Moving on to more important things

[Kriel Firin]

Kriel completed his meditation and opened his eyes. His flame-savaged face stared back at him from out of the reflective black transparisteel of his pressurized meditation chamber. Without the neural connection to his armor, he was conscious of the stumps of his left leg, the ruin of his right arm, the perpetual pain in his flesh. He welcomed it. Pain fed his hate, and hate fed his strength. Once, he had meditated to connect to the Force. Now he meditated to sharpen the edges of his anger.

He stared at his reflection a long time. His injuries had deformed his body, left it broken, but they'd perfected his spirit, strengthening his connection to the Force. Suffering had birthed insight.

An automated metal arm held the armour's helmet and faceplate over his head, a doom soon to descend. The eyes of the faceplate, which intimidated many, were no peer to his unmasked eyes. From within a sea of scars, his gaze simmered with controlled, harnessed fury.

Drawing on the Force, he activated the automated arm. It descended and the helmet and faceplate wrapped his head in metal and plasteel, the shell in which he existed. He welcomed the spikes of pain when the helmet's neural needles stabbed into the flesh of his skull and the base of his spine, unifying his body, mind, and armour to form an interconnected unit.

When man and machine were one, he no longer felt the absence of his legs or arms, the pain of his flesh, but the hate remained, and the rage still burned. Those, he never relinquished, and he never felt more connected to the Force than when his fury burned.

Once upon a time he was known for his looks — as much a hindrance as a benefit. Now this transparently insignificant aspect of his person was rendered useless — he had grown up, and it took an horrific ship-crash to bring him to the inevitable truth…he was a follower of the Knights of Ren, not a playboy. Interests of the flesh were secondary — gaining power in the Force was all that mattered.

 

[Kriel Firin]

Once, he'd found the armour hateful, foreign, but now he knew better. He realised that he'd always been fated to wear it, just as understood the Jedi had always been fated to betray their principles. He'd always been fated to lose his looks and in failing, learn.

The armour separated him from the galaxy, from everyone, made him singular, freed him from the needs of the flesh, the concerns of the body that once had plagued him, and allowed him to focus solely on his relationship to the Force.

It terrified many, he knew, and that pleased him. Their terror was a tool he used to accomplish his ends. The Jedi were taught that fear led to hate and hate to suffering. But they were wrong. Fear was a tool used by the strong to cow the weak. Hate was the font of true strength. Suffering was not the result of the rule of the strong over the weak, but order was. By its very existence, the Force mandated the rule of the strong over the weak; the Force mandated order. The Jedi had never seen that, and so they'd misunderstood the Force and would be destroyed. But the Sith saw it. The Knights of Ren saw it. And so they were strong. And so they ruled.

He rose, his breathing loud in his ears, loud in the chamber, his image huge and dark on the reflective wall.

A wave of his gauntleted hand and a mental command rendered the walls of his ovate meditation chamber transparent instead of reflective. The chamber sat in the centre of his private quarters aboard his ship. He looked out and up through the large viewport that opened out onto the galaxy and its numberless worlds and stars.

It was his duty to enable the First Order to rule them all. He saw that now. It was the manifest will of the Force. Existence without proper rule was chaos, disorder, suboptimal. The Force — invisible but ubiquitous — bent toward order and was the tool through which order could and must be imposed, but not through harmony, not through peaceful coexistence. That had been the approach of the Jedi, a foolish, failed approach that only fomented more disorder. The First Order imposed order the only way it could be imposed, the way the Force required that it be imposed, through conquest, by forcing the disorder to submit to the order, by bending the weak to the will of the strong.

The history of Jedi influence in the galaxy was a history of disorder and the sporadic wars disorder bred. The history of the First Order would be one of enforced peace, of imposed order.

A pending transmission caused the intercom to chime. He activated it and a hologram of the blonde-haired commander of the nearby Destroyer, Captain Belak, formed before him.

“There's been an incident at the shipyards."

"What kind of incident, Captain?"

 

[Kriel Firin]

Kriel’s customised interceptor led the starfighter squadron as the star-lined tunnel of hyperspace gave way to the black of ordinary space. A quick scan allowed him to locate the hijacked weapons transport, which they'd been pursuing through several systems as it tried to work its way out to the Rim. The squadron disengaged from their hyperspace rings.

