Fifteen years. It had been a full decade and a half since King Rikkles Le'Fam, the first Quarren king of Dac, entered into his deep slumber. He had weathered much throughout his tenure as monarch: The end of a civil war, the rebuilding of a great nation, the dream of a united future. The old-minded aristocracy of his world had opposed him, then, as they did now.
The best doctors of Mon Calamari diagnosed his condition as irreversible. There were always rumors of sabotage, of course; the King had many enemies. Word had circulated that some of his leading physicians had betrayed him, shackled him to an archaic life support machine that did little more than keep him clinging to the mortal coil. With the King in comatose, his advisors could rule with impunity; he was a marionette, dancing to whoever pulled the strings.
Constant infighting throughout the royal court kept Mon Cala in a junior position within the galaxy. The planet was once a galactic leader of culture, innovation, and technology; such innovation had withered during the Civil War. One of King Le'Fam's first peace building initiatives was a jointly designed ship between Mon Calamari and Quarren engineers, a sign that the ancient enemies could form an alliance.
He was too advanced, his love for his Quarren people too strong. Mon Calamari extremists, on the eve of his royal celebration, launched a final, successful attack: A bombing of the royal hall. They had killed themselves in the process, but it was better for them to die than to be ruled by the Quarren. While they had not killed the Quarren King, they had accomplished their goal; the king had been reduced from a just leader to a mere symbol of the planet’s authority. All the while, Mon Calamari aristocracy remained relatively in command.
For fifteen years, this dismal status quo had continued. The High Council had no vision for the future of Mon Calamari; they sought nothing more than to keep the fragile peace. In the absence of true leadership, chaos had grown. The Galaxy teemed with war, as brinksmanship brought the conflict between the Sith and the Free Worlds Alliance ever closer to the waters of Mon Calamari. Dac was full of cracks, so strong and so obvious that any galactic party could exploit them. Any foreign government could be the end of the world’s experimental state.
It was these conditions that Lieutenant Jal Widase had grown accustomed to. He, once, had vision for the world - he wanted a return to greatness for the denizens of Mon Calamari. Those ambitions came toppling down with the coral spires of the deep ocean cities. Out of a sense of duty to his King, who he felt he had failed, he remained in the service. His singular redeeming quality to the Mon Cala military was his loyalty to the King. The King who had pardoned him. The King who turned him from a boy, stealing and killing, into a man in service of a great and noble kingdom. His loyalty earned him a silent audience to the meeting between the ISC’s top medical staff and the King’s royal entourage.
“We’ve been using a kolto-based life support system,” The Mon Calamari doctor explained. “It is a stable system and we have been able to grow our own reserves on the planet.” This was a shocking revelation to Widase. All these years, he had assumed his King was receiving the best treatment the galaxy could offer. Now, he feared the conspiracy theorists were correct; the King had been purposely sabotaged, manipulated into this coma. The realization burned him, but he said nothing.
A Duros surgeon from the ISC considered the Mon Cala doctor’s words carefully. “President Thorne and the ISC offer a generous bacta donation in addition to our team. We believe that his condition is…changeable. He’s suffered severe trauma to his brain and central nervous system. With several surgeries focused on restoring functionality to his nervous system, relieving pressure on the brain, and restoring the atrophied muscles…” She paused. It was important to speak decisively, without getting anyone’s hopes up. “We believe that his condition is treatable.”
It was a shocking statement, to say the least. The medical, political, and military staff fell silent. After a moment of pondering, Widase spoke first. “Then there is no question. We must treat him.” The eyes of his superiors shot daggers towards him. But now that the words were spoken, they could not be revoked; any who objected to the treatment of the King would be seen for what they were: Traitors.
So, with the full backing of the Mon Cala Planetary Defense Force, King Rikkles Le’Fam entered into surgery. The first, craniotomy. King Le’Fam’s brain had swelled within his skull due to its severe trauma. A talented team of droid and sentient surgeons operated carefully on the old King’s skull, implanting in him an advanced neurostimulator to begin the process of connecting his mind to his body.
Further surgeries accelerated this process, with state-of-the-art cybernetics and the skilled hands of a galactically renowned medical team repairing the King’s long-enfeebled bones. In between these surgeries, he was transported to an advanced bacta chamber to heal. For weeks, this became a routine: Surgery, bacta tank, observation. Surgery, bacta tank, observation. After all of the necessary surgeries were completed, the routine changed slightly; King Rikkles would spend days locked within bacta chambers as ISC attendants monitored his status.
And it was working. The King had not awoken, but his brain’s activity was energized. His body, too, was beginning to respond healthily to stimulae. First, it was his heart, beginning to pump blood to his body without life support. Following that, his breathing began to return to normal. His skin was regaining color, his arms and legs regrowing from bacta and physical therapy.
As the days passed by, Widase could not help but hope. This was the closest the King had been to consciousness in years. Maybe there was a future for Mon Calamari. And, if the tireless effort of the medical staff was any indication, that future almost certainly included the Independent Systems Consortium. But, such aspirations for a political future relied on the return of leadership. With the great assassination of the High Council and the devastation of the world itself, the future seemed bleak.
But today, a miracle would happen. As soldiers, doctors, and politicians alike gathered to the bedside of the resting King, his long-shut eyes began to open. Open in honest, without the mechanical machinations of a life support system.
