efficacy of Palpatine and his nascent Empire meant improving the odds it won, rather than alienating everyone, as it no doubt would do because it was anti-democratic. Any advice she gave was…
She bit her lip hard, almost wincing at the pain. She was getting used to little aches and pains, was learning to accept and use them, almost. It was a work in progress. The only good news was that she had her ghosts, most of the time. Sometimes they were taken away, as some cruel punishment by Palpatine for a Jedi victory she had nothing to do with.
"Come on, what do you suggest? Are you saying there's no way to fight slavery? That only people you approve of should be against slavery?" Anakin goaded.
"Instead, create a reward for turning in slavers and identifying clues that help them. Make knowingly aiding slavers a crime, and make the punishment neither too harsh nor too lenient, perhaps a few years in prison? The kinds of profits it'd take to counteract such fear would, at least, mean… that." Nima took a breath, realizing that this went beyond a little advice. She was helping him.
The worst part is, she liked it, that feeling that the words she was about to say would become policy, would help shape the galaxy. Even in this tiny cell, with no friends--They abandoned you, Nima, Palpatine whispered, they haven't even tried to get you back--
with nothing but memories and hopes, she could do something.
It tasted sweet, and she hesitated, almost turning her back on it, almost denying, yet again, and perhaps it'd have gone differently then. (Six months later, Hannah staged a rescue operation. It almost succeeded, except that Nima isn't quite as eager to be rescued as she should be. At the time, she'd been heartbroken at her own betrayal of her ideals. But she had learned to suffer silently.)
Nima Tyruti frowns, thoughtfully, her mind suddenly alight with ideas. "It would mean that slavers would have to pay a lot more money to keep going, and the cheap slaves would become expensive slaves. It'd ruin agricultural slaves if successfully implicated, at least… off a planet that gave tacit support for it at every level." Nima looked at Anakin, and saw the triumph in his eyes, the fire burning for justice, for vengeance on the kinds of people who had ruined his life, once. It was an addictive sort of fire, and more importantly, the kind of fire that ended to… spread.
Nima Tyruti took her first step into a larger world, and her first step away from the Jedi Order.
******
It was remarkable, how mundane paperwork could be. She had thousands of documents to look at, and no level of delegation was going to make it easy, because it was not a task that should be easy. The moment ruling the galaxy began to seem simple or part-time was the moment both that she knew she was doing it wrong, and the moment that she'd delegated herself out of power and into the anarchy of self-rule. No system, no matter how enlightened its residents, deserved to rule itself: it could not see itself from the outside, could not judge its customs, consider its neighbors, do all that it needed to do.
Excessive fragmentation of power would destroy the Empire, and countless innocent subjects.
So, from five to nine, every day, she dealt only with the paperwork. She'd pace in her office, or even go for a jog while holding the holopad. Hundreds of files, enough that she shouldn't be able to remember them all. But she does, and people mutter about Jedi abilities, about the Force, about a thousand things. The truth was, that while she did use the Force in small ways that helped with this, it was more simple. Discipline. The same skills that one gained by meditating to feel the force also helped concentration, and she'd constructed a memory palace of feelings and ideas, of strange and improbable images.
Thrawn dressed in motley, holding the reports, in the form of birds made of paper, to every one of his campaigns. He capered, he danced, and presented one to her: Victory, and the rebels dead.
Lexia came bearing the reports from the Re-Education camps, both those winding down and those in need of careful examination to make sure they weren't working against her purposes.
A lovely red and gold bird, often smuggled, helped her remember the documents that had to do with smugglers. Piece by piece she filled the palace, and she knew how to call each and every one of them to mind, knew that there was value in the right amount of fear, the kind of fear that didn't prevent understanding or even respect.
Today, her work seems to mostly involve reviewing the reports on the slave busts, and the spice ring broken up. A war wasn't her intention, she just needed to do enough damage that she could force them to the table. Even then, she had no idea what she was supposed to do about Glitterstim. Some products of Spice were medically useful, but potentially addictive, others were addictive drugs, but could be carefully regulated and controlled, but then, then there was glitterstim.
