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Fiach Dubh

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“I’m not here to play games. I need your help.”

“Sounds like a game to me,”
Fiach replied. “I’m not for private hire. And if what you needed was a reasonable request, you would have simply asked me.”

A small motor sounded and Fiach’s body raised from the waist up as the bed moved which in turn lifted her head so she could see her captor.

A human of about fifty years, Fiach surmised. Shocking black hair tied back and down to her waist and skin way too smooth to be natural. She was dressed informally, yet elegantly, and top to toe in scarlet, which made her pale skin look almost transluscent.

“Such a pretty thing,” the woman said, tracing a long, crimson fingernail around the contours of Fiach’s face. The Padawan did not react.

“And so well trained too,” she added.

Now Fiach could see her surroundings, her room could be best described as a cell. No windows and no furniture. Just a door and the bed she was lying on. The white walls gave it a cold feeling, despite the ambient temperature.

“What do you want?” Fiach asked.

“Good, good,” the woman replied. “Glad you’re as keen as I am to get to the point. My name is Norma. And I want you to kidnap someone.”
 

Fiach Dubh

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“Sorry,” was Fiach’s curt response. “Can I go now?”

The woman smiled down at the Padawan. “Hardly, but then you knew that, didn’t you?”

The woman conjured a chair from nowhere, although Fiach presumed into was under her bed all along. Sitting, she asked, “Tell me, what’s the most valuable part of your body?”

Fiach frowned slightly. It was an involuntary response. But as someone who valued logic and questions, it was not something she was ever expected to answer.

“Shall I help you?” Norma said. “It’s your mind.” She tapped Fiach on the temple with one of her talons. “But I need your mind, so I need to look after it. It must remain keen and sharp, fully aware of what needs doing.”

“So what else? Your hands? Those delicate digits that caress your lightsaber?”


Fiach’s suspicions were confirmed – she knew of her affiliation to the Jedi Order.

“I could break those delicate bones one by one. Or cut them off for that matter. But to what end? You’d only go and get replacements, wouldn’t you?”

“No, let’s think again.”

She stood and wandered around the room, one hand on her chin, as if pondering a particularly difficult conundrum. “No, I must go deeper. Forget flesh and bones and blood. Well. Hold on now. Blood. That's interesting.”

She returned to Fiach’s side and pulled a small datapad from her pocket. “Your name is Fiach, yes. Fiach Dubh.”

The Padawan remained impassive…and silent.

“The thing is, your name tells me so much. Such as…you’re from Klatooine.” Norma tapped the datapad and it projected a small holographic image above its screen. It was a shop.

A repair shop.
 

Fiach Dubh

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Fiach’s eyes widened.

“Ah, I have your attention at last,” Norma said. “Not quite blood, but in your case, the next best thing.”

For standing in the shadows beside the shop was a B1 battle droid. “This isn’t a recorded image,” Norma continued. “It’s real time.”
She stood and paced for a few moments, letting the news sink in. Finally, she returned to her seat.

“You know my training forbids attachments?”

“I do.”

“Then you know I can’t help you.”


“Fair enough,”
Norma said. “But since I’ve gone to the effort of putting my little friend in Treema, it would be a shame to let him come home without fulfilling his primary purpose.” She re-activated the image. “Bee-One.”

“Roger-roger.”
The tinny sound came through the datapads speakers.

“Stop,”
Fiach said.

Norma looked at her but carried on speaking into the datapad. “Sentry duty. Await further orders.”

“Roger-roger,”
came the response and the droid slunk into the shadows.

With a click, the image had gone and Norma stood. “Right, we’re off to Jakku.”

Fiach knew of the planet – who didn’t. But the likelihood of someone wanted so badly being hidden there seemed odd. But then, it had been done before, hadn’t it?

As Fiach mused this strange coincidence, her world went black once more.
 

Fiach Dubh

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She awoke on a ship. Unlike the temporary prison, she was in a cargo hold and her hands were cuffed around a pipe. And the restraints were mechanical. Whoever had captured her, knew their stuff.