Rikkles Le'Fam regained consciousness. He feebly raised a hand to his face, to touch his skin. The first time in years. But, a King does not have time to reminisce. “My people.” There was little warmth to his tone, rather, it was a matter of fact sound. They were his people, his charge. “I have missed you.”
The best doctors of Mon Calamari diagnosed his condition as irreversible. There were always rumors of sabotage, of course; the King had many enemies. Word had circulated that some of his leading physicians had betrayed him, shackled him to an archaic life support machine that did little more than keep him clinging to the mortal coil. With the King in comatose, his advisors could rule with impunity; he was a marionette, dancing to whoever pulled the strings.
Constant infighting throughout the royal court kept Mon Cala in a junior position within the galaxy. The planet was once a galactic leader of culture, innovation, and technology; such innovation had withered during the Civil War. One of King Le'Fam's first peace building initiatives was a jointly designed ship between Mon Calamari and Quarren engineers, a sign that the ancient enemies could form an alliance.
He was too advanced, his love for his Quarren people too strong. Mon Calamari extremists, on the eve of his royal celebration, launched a final, successful attack: A bombing of the royal hall. They had killed themselves in the process, but it was better for them to die than to be ruled by the Quarren. While they had not killed the Quarren King, they had accomplished their goal; the king had been reduced from a just leader to a mere symbol of the planet’s authority. All the while, Mon Calamari aristocracy remained relatively in command.
For fifteen years, this dismal status quo had continued. The High Council had no vision for the future of Mon Calamari; they sought nothing more than to keep the fragile peace. In the absence of true leadership, chaos had grown. The Galaxy teemed with war, as brinksmanship brought the conflict between the Sith and the Free Worlds Alliance ever closer to the waters of Mon Calamari. Dac was full of cracks, so strong and so obvious that any galactic party could exploit them. Any foreign government could be the end of the world’s experimental state.
It was these conditions that Lieutenant Jal Widase had grown accustomed to. He, once, had vision for the world - he wanted a return to greatness for the denizens of Mon Calamari. Those ambitions came toppling down with the coral spires of the deep ocean cities. Out of a sense of duty to his King, who he felt he had failed, he remained in the service. His singular redeeming quality to the Mon Cala military was his loyalty to the King. The King who had pardoned him. The King who turned him from a boy, stealing and killing, into a man in service of a great and noble kingdom. His loyalty earned him a silent audience to the meeting between the ISC’s top medical staff and the King’s royal entourage.
“We’ve been using a kolto-based life support system,” The Mon Calamari doctor explained. “It is a stable system and we have been able to grow our own reserves on the planet.” This was a shocking revelation to Widase. All these years, he had assumed his King was receiving the best treatment the galaxy could offer. Now, he feared the conspiracy theorists were correct; the King had been purposely sabotaged, manipulated into this coma. The realization burned him, but he said nothing.
A Duros surgeon from the ISC considered the Mon Cala doctor’s words carefully. “President Thorne and the ISC offer a generous bacta donation in addition to our team. We believe that his condition is…changeable. He’s suffered severe trauma to his brain and central nervous system. With several surgeries focused on restoring functionality to his nervous system, relieving pressure on the brain, and restoring the atrophied muscles…” She paused. It was important to speak decisively, without getting anyone’s hopes up. “We believe that his condition is treatable.”
It was a shocking statement, to say the least. The medical, political, and military staff fell silent. After a moment of pondering, Widase spoke first. “Then there is no question. We must treat him.” The eyes of his superiors shot daggers towards him. But now that the words were spoken, they could not be revoked; any who objected to the treatment of the King would be seen for what they were: Traitors.
So, with the full backing of the Mon Cala Planetary Defense Force, King Rikkles Le’Fam entered into surgery. The first, craniotomy. King Le’Fam’s brain had swelled within his skull due to its severe trauma. A talented team of droid and sentient surgeons operated carefully on the old King’s skull, implanting in him an advanced neurostimulator to begin the process of connecting his mind to his body.
Further surgeries accelerated this process, with state-of-the-art cybernetics and the skilled hands of a galactically renowned medical team repairing the King’s long-enfeebled bones. In between these surgeries, he was transported to an advanced bacta chamber to heal. For weeks, this became a routine: Surgery, bacta tank, observation. Surgery, bacta tank, observation. After all of the necessary surgeries were completed, the routine changed slightly; King Rikkles would spend days locked within bacta chambers as ISC attendants monitored his status.
And it was working. The King had not awoken, but his brain’s activity was energized. His body, too, was beginning to respond healthily to stimulae. First, it was his heart, beginning to pump blood to his body without life support. Following that, his breathing began to return to normal. His skin was regaining color, his arms and legs regrowing from bacta and physical therapy.
As the days passed by, Widase could not help but hope. This was the closest the King had been to consciousness in years. Maybe there was a future for Mon Calamari. And, if the tireless effort of the medical staff was any indication, that future almost certainly included the Independent Systems Consortium. But, such aspirations for a political future relied on the return of leadership. With the great assassination of the High Council and the devastation of the world itself, the future seemed bleak.
But today, a miracle would happen. As soldiers, doctors, and politicians alike gathered to the bedside of the resting King, his long-shut eyes began to open. Open in honest, without the mechanical machinations of a life support system.
Rikkles Le'Fam regained consciousness. He feebly raised a hand to his face, to touch his skin. The first time in years. But, a King does not have time to reminisce. “My people.” There was little warmth to his tone, rather, it was a matter of fact sound. They were his people, his charge. “I have missed you.”