But, what was she to do? She could fight a war for the rest of her existence, which could last centuries, millenia, now that she'd figured out how Dumu-Malik's secrets worked, now that she was perhaps a year, perhaps even less, from immortality. She'd have all the time in the world to fight a war against narcotics if she wanted, but she was tired of wars, and it wasn't a war she'd win.
The thing that devoured most of her time was something far less interesting and even more frustrating. Taxes. Across the galaxy, a good government needed to provide education, social services for the poor, for children, for orphans, for recovering slaves, for the sick, for the disabled, for the disadvantaged, and all of this cost a lot of credits, if it was done with money. Taxes needed to be high, but an Empire also needed an army, and a navy, and combine all of that together and the risk was there that the taxes could be overwhelming, or the debt could drown the galaxy.
Plus, there was the matter of making sure that nothing was skimmed off the top. Random Planetary Governors might be examined to see if they were committing crimes, and punished if they were. Fear that they'd be the one caught at random would stop the cowardly embezzlers for a time, but that was all. Instead, there had to be a way, for all of these programs, for all of these initiatives, for all of these requirements, to be sure to be done, instead of being another source for embezzlement, for skimming the money off the top of social workers helping abused children, because there was no low that greed could not bring some sentients to. It was a disease, and for all that she had tried to learn and understand the sentient mind, she had not yet found a way to eliminate that disease. If she had, she would use it: there was no room for the kinds of weak moralisms about free will when there was so much suffering, suffering without end without start without anything but the weight of it on her back, calling out to be solved, calling out for her to join in…
No. She would do as she could, but there were some things she could not yet do.
So how to solve the problem? She could think of three solutions, and with her visions in the Force, she could see ways they might end.
She could refuse to delegate. There were tens of millions of worlds under the control of the Empire, including far more of the Outer Rim than had once answered to the Republic. She could spend every day of every year specifically demanding to meet and evaluate the planetary governors and the major authority figures. She'd probably even succeed at weeding a lot of the worst candidates. But she wouldn't have time for anything else. She could get someone else to do it, but who could she trust? Perhaps a student would eventually be worthy of that trust, someone at the Force Academy who had all the right characteristics… but that wasn't something she could rely on.
She could leave it up to the popular will, the real popular will. Certainly, it would be better than letting the elites who benefitted from corruption from making such decisions, but then, where did it stop. If planets were all subject to popular will, when would they start talking to each other, asking why there was an Emperor at all? And how would virtue be ensured. Genocide, sometimes, could be very popular. Exploitation of those deemed lesser could be popular. The anti-alien laws towards the end of the Clone Wars, repealed by her insistence, were popular laws supported by many people on Coruscant. Deciding the degree to do this was important, and she wanted to at least create more popular choice. Especially economically, especially in constructing something new. There was a reason she was experimenting with limited collectivization and economic democracy, despite the Emperor's disapproval of some of her more radical experiments. She needed to find a way to make this work, this blasted money thing.
The third option was that there could be something like the Jedi, but better. More loyal, stronger, more willing to do what's necessary. If one person cannot watch the galaxy, perhaps an entire Order can. But they cannot be Sith. The Sith are treacherous and can't be trusted. Yet, she cannot recreate the Jedi, they were… they were noble, and brave, and she admired them immensely, but she was no longer one of them. From a distance, Nima could at last see that they were weak not to seize power. It wasn't the Force that made them better as rulers, though.
No, it was the training, it was the years of being made to think of others before themselves. It was the discipline, and the poverty-without-want they cultivated. Perhaps something like that could be done even for those who didn't have the Force… but then, what about the risk of becoming isolated? There was no easy way to decide any of this.
But she was trying, trying to make a better galaxy.
Sometimes, she thought that Hannah and Jordyan Bell would have been proud of her, what she'd done, what she's doing.
But she knows they wouldn't have, truly. They both died cursing her. She killed only one of them.
(Hannah had taken poison, had found a way to die, found a way to escape Nima's grip, to somewhere she couldn't follow. For a moment, Nima had imagined doing it, following after her, desperate and needy. But she could imagine what Hannah, a Jedi Knight after the second war was over and everything had been lost, would say even if they met somewhere, even if that was how the Force worked.)
She was, Nima told herself, more and better than they'd ever been.