The heavily armed transport showed slight blaster damage along the aft hull near the three engines, behind the bloated centre of the cargo bay.

"Attack formation," Kriel ordered, and the pilots in the rest of the squad acknowledged the command and fell into formation.

Concerned that the hijackers might have dropped out of hyperspace to lure the squadron into an ambush, he ran a quick scan of the entire system. The interceptor's sensor array was not the most sensitive, but it showed only a pair of huge, ringed gas giants, each with a score or more of moons, an asteroid belt between the planets and the system's star, and a few planetoids at the outside of the system. Otherwise, the system was an uninhabited backwater.

"Scans show no other ships in the system," Kriel said.

"Confirmed," the squadron commander replied.

The voice of one of the pilots carried over the comm: "They're powering up for another jump."

"Follow my lead," Kriel ordered, and accelerated to attack speed. "Do not allow them to jump again."

 

[Kriel Firin]

Three months earlier, the prong-nosed rat knew that the dark heap lying in the tunnel was a dead man. He could tell by the incredible stench. Unable to detect any other predators in the tunnel, the rat's sharp nose twitched with excitement at his discovery, a large and easy meal, all for him.

The rat edged along the side of the tunnel, stepping over the skeletons of other creatures - many small skeletons, but others quite large - as it moved toward the corpse. Ragged scraps of broad, waterproof fabric were piled over the dead man's body. His head, arms, and chest were exposed. A fine layer of dust covered his skin, barely concealing the terrible burns that adorned his remains. His head rested at an odd angle against the ground. The rat slunk closer to the body and opened his jaws.

The rat never saw the fist that crashed down on the back of his neck. And then the man, who was very much alive, opened one yellow eye and one opaque one as he rolled over to seize his prey. He kicked away the fabric scraps he'd been using as blankets with his one good leg, revealing the burns continued on his lower body.

He had no recollection of how he'd arrived here or suffered the burns — although logic says the wrecked spaceship near to where he’d regained consciousness was a clue. Although he knew the tunnels that had become his domain, he did not know what planet he was on. Nor did he remember his own name. And for the moment he didn't care. His mind was on only one thing.

Food.

He tore into the rat and began eating it greedily, A few minutes later, as he licked the last of the gore from his lips, a familiar feeling returned to him. It was the only feeling he had, the only emotion he knew when he wasn't delirious with hunger. Hatred. Not just anger and rage, but pure and total hatred.

He hated his circumstances. Hated the tunnels and all the vermin that ventured into them. Hated being hungry, and being unable to rest without some other creature trying to take a bite out of him. Hated that he knew all those distractions were meaningless. The primary object of his hatred was something far more significant, something he despised with such incredible intensity that he...ˇ

Couldn’t remember.

He hated his bad memory too.

How had he arrived at this place? How long had he been living like a wild animal? His yellow eye darted back and forth, sweeping the tunnel as if he might find a helpful answer in the shadowy nooks, amidst the gnawed bones of small creatures that littered the ground.

Nothing.

He grimaced. He wanted to remember. He wanted to know. The frustration was like a painful itch that he knew he could never ever scratch. He lowered his hand to his side, and his fingertips brushed against air where he instinctively knew there should be a leg.

He wasn't always like this. And he knew that he wasn't a man anymore. He was just a creature in a filthy tunnel.

The hatred surged through his veins, filling him with the urge to kill anything within reach. He surveyed the skeletons and rolling carcasses on the tunnel's floor, then used his one good leg to launch several swift and vicious kicks that sent bones crashing against the walls. Finding a large rib cage, he seized it and brought it down hard across the back of his sump of a leg, then threw aside the splintered bones. He found no satisfaction in this petty destruction. He only hated more.

Balling his hands into tight fists, he felt his sharp, dirty fingernails dig into the bases of his leathery palms. He gnashed his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut as he struggled to conjure up a memory, any memory, that would help him recall his own identity.

It was then, while lit felt his hatred burning within, that a spark ignited in his mind. And he saw a sea of fire...

 

[Kriel Firin]

"Far above... far above... we don't know where we'll fall," muttered what was left of Kriel as he used a broken bit of blackened bone to scratch a drawing onto the wall of his cavernous dwelling, his bare back warmed by the small fire he'd built. "Far above... what once was great is rendered small."

He still didn't know how long he'd been in the tunnel, or how or when he'd arrived on such a dismal world - let alone his name. He still remembered nothing about his life before, when he lived aboveground. All he had left were his anger and his hunger.