And never one to waste time, she recalled what she knew of the planet. It was sparsely populated and those that called it home were largely miners, scavengers or dirt merchants. There was apparently some strange religion in the southern hemisphere and the north had some form of racing as a spectator sport. In truth, it made Klatooine look lively.

As she thought, her senses became cloudy. Maybe it was a gas, but regardless, she had been drugged and once again, darkness enveloped her…
 

Fiach Dubh

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A ringing sound in the back of her skull. A faint beep-beep-beep. The ship shook like a toy in the hand of an angry child. Everything felt like it was coming apart and Fiach was aware she was being flung around the cargo bay. This, however, was overtaken by a sense of going down, at speed. They were plummeting down, down, down. A sudden lift from repulsor-jets created a hard jarring motion that slammed her against a hard surface.

Too late.

Too fast.

Wham.

Darkness.

Silence.

Disorientated initially, Fiach realised the ship had landed on its roof. She closed her eyes and managed to get her bearings, remembering where the door opening mechanism was.

Fiach fumbled for the door release and drew the lever down, a hard ratcheting mechanism. The door sprung free and Fiach tumbled out of the ship and landed in sand with a loud thump.
 

Fiach Dubh

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The light reflecting off the surface of Jakku blinded her. Everything was seared away in a burning wave of brightness and so she closed her eyes. Her hands found hard rock and slippery sand.

Behind her closed lids, she tried to make sense of it all. A few moments later, she gave up the attempt for lack of data. Instead she focused on what she knew. It was a desert planet and very, very hot. Pretty soon it would dry her out. Baking her to a crispy blister. And she was alone and had no idea where she was – for there was desert in every direction.

Wait. No.

Not alone.

She rolled over onto her bottom and saw the ship sitting askew in the sand. The door she fell out of was open and crawling out of it was Norma. A trail of blood snaked its way down her alabaster face, her lip was split, and her sneering mouth showed off teeth wet with smears of red.

Norma started to say something but Fiach reacted quicker, leaped to her feet and grabbed the woman and pinned her against the hull.

“Explain.”

“We were under attack. I don’t know who, or why?”

“I think you do,”
Fiach countered. “So, let’s start with who you came here to find. I suspect all questions will lead to them, where we’ll find our answers.”
 

Fiach Dubh

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Fiach checked Norma for weapons and realising she had none, moved her to the shaded side of the crashed ship. Then she entered the craft and rescued whatever seemed useful. Her saber she found quickly and she also snagged a blaster, a med-kit, rations and water.

“You're hurt,” Fiach said, once she returned to the woman.

“I’m fine,” Norma replied.

Fiach was in no mood for an argument, so opened the med-kit and dispensed a bacta-strip, some pain-killers and cleaned up Norma’s wounds. Finally, she tore a ration bar in half and gave the woman one of the portions and handed her the water bottle. “Sip it, there’s no telling when we’ll get a chance to find some more.”

Fiach sat down beside Norma and chewed on her own half of the bar and checked out the position of the sun. “If I knew which hemisphere we were in, I might be able to ascertain the time or get some bearings. Sadly, the nav-computer has seen better days, so there is no chance of firing it up to find out where we are.”

“We passed a settlement not long before we hit the sand.”

“Can you be sure of the direction?”


Norma squinted up at Fiach. “The sun was to our right, at 2 o’clock.”

Fiach stood and moved until she was facing forwards with the sun in the right position. Turning 180-degrees, she said, “Then we head this way.”
 

Fiach Dubh

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“Whoever shot us down will be looking for us before too long. Knowing who would help,” Fiach said.

Norma remained silent.

Fiach was unsure if the woman was withholding information or genuinely had no idea who had attacked them. And given the woman’s already dented pride, she would be unlikely to admit to such a weakness.

###

Night had fallen. And with the darkness came the cold. It leached the heat out of the air, the sand, the stone. In the distance, black shapes rose – shadows deeper than the dark of the sky. Plateaus and buttes like carbon anvils.

As dusk fell, Fiach had been delighted to see a flock of ax-beaked birds flying overhead earlier. “They're headed toward something,” she had said, “Admittedly, we don't know what. Food, hopefully. The settlement you spotted before, ideally.”