*******
The dark-skinned human, Olver, grinned at the Togruta, Naelie. They were both about the same age Nima had been when the first war ended and the second began. It was a dim room, the better to challenge people's senses, just a little, make them aware that in the shadows there lurked things that both could be of use to them--tables and lamps and a spare lightsaber slipped under a sofa--and things that could hurt them, traps designed to trip someone up, but no more.
The dark, the shadows, they were a place like any other place, if one knew how to approach them.
"You're going to keep on whining, aren't you?" Olver asked, with a smirk. "Whine, whine whine, because you can't win a lightsaber duel. You're a diplomat, you aren't even meant to win any of those, so just get over it and accept that I'm better than you."
Naelie stood up slowly, rising from where she'd fallen, the faint lightsaber burns visible. She wasn't going to say anything to Olver, not yet. Sometimes, though, pain could be a teacher.
The Force Academy was not where the old Temple was, which she'd reconstructed and consecrated, made a museum to an Order which fought for truth and justice, no matter how misguided, and which had died in the name of what they saw as liberty. They were wrong, but their sacrifices deserved something more. She had recreated the Temple in its every particular, from memory. The Force Academy was nothing like it, was bigger but more diverse, with more styles of architecture, meant to feel a little unsteady.
She'd learned very well that sometimes instability and doubt were powerful motivators. The Emperor had taught her that. Personally.
"Naelie, are you going to allow him to keep on doing that?" Nima asked.
"I'm not allowing, I'm losing… ma'am," Naelie said, blushing. "Sorry for snapping."
"You can get stronger, I know that much." She stepped closer to the girl, dismissing Olver with a look. "You're already stronger, because you're willing to learn and understand others. He's very weak, if you could just find his weaknesses as well as his strengths. You're a diplomat, and you might even become a Mind-Healer. If you find the right place to hit, and let yourself feel the frustration at what he's doing, you'll surprise yourself, but not me."
"Never you. Don't you know everything?"
"I can often see into the future, but it's always changing, so it isn't as useful as you would think," Nima confessed. There was a time for lies, and Nima knew it quite well, but there were also moments for honesty. "A mind and a heart willing to listen for the weaknesses and strengths of others, that's as valuable as any single technique in the Force."
"Yes, Nima, Ma'am," Naelie.
"So, practice meditation, home yourself, and perhaps… think about what his weaknesses are. I'm sure you'll be able to at least challenge him then. And once you truly challenge him, we'll see whether he is all that he thinks or not."
"O-oh?"
"Yes, I'm worried about him," Nima admitted, thoughtfully. "I'll have to talk to him soon, see if he can be helped."
"Helped?"
"Feel compassion for him, when you're in the right place to do so," Nima said, thoughtfully. "It can yield unexpected rewards. Now, I really do have to step away."
There were Riders to talk to. The Riders helped patrol the city, keeping it under control in a way those without the Force couldn't. She had training, too, to go through, hours of it, in order to keep herself honed and ready at any moment to act, as she often did. In fact, one of her inspections was probably overdue.
"Thank you."
"It is what I do," Nima said. She'd given other advice, just little pointers, mostly. It was nothing a skilled instructor wouldn't be able to say, but for various reasons the kids were more inclined to listen when she said it.
*******
Walking through the halls, Nima was accosted again by Lyn Neju. The Twi'lek was dressed in a dark blue shirt, with brown shorts, her lightsaber at her belt. She'd just turned eighteen, almost ready to set her path in life, though she needed, perhaps, a few years more of seasoning. She was powerful in the Force, though, a beacon of light against the lanterns of most Force users. The blue Twi'lek grinned at Nima with cocky abandon and said, "Hey, Master Nima, will you finally duel me? Training?"
Nima was in a good mood, and more than that, she could feel Lyn's emotions. She was excited, she was hopeful, and both of them were swirling in her. Nima believed in the value of hope, and so she tried to be gentle this time when she refused. "I'm sorry, Lyn, but I don't have the time to do so right now."
"But you have time to train with others!" Lyn pointed out, with the kind of effrontery that caused several nearby students to wince and turn the other way, terrified that Nima was about to do something angry and impulsive.
"I do. I don't have time to train with you, I'm sorry."
"Why?"