"Falling, falling, falling." He looked at his other drawings of small figures on the wall. Some figures were being tortured, others killed. Many were fighting with burning sticks. Some sticks were blue. Some were red. Kriel somehow knew he liked the red sticks.

No, not sticks. Sticks are wrong. Something else that cuts and burns like...

He heard something move in the upper levels, a slithering sound that he recognised as coming from the one who called himself Saul. Saul was a snakelike scavenger who should have kept his distance. Stupid Saul.

And then he heard footsteps. Someone was walking with Saul.

Someone very big. On two legs.

Lowering the bone he'd been using as a drawing stick, he kept to the shadows as he scurried up a wall, careful not to make a sound. Despite his damaged memories and missing limbs, he knew every crevice and foothold in the tunnels.

As he shifted upwards, he looked down and saw Saul's shadowy form slink into the dark chamber. Near Saul, another dark form shifted, a hulking humanoid. A small point of light radiated and moved across the area of the big man's chest.

Something glowing, something burns...

"He's going to get you!" Saul cried, gleefully.

 

[Kriel Firin]

The big man spun around and moved away from Saul. Saul shouted, "He's going to eat you alive!"

Kriel, who was clinging to the ceiling did not know whether Saul was threatening him or encouraging him to make a feast of the big man. Kriel didn't care. He descended fast and pounced on Saul.

"No!" Saul screamed. "Not me! Please, not me!"

Kriel squeezed Saul’s writhing body. He liked the sounds of Saul’s screams and desperate gasps for breath, but not as much as be enjoyed the loud snapping of bones as he broke Saul’s spine between his one good arm and his leg.

Now for the big man. Kriel spotted something him and was about to lurch forward when the man ignited a long red stick.

Not a stick.

A red blade made of pure energy. It was familiar... Mine!

Kriel knew he had once owned the weapon, or one very much like it. He glared at the intruder, the man's head was illuminated by the glowing red blade. Confused and outraged, Kriel shrieked and launched himself at the intruder, slamming him against the wall. He grabbed for the weapon's handle but the intruder knocked him back. He tumbled across the floor — his lack of balance an issue, but he lashed out again, punching and kicking. His fingers struck armour and powerful muscles. He barely noticed that the intruder was only trying to ward him off with the red blade, not strike him down.

He pried at the central grip, trying to yank the weapon from the intruder's grasp. He did not assume that the weapon housed separate components for each blade, his shattered mind not even comprehending the incredible technology. He just knew that it was familiar and deadly, and that he wanted it.

 

[Kriel Firin]

The weapon snapped in two, leaving the intruder holding one red blade and Kriel with the other. And then they were fighting, the two blades clashing in the darkness. Their fight carried them slowly through the cave, but then the intruder grunted and fell back.

“You,” the intruder said, “are who I've been searching for. We thought you were dead.”

Memories flickered in Kriel’s. He growled, “Me?”

“You are one of the Knights of Ren.”

Kriel shook his head, “You don't know,” Kriel snapped. “You don't know anything!”

The intruder placed his hand over his chest. "I know you are gifted with the Force and made a pledge to serve the First Order.”

Kriel glared at the intruder.”I don't know you!” He tried to read the stranger's expression. Sorry? Disgusted? Kriel’s blood began to boil. The stranger was nothing to him, not even a threat. Sneering, he cast aside the weapon and hobbled backwards into the cave.

He clambered over junk and shoved aside rotting carcasses, making his way back to the fire he'd built. It was still burning. He crouched on the filthy floor, stared at the drawings on the walls, and began chanting, “Never never never never never…”

The hulking stranger followed Kriel to the fire. Looking around, the stranger said with dismay, “This is where you live?”

Without looking at the stranger, Kriel nodded in response. He picked up a nearby bone and began gnawing on it.

The stranger eyed the missing limbs and said, “Your arm and leg?”

“The fire took it,” Kriel said.

The stranger seemed pleased by Kriel's answer. Taking a cautious step toward Kriel, the stranger said, “I’ve brought a gift for you.”

“For me?” Kriel said with disbelief. “Food?”

“No. Something to regain your memory.” From his cloak he drew out a mask and held it up, so the firelight danced on the parts that were polished metal. Then he handed it to Kriel.