And so, despite the cold, Fiach kept walking. And walking some more. The sand was slippery beneath their feet. It was hard to find purchase, which works extra muscle groups every time the sand shifts or they step on a stone slippery with scree.

By now, even Fiach’s toned muscles were tightening and her legs felt as stretched out as the control belt on an old speeder.

But still she walked.
 

Fiach Dubh

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Norma edged closer and closer to Fiach as they walked, until she was alongside the Padawan. And she was about to say something when Fiach’s finger mashed against Norma’s lips. The young blonde offered a quiet “Shhh…” by way of explanation.

Fiach gestured toward her ear. A sign to listen, and Norma dutifully listened.

The few sounds of the planet crawled into her ear: the whisper of wind across the dunes, the distant ululation of some animal, the drum-pulsing of her own heartbeat behind it all. But then her ears picked up something else – a faint shudder and hiss. Like the sand moving. It's off to Norma’s right. And then, again, to her left. The sounds came simultaneously.

And they were getting closer.

The noises stopped as fast as they started. Once again Norma was left with the wind, the faraway beasts, the pounding of blood in her ears. She wondered if she’d imagined the rest and began to relax. Fiach, on the other hand, was becoming more concerned. Your ears, like your eyes, can mislead you. The Force, on the other hand, does not.

Norma opened her mouth to say that they should keep moving. But she doesn’t get the chance.
 

Fiach Dubh

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It happened quickly – from both sides, the sand erupted around them. The spray stung against Fiach’s cheek and she staggered back, her eyes burning. She swiped at her face, blinking back tears, and something crashed into her, roaring.

Her shoulders hit the ground half a second before her tailbone and the wind was knocked out of her, leaving her gasping. Her attacker was on top of her, and as her vision clears she saw the face leering down at her was far from human. Big black eyes, an insectile mandibular mouth, leathery flesh...

No. Not a face. A helmet.

A mask.

An unintelligible stream of words erupted from the mask, words gurgled around a hissing ventilator. A fist slammed into her middle.
ed
Her adversary had his legs straddling her hips – but the ground beneath her shifted easily with the sand, and it took little effort to wriggle free. She kicked out hard, pivoting her lower body as she did, and it gave her the opening she needed, crab-walking backwards as her foe paw for something in the sand – a weapon. A blade!

Square at the top, bent in the middle. Like a machete. The metal was dark, maybe rusted, though it was hard to tell given the darkness and her focus on evading its edge. The helmeted figure roared again and brought the blade down against her legs – but she scissored them apart, and the blade buried in the sand with a coughing cuff sound.

Fiach snapped her foot out and her heel connected with the ventilator, and the mask started squealing. Plumes of steam, white as a ghost, came free of the mask as hands clawed at the face.

Now, as she danced backward, Fiach could see Norma.
 

Fiach Dubh

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Fiach watched, helpless, as Norma struggled with her foe. On the plus side, Norma was still standing – and she lashed out with a high kick. Her foe was bigger, heavier, with an upper torso the size (and no doubt the density) of a tree trunk. She connected with her kick but it didn’t seem to faze him. The man mountain bellowed an incomprehensible cry, then caught Jas with a hard swing of his meaty fist. Norma’s torso folded, limp and lifeless.

Fiach sprang forward and connected with his middle, tackling him, expecting her momentum to knock him off balance. But like the tree she linked him to a few moments ago, he didn’t budge.

Worse still, he laughed at the Padawan.

A mechanised chuckle erupted from his own ventilator, and both of his hands married together into one mega-fist. He slammed his hands down towards the centre of Fiach’s back. It was likely he expected her to hit the ground like her companion. No doubt the average opponent would now be sucking in air and looking to manage the pain.

Fiach, on the other hand, wasn’t there. In the time it took the man to form his fist and swing it down, she had called upon the Force and rolled with lightning speed out of his reach. Then, she sprang to her feet and extended her right hand in front of her, her hand open and her fingers pointing towards the man mountain.

Another laugh began but died in an instant as he realised the open palm was now filled with a metallic cylinder that snapped into it from nowhere and with a hiss, the darkness was dismissed by the lilac glow of her saber blade.
 