"Are you asking for a reason, or looking for an excuse?" Nima asked. It was a common question, one she said sometimes in lieu of the details she might otherwise provide.
"You're scared of me. Out of practice, practically ancient by now," Lyn goaded, as if she could get the fight she wanted through causing an angry outburst.
Nima's annoyance flared, and then beneath it, compassion. Lyn wanted to prove herself, and didn't realize that this was part of why Nima didn't allow her to fight, that she hadn't yet realized that there was more than strength. She wasn't unnecessarily cruel, that was a plus. There was so much potential, but something was blocking it, some arrogance, and more than that, an eagerness to fly before running.
Nima Tyruti had a talent. It was not a talent like anyone she'd ever met, and it'd taken years for her to uncover it, years to hone it, years of knowing what was called the 'dark' and what the Jedi called 'the force' as if the darkness was a cancer upon healthy tissue.
Suddenly, Lyn was before her. In her mind's eye, she was both a pebble and the water itself in a raging river. So were the hundreds around her, the tens of thousands nearby, all of them vivid at once in her mind as she drew on it, allowed herself first to become the river, to see all of it. The water flowed and changed constantly; the pebble had grooves and unique ridges, was individual in a way that couldn't be denied. Lyn was swept up by her own thoughts, her own feelings, she was those and yet she also was something discrete. The pebble was sent along by those waters, but also the waters of others, of the whole galaxy, of a thousand streams feeding into one mighty river. Some pebbles sank for a time, found themselves on the bottom.
But a foot could kick them up, could send them on their way. Silt gathered up, and redirected the river, pebbles washed up on banks, to be picked up and moved somewhere entirely unexpected. Control was an illusion, as was the idea that simply because one could see the whole river, one could predict all of it.
For a time, that was where it had stopped. It was hard enough to see most of even a little of such a river, and to see all of it was a task of great study and work, dragging on for quite some time. Even now, she missed things, most of all clouded by the shadows of her own regrets. She'd once or twice missed flirtations because her heart still ached and longed for only one person. She'd been blinded to that which a part of her did not want to see, though she could see love in
other people (only one person's love for her or its lack truly mattered) if it wasn't directed her way. It was a mistake, but one she couldn't undo. Didn't, truly, want to.
Perhaps she would have forever been stuck there, merely understanding the flow of thoughts and feelings, the bumping of one against the other, except one of the dark-side servants of the Empire was an ambitious monster, Lord Cronal, who was a terror to face.
Mace Windu had known how to find shatterpoints with ease, the points to break and destroy not only single sentients, but entire battles. To Cronal, even this was a parlour trick. He'd believed in the Dark, in the nihilistic destruction of all things, in the void after all life is passed, against with all of the triumphs and tragedies of the past were like dust. She knew that all things passed, that all things were forgotten, but he made that fact into the basis for mad claims about the power of Destruction and the Dark, in capital letters and mad pronouncements. And his Darksight ability allowed him not merely to see the future, but almost to select the best future, so long as it was one of Destruction. He could no more rule than a Jedi could follow their conception of the Force while murdering children for sport. Cronal didn't realize the limitations his madness imposed on him, and sought power that neither she nor the Force would ever allow such a monster.
He'd been, besides the Darksight, powerful in Sith Alchemy, and in a cunning willingness to try absolutely everything once. In a straight fight, any Jedi Knight could kill him, but what fight was straight against such a man?
He could only change things by destroying them, but this was a surprisingly subtle trick when one was powerful in the Force.
Nima Tyruti destroyed Lord Cronal by changing him.
She didn't try to set in motion events as she foresaw. What she influenced was not the events, nor their outcomes, but the actors. Nima was a believer in choice, and in free will: a person made choices, they affected their outcome, even if they didn't always control it. The pebble shifted, thanks to the water, and avoided one pebble, while meeting another. The interactions were chaos: always in motion the future was. But if one saw the river not as events or even truly time, but as selfhood in motion, suddenly one could influence one to influence the other. She could know what to say, what to do, to make someone different, just a little bit, to help make them into a person whose choices might set alight the galaxy.
Whose hopes were as valuable as the rarest gem.