Kriel’s focus was on the mask. And then his mind was flooded by fragmented memories.

His childhood…his training…his Master!

Kriel’s eyes went wide. And then he collapsed.

 

[Kriel Firin]

The First Order’s interceptors were far faster and more manoeuvrable than the transport and closed on it rapidly, devouring the space between. Kriel did not bother consulting his instrumentation. He fell into the Force, flying by feel, as he always did now.

Even before the interceptors closed to within blaster range, one of the freighter's engines burped a gout of blue flame and burned out. The hijackers had overtaxed the transport in their escape attempt.

“I want the shields down and the remaining two engines disabled,” Kriel said. Disabling the engines would prevent another hyperspace jump. “Do not destroy that ship.”

The heavier armaments of the transport had a longer range than the interceptor’s blasters and opened up before the starfighters got within range.

“Weapons are hot, go evasive,” said the squadron leader as the transport’s automated gun turrets filled the space between the ships with green lines. The starfighter squadron veered apart, twisting and diving.

Kriel felt as much as saw the transport’s blasters. He cut left, then hard right, then dived a few degrees down, still closing on the transport. One of the fighters to his left caught a green line. Its wing fragmented and it went spinning and flaming off into the system.

The larger, crewed, swivel-mounted gun bubbles on either side of the transport’s midline swung around and opened fire, fat pulses of red plasma.

“Widen your spacing,” the squadron commander said over the comm. “Spacing!”

A burst of red plasma caught one of the fighters squarely and vaporised it.

 

[Kriel Firin]

“Focus your fire on the aft shields,” Kriel said, his interceptor wheeling and spinning, sliding between the red and the green, until he was within range. He fired and his blasters sent twin beams of plasma into the aft shields. He angled the shot to maximise deflection. He did not want to pierce them and damage the ship, just drain them and bring them down.

The rest of the squadron did the same, hitting the transport from multiple angles. The transport bucked under the onslaught, the shields flaring under the energy load and visibly weakening with each shot. The entire squad overtook and passed the freighter, the green and red shots of its weapons chasing them along.

“Maintain spacing, stay evasive, and swing around for another pass,” the squadron commander ordered. “Split squadron and come underneath.”

The squadron’s ships peeled right and left, circling back and down, and set themselves on another intercept vector. Kriel decelerated enough to fall back to the rear.

“Bring the shields down on this pass, Commander,” he said. “I have something in mind.”

 

[Kriel Firin]

Kriel watched the transport go hard to port, taking an angle that would allow both of the midline weapons bubbles to fire on the approaching starfighters. As soon as they entered the transport's range, the automated turrets and gun bubbles opened fire, filling space with beams of superheated plasma. The fighters swooped and twisted and dodged, spiralling through the net of green and red energy.

Kriel, lingering behind, piloted his ship between the bolts, above them, below them. A third fighter caught a shot from a gun turret and exploded, debris peppering Kriel’s cockpit canopy as he flew through the flames.

When the fighters got within range, they opened fire and the freighter's shields fell almost immediately.

"Shields down," the squadron leader reported.

"I'll take the engines," Kriel said. "Destroy the turrets and the starboard-side midline gun bubble."

 

[Kriel Firin]

The pilots of his squadron, selected for their piloting excellence and a demonstrated record of kills, did exactly as he'd ordered. Small explosions lit up the hull, and the gun emplacements disappeared in flowers of fire. The transport shook from the impact as the fighters swooped past it, up, and started to circle back around.

Meanwhile Kriel veered to his left and down, locked onto the engines, and fired, once, twice. Explosions rocked the transport aft, and chunks of both engines spun off into space. Secondary explosions rocked the vessel, but it otherwise remained intact. Kriel slowed still more, trailing the transport.

"She's running on inertia now," said the squadron commander. "When the destroyer arrives, she can tractor the transport into one of her bays."

"I have no intention of leaving the hijackers aboard the ship that long," Kriel said. He knew the hijackers would try to blow the ship, and there were enough weapons in the cargo bay to do just that. "I'm going to board her."

"The docking clamp on that ship is too damaged, and there's no landing bay," said the squadron commander.

"I am aware of that, Commander," Kriel said.