Fiach Dubh

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What followed was a stand-off that lasted moments but to Fiach felt an eternity. Fortunately, patience was one of her virtues.

In truth, she did not want to kill the attacker, and hoped he would turn tail and run. But clearly withdrawal was not in his psyche. But neither did he attempt to rush her. Then, as they faced off, she was aware that her original attacker was on his feet and joined his companion.

They exchanged an unintelligible yet brief dialogue when suddenly the smaller one shook and shuddered. His chin lifted and his head wobbled before he toppled forward.

The tree-trunk (she’d decided this was more appropriate than the mountain metaphor) grunted in confusion. Then his head jerked to one side and Fiach saw a faint red flash skim past it before the monstrous assailant also collapsed, landing heavily on his companion.

Fiach looked to where Norma was, wondering if she’d shot them – but realised the woman was still unconscious.

Which was when lights filled the air. Bright and bold. Not from one direction, either, but from three sides – simultaneously, and Fiach was forced to cover her eyes. Yet she kept her saber activated as she became aware of figures approaching her.

There was a crackle of static before she heard, “Don't move.”
 

Fiach Dubh

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As the shadows closed in, Fiach heard the faint jostling of jointed armor and blaster rifles in gloved hands. If she didn’t know better, she’d be sure it was the sound of stormtroopers.

The voice was quieter when it said, “We found them.”

From nearby, Fiach heard Norma stir and curse under her breath. And then Fiach sensed a blaster bolt – but too late and she crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

###

She was kneeling, blind and bound.

The ribbon across her eyes was filthy and rough; it felt as though it was abrading the skin off her face. Like the planet of her upbringing in a way. Like this planet. Everything has the capacity to become coarse-grained sandpaper. And like a parable for life, she used to see it wear people down. First to muscle, then to bone, then to the marrow beneath, and finally only to whatever passes for a soul or a spirit. Ghosts left to wander the dust-choked deadlands.

Her wrists were chafing, too: The rope binding them was raw and fibrous.

Not that the blindfold meant much to a Jedi – or in this case a Padawan with sufficient training.

But it is what she heard that first grabbed her attention. It was the pad-pad-pad of feet on stone. Not hers, but those of whoever was pulling the cart in which she knelt, drawing it deeper and deeper through a winding cavern – that she was able to sense.

The cart was clearly not buoyed by hoverplanks or grav-plates but rather attached to a pair of old-fashioned wheels. They clanked and rattled as the cart was drawn over the hard rust-stone.

Next to her, Norma grunted and growled as she shifted, clearly in discomfort.

“Practice your breathing,” Fiach says quietly. “Relax your limbs, a deep breath in, a deep breath out. Oxygenate your blood.” Part of Jedi training was managing yourself on small ships or for long stake-outs. These roles did not allow the luxury of getting up and moving around easily, and so they were taught ways to remain comfortable even in contortion.

“That only helps so much,” Norma snapped, and Fiach sensed a surge of anger.

The cart stopped suddenly. Hard enough that Fiach almost lost her balance, which would have meant pitching forward and smashing her face on the stone-fiber boards. Next to her, she heard Norma do exactly that, with an audible, “Oof,” as her head thudded against the floor of the cart.
 

Fiach Dubh

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Suddenly there were footsteps all around them. Hands grabbed at her face, tugging the blindfold off. Except it refused to budge and she felt the cold metal of a crooked blade against her temple. Thankfully, the blade was facing away from her skin, and with a quick pull the cloth was cut and fell to the ground.

It took her vision a moment to adjust.

They were in a cavern which ended in a massive cavern. Next to her was Norma, her face and neck smudged with filth. She gasped as she is lifted up. And then her blindfold is cut free too.

Then their wrists and ankles were released from their rope bindings before they were left, alone.

“They don't want us to follow, do they?” asked Norma.

Fiach stood and stretched. She gingerly stepped down off the cart, almost losing her footing. “I doubt...” Fiach started to say.

But the sound of something coming through the tunnels ahead cut her off. It was a rasping sound. Something was sliding along sand-swept stone.

Suddenly, a Hutt's face appeared followed by