Lord Cronal was a hypocrite. For all his speak of the Dark, he had ambitions, he destroyed yet deep down also tried to build, he wanted to live forever, or at least, to be the last sentient to die when the Dark at last swallowed everything up and he joined it in its eternal emptiness. He wanted control and power, and yet served a self-conception in which such things were meaningless. Nima twisted him, by her words, by her touch in the Force--though that subtly, as subtly as could be, far less important than her words, than her actions.
Beneath the strange beliefs, if twisted in the right light, was a Sith with all of his concerns for Mastery and Control over the Force. But the Dark didn't have a Master, to whatever extent it existed. Once he became as a Sith, he could no longer use most of his might, he'd been crippled and thought it power.
Then, changed, she'd killed him quite simply: she'd broken past his last defenses and, knowing he'd never truly surrender, she had beheaded him with a 'mere' lightsaber.
That was the power she was using on this mere eager eighteen year old twi'lek, this arrogant girl who merely wanted to match herself against someone she so clearly admired and wanted to impress.
But that wasn't how it was, not truly. Deep down, Nima was in many ways a Jedi.
She didn't use the power, or the Force: it used her, flowed through her like so much water through an empty space.
"So, you want to know? It is because you are not like your sister was."
"What? You knew my--"
"I'd met her once. She was hasty, she was full, no doubt, of flaws and plans, but on the day after the Temple fell, she didn't truly let herself be distracted by the teenage struggles of her friends. She fought against the Empire in later years, and what does that say? Are you even afraid of what I could do to you, so easily I wouldn't have to try? You know, it would be so easy. You'd die so very easily, it'd not even have time to be tragic," Nima said calmly, gently, as if she were talking to some small child.
"Wha-but, of course I'm not afraid--"
"Because your life means so little to you. Because she died and you try to prove yourself loyal day in and day out, thinking you have to
make up for her. She was a foe, but she came by it honestly, came by it with the best will, for all that she was a little unpleasant, a little intense--and there, there, you want to defend your sister, who loved you, small child that you were, and cared for you, and yet you cannot even acknowledge her, feel as if she is an impediment, as if she made a mistake to follow what she thought was virtue." Nima shook her head, and the disgust that shot through her, that was made evident in the Force even to Lyn was delicate, and even a little kindly, like a teacher telling a student who tried their best that they'd never go to college, that they didn't have the… the aptitude (said rather than more hurtful words) for it.
"I'm… I'm not, I'm not, how can I be proud of her and serve you, how can, how--"
"Do you want to hate me?"
"No, never. I could never hate you," Lyn said, and she sounded like she meant it, her heart shattering as Nima gazed upon her, her eyes welling up with tears. People stopped to watch, but a flick in the Force drove them all off. This wasn't for them, it was cruel to do what she was doing with any real audience.
But necessary, up until this moment, when it was unnecessary.
Nima didn't need to pause to know what to say next, "Interesting. Your sister no doubt hated me. Was she wrong?"
"What do you mean?" she asked, but N was starting to realize that Nima was going somewhere with this, that she was being swept along by the flow of the river too.
"Was she wrong to hate me?"
"Of c-course!"
Nima shook her head, let her disappointment grow. "So, sentients do not have the right to dislike someone when that someone is part of what hurts them?"
"I, but. They were rebels--"
"And we'd done things that justified rebellion in their minds. Maybe they were wrong, but does that mean that she would be wrong to hate me? Despite everything, I respect her more than you, I feel her loss more than I feel your presence, because you do not understand. You do not try to understand. You try to unfeel what you feel, undream what you dream, and think that it makes you strong? It makes you weak, makes it a waste of time to fight you no matter how good you are with a lightsaber. If you truly want to duel me, if you truly want to impress me, then stop being so weak!"
"W-weak… I… how do I--"
"Your sister, she, and others, deserve monuments. I could never do it, because to be where I am is to be trapped, but you?" Nima shook her head, sadly. "I do what I can, in a world that doesn't seem to understand that you can be the bad guy, can be on the wrong side like the Jedi were, like the rebels were, and still be worthy of admiration. Are you? Do you do things for others, or merely yourself and me?"
"Y-you don't… like me?"
Nima rested a hand on her shoulder. It was all the comfort that Nima could offer without breaking the flow, at least at the moment. There were things a person in her position could and couldn't do.