 

[Kriel Firin]

The sole remaining gun bubble - operated by one of the hijackers - swung around and opened fire on Kriel’s ship. Still using the Force to guide him, he slung his ship side to side, up and down, staying just ahead of the blaster fire as he headed straight for the bubble. He could see the gunner inside the transparent canopy, feel his presence, insignificant and small, through the web of the Force.

Kriel hit a switch and depressurised the fighter’s cockpit, his armour shielding him from the vacuum. Then, as he neared the transport's midline, still swinging his ship left and right to dodge the incoming fire, he selected a spot on the transport adjacent to the gun bubble and, using the Force, took a firm mental hold on it.

His ship streaked toward the gun bubble, aimed directly at it. Content with the trajectory, he unstrapped himself, overrode the ship’s safeties, threw open the cockpit hatch, and ejected into space.

Immediately he was spinning in the zero-g, the ship and stars alternating positions with rapidity. Yet he kept his mental hold on the air-lock handle, and his armour, sealed and pressurised, sustained him in the vacuum.

His ship slammed into the gun bubble and the transport, the inability of the vacuum to transmit sound causing the collision to occur in eerie silence. Fire flared for a moment, but only a moment before the vacuum extinguished it. Chunks of debris exploded outward into space and the transport lurched.

 

[Kriel Firin]

"Sir! Sir!" the squadron commander called, his voice frantic in Kriel’s helmet comm. "What's happening, sir?"

Kriel’s voice was calm, but his mouth was upturned. Since when did a commander call him ’sir’. "I'm docking with the transport, Commander."

Using the Force, Kriel stopped his rotation and reeled himself in toward the large, jagged, smoking hole his ship had torn in the transport's hull. Loose hoses and electrical lines dangled from the edges of the opening, leaking gases and shooting sparks into space. A portion of his ship's wing had survived the impact and was lodged in the bulkhead. The rest had been vaporised on impact.

Kriel pulled himself through the destruction until he stood in the remains of a depressurised corridor. Chunks of metal and electronics littered the torn deck, the whole of it smoking from the heat of impact. The fighters buzzed past the transport, visible through the hole in the bulkhead.

 

[Kriel Firin]

"Sir?" said the squadron commander.

"All is under control, Commander," Kriel said.

Several members of the fighter squadron whispered awed oaths into their comms.

"Maintain comm discipline," the squadron leader barked, though Kriel could hear the disbelief in his tone, too. “You are aware that there are dozens of hijackers aboard that transport."

"Not for much longer, Commander," Kriel said. "You are on escort duty now. I will notify you if anything else is required."

A pause, then, "Of course."

The transport's automatic safeties had sealed off the corridor with a blast door, but he knew the codes to override them. He strode through the ruin and entered the code. The huge door slid open, and pressurised air from the hall beyond poured out with a hiss. He stepped through and resealed the door behind him. A few more taps on a wall comp and he'd repressurised the hall. The shrill sound of the transport's hull-breach alarm wailed from wall speakers.

 

[Kriel Firin]

A hatch on the far side of the hall slid open to reveal a purple-skinned Twi'lek man in makeshift armor. Seeing Kriel the Twi'lek's head-tails twitched, his eyes widened in surprise, and he grabbed for the blaster at his belt. By the time the Twi'lek had the blaster drawn and the trigger pulled, Kriel had his lightsaber in hand and ignited. He deflected the blaster shot into the wall, raised his off hand, and with it reached out with the Force. He made a pincer motion with his two fingers, using the Force to squeeze closed the Twi'lek's trachea.

The Twi'lek pawed frantically at his throat as Kriel's power lifted him off the deck, but to his credit he held on to his weapon, and gagging, dying, he managed to aim and fire his blaster at Kriel again and again. Kriel simply held his grip on the alien's throat while casually deflecting the blasts into the bulkhead with his lightsaber. Then, not wanting to waste time, he moved his raised hand left and then right, using the Force to smash the Twi'lek into the bulkhead. The impacts shattered bone, and Kriel let the body fall to the deck. A voice carried over a comlink on the Twi'lek's belt.

"What is going on there? Do you copy? Can you hear me?"

Kriel deactivated his lightsaber, picked up the comlink, opened the channel, and let the sound of his respirator carry over the connection.

"Who is that?"

Kriel answered only with his breathing.

"Are you all right? Speak to me."

"I'm coming for you now," Kriel said.

He crushed the communicator in his fist, reignited his lightsaber, stepped over the dead Twi'lek, and strode into the corridor beyond.