"I think you could be so much better than you are. I want you to learn, to act, to think. And then perhaps I will like you. I don't hate you, though. I could never hate you: hate should be reserved to those who deserve it." Nima's voice gentled even more, until it was a whisper, staring at the sobbing girl with all the compassion in the galaxy, but knowing that any more comfort would only stop her from breaking the right way. "And you… you have so much more to learn, for better and worse. Think about it, think about ways to help others… then act on them." Her hand moved to the girl's chin and tilted it upwards, though she had no idea why. At times, being an empty vessel for the Force meant doing things that didn't quite make sense.
"Do you understand that, Lyn? I'll be there when you're ready. And you'll know when you're ready. And I believe that I will one day believe in you, as I did your sister, in an abstract, distant way. We'll train, and perhaps I'll even teach you a few things."
She let go of her chin, and knew that there was nothing else she could do for the moment. "Now, I do have to go, but please, think on what I've said. Think, and act accordingly, if you would."
Lyn nodded quickly, face flushed with embarrassment and shame, no doubt, though Nima turned away. She had other things to do, right now, then consider Lyn further. At least at the moment.
Hopefully she'd helped the girl, though.
******
Her lessons with the Emperor were horrible.
In fact, at that very moment she was writhing on the ground in agony as he stood over her, fingers crooked as if more lightning was going to come. "You are a fool," he said, his voice low and full of disdain. "You believe you can serve the Empire and yet be with the 'Force', yet be a Jedi in all but name. You deny your anger, and your hatred, of me, of Anakin, who acts rashly. You're cautious, careful, you could be wise, but you are not."
Palpatine sneered as she looked up at him with helpless hatred she immediately… immediately tried to deny. She couldn't feel hatred, she was still a… maybe she wasn't a Jedi, not anymore, but surely she wasn't, wasn't.
The dark side was the way of hate and despair, nothing good could come of it, and it could do nothing but hurt her. And yet she hated him, and yet she felt it, coursing through her, sometimes.
The only way to fight back was to refuse to fight back, to go limp, to not even try to call on the Force, even though she'd been training with it this past year. If she didn't call on the Force when she felt like this, when Nima Tyruti felt so raw that every emotion--love, lust, desire, dread, and overwhelming fury--bubbled to the surface.
In moments like that, she thought of Katarina, and she thought of her lips, her eyes, her mind, her heart, she thought of everything she was losing to be here, everything she was sacrificing for the thrill of… for the possibility of, reform. The Empire would be even worse if she did nothing, if she thought she could just… just overthrow it. It'd never be overthrown. The Jedi were losing, and they'd soon be gone from the galaxy.
That was the fact of it.
She felt it deep down, the ache of defeat. The pain had finally stopped, and she looked up, knowing that this had happened before and would happen again. The punishment would always have a second round.
"You could be more than this. Anakin, he is powerful, but he is a fool as well, and one unlikely to grow into wisdom," Palpatine said. "Simply access the dark side and I will reward you. You have reforms you want? You have powers you need? Prove you deserve them. Prove you deserve either my respect or my deepest contempt, but do not content yourself with mediocrity."
She bored him, and for the first time in her life, she envied Palpatine. Not for his cruelty, not for the fact that he had no true friends, nothing at all, but for the fact that he was in control of his life. He had the power, and she didn't. He always seemed to get what he wanted, while she had to struggle for.
She opened her mouth, then closed it, and looked back down again, away from the wrinkled monster. That was the sign: she was done talking, she'd take the punishment for another mistake, another wrong word, another bit of sympathy towards those who were supposedly her enemies.
This time, she didn't bother to muffle her screams.
*******
"Ahhhhh," Shayla Tael, representative of Mingael system, sighed in bliss as she sipped the rather expensive and carefully balanced mushroom soup.
"You always act as if it's the best thing you've ever tasted," Nima said, amusement tinging her voice as she glanced around.
Hirani'ca (Beautiful One), as always, had laid to waste their seating chart, clearing out a dozen places all around them because they know what would happen if there was an assassination attempt at their place. Whether it succeeded or not, the Emperor would make an example of them for allowing this.
That was the only reason Nima tolerated all of this, tolerated how her weekly lunch with one of her friends was interrupted by guards posted outside, by security cameras carefully set up. There were about a dozen restaurants, and she chose the one they'd go to each week by a random program. Nima had insisted that other patrons be allowed to be present, but even with that there were very few people in the restaurant, since they had to be searched.
Had to. It was distasteful to Nima, but she at least paid well, and the Waitstaff Unionists were always happy to see her. She tipped very well.
Shayla was a very handsome human woman, objectively speaking. Sharp-faced, angular, with a rough jawline and something about her that seem more like a former soldier than a former lawyer. She always dressed in clothes fitted as much for men as anything else, and she was almost as tall as Nima. Her dark eyes seemed to laugh whenever she got into a discussion with Nima about her past, which Nima knew quite a bit about, but not nearly enough for her curiosity. They'd been friends for almost two years, and there were things that weren't brought up.
The third time they'd met, Shayla had off-hand mentioned a power station and the electrical generators there, and Nima had stood up and apologized and left and hadn't seen her again for two weeks. She'd never explained it, explained that when she thought of electricity, her body seemed to want to shut down, to give up fighting, even after…
But there was plenty to talk about, Nima thought absently, such as:
"Speaking of food, did the shipments make it through?"
"Yes, the famine seems to be contained for now. But the crop failures are disturbing. Were they acts of sabotage, or simply bad luck? Do you know?"
"Not particularly," Nima admits, and smiles, taking a bite of her own salad. The next course would be the meat, and there their meals would diverge quite a bit. Shayla was human.
"Ah, no hints in the Force?"
"I haven't looked, not yet," Nima admitted. "But… I will. I have to ask, how is the 'heart of civilization' treating you?"
"I still think you should have the capital moved," Shayla said, as if she were suggesting shifting a couch in a living room a few inches to the right. She had a casual way to say things that were immensely, incredibly important to her.
"I can't. But I think I agree, even with the Riders. But there's a lot here, you know," Nima said. Shayla must know her well enough to know that she didn't mean the businesses, or even the Force Academy, but instead the entirely empty building that held her childhood home. That she meant the memories she'd made there, the ties and bonds, the meaning she clung onto like a person drowning in dark, angry waters at night.
"I guess there is."
"How is your sibling enjoying the planet? Are they taking in the culture and the experience?" Nima asked.
"They certainly appreciate the cosmopolitan nature of the planet. As do I. You know I care for my planet…"
"But you can care for something and still dislike parts of it," Nima said. Her planet was backwards, incredibly so by galactic standards, in all sorts of ways. There was a willing that her sibling was going to be spending their time on Coruscant.
Nima wondered if Shalya would ask her to be a patron to Nico, who was an artist and a writer. People seemed to think she had valuable things to say about… everything, for reasons she understood and disliked.
"Yes, you can," Shayla said, her voice soft as they temporarily lapsed into eating. Some of the distant diners were looking at them, watching them curiously, no doubt making incorrect assumptions about what this was.
"And you?"
"Well, I went to the yearly Squid Lake performance. I'm not sure why the Mon Calamari Ballet Collective does it once a year at the same time."
"The Emperor is… commererating something," Nima said, with a wrinkled nose. "I don't like ballet much myself. I appreciate the skill it takes, but I'm too used to it. There's something about a routine."
"You should go somewhere with me," Shayla said. "Speaking of routines. What about a comedy club? Something different from what you're used to. I know one that doesn't do the kinds of jokes…"
"That I'd disapprove of?" Nima asked.
How many Wookiees does it take to change a lightbulb? One, they'll rip your arms out if you won't do it for them… wasn't funny. It just really wasn't, even without considering the assumptions baked in about what Wookiees were like.
"Yes. I know you well, Nima'tyruti," Shayla said, with a playful grin. "You just have to let me show you around. Relax a little. Enjoy the fruits of your success."
"I'll be leaving tomorrow, have somewhere to check up on," Nima said. "But… I might like that."
In the Force, Shayla looked as if she could, if stuck up on a roof, serve as a beacon for ships to land at.
(A few months ago, Shayla had said, right after their usual argument about who split the bills: "I'm madly in love with you, Nima."
"Oh," Nima had said, and tried to think about how to explain a certain someone in a way that made sense, in a way that didn't make her look crazy.
Try to explain how she wouldn't even understand what she was feeling, how she was so tied up in this one person that there was no room for anything else, even after all these years.
She tried, and Shalya nodded, and smiled as if her heart hadn't broken a little, and yet they'd remained friends.)
"It's important," Nima added, "To get to know what your friends like."
Shayla nodded, understanding the message there too: don't think this was more than it was, or you might be hurt.
Nima believed that there were people she'd die before she hurt. Yet, Nima Tyruti was a liar.
"And your enemies. I have dinner with the Coruscant Chief of Police tomorrow. Is there anything I should tell him, on your behalf? I heard about the case: another rape covered up, and…"
"Yes. It's his responsibility. There's clear evidence that his procedures are flawed," Nima said, feeling the anger, letting herself utilize it. She should be angry: to deny the anger was to deny that something was wrong in the world, she felt now. "Some things cannot be helped. I am not guilty of every crime every person technically under my jurisdiction commits. But I am
responsible for them, especially if I do nothing about them." Nima's voice grew colder, and she bit her lip, turning away. She never wanted to talk to that to someone who, while they might technically be a sort of subordinate in an absolute sense, were not someone they just commanded. Someone who was, in fact, a friend.
That voice was the one she used, sometimes, before she killed someone, or before she ruined them. And she had ruined people. She'd done it before and would do it again.
"What should I tell him?"
"That those who fail at their duties will be removed, and one of their duties is to protect the citizens, not harm them. And that the Riders exist for a reason, and that perhaps a little more power might find its way to them, if he persists at his games and his blue line."
"Removed? Should I be threatening death, or re-education?"
"Not death, no," Nima said, ignoring her temptations. She… often didn't find it in her to spend the time sending hardened slavers to re-education camps. But, she was trying to keep the fear of the underlings at the right… pitch. "Re-education is enough. Thank you for this," Nima said. "It saves me time, and… I know that you don't have to do this."
"I'm doing it because you're my friend, and you gave me very good holovid recommendations. Have you watched any more of them?"
"Oh, there was a lovely murder mystery," Nima said, absently. She'd watched it the other night, just to see if perhaps… well, nothing. "I knew who the killer was within twenty minutes, but there were some twists as to how she did it."
Nima had watched it, even though she didn't have time. She watched at least one such holovid every week. Again, just in case…
"Oh, interesting. I'll ask for the name before we leave, unless it's one of the ones that hasn't been released yet?"
Nima flushed, smiling a little. "No, this one is… well, it will be released in two days. It was an advanced copy.-" Which was a luxury she hadn't asked for, but the fact that she occasionally watched holovids had gotten out, and then everyone sent theirs hoping for a recommendation. She'd ignored them, despite the temptation for several of the works.
"Of course it was. It's fun, seeing how little you enjoy the kinds of things that go to people's heads," Shayla admitted, with a grin. But there was genuine feeling in her voice, and in the Force, while she couldn't feel the love (couldn't let herself feel it) the other emotions all seemed to point towards it, as if they were an outline of it.
"Except baths," Nima said.
"Except baths. Something about you and water. Yet not water ballet."
"No, not water ballet. I…" Nima hesitated, and then decided to make a counteroffer. "How about this? You were talking about going out somewhere as friends. Why don't we find some art galleries that are open? Or events in that nature. I could learn a little bit more about the Coruscanti Art Scene. It'd help me connect with your sibling, know where if anywhere they would need a little help."
She emphasized little. She wasn't going to jumpstart someone's career, but if they needed advice, or perhaps the right holopad numbers, she could do that. It'd be different if Shalya's sibling had been a politician, in all honesty.
"I'd love that," Shayla said, with a soft smile. "Now, when's the next course coming out, because I'm hungry--"
Nima gestured. They held the courses sometimes, when they realized that the two of them were talking.
The waitress came back, with a wide smile and more food.
Nima smiled back, a part of her mind still thinking about the police, reeducation, and the Riders: but her attention for the moment diverted into pleasant company and the promise of art in her future.
If only her next stop wasn't the Emperor's courts.
********
A/N: And so ends part 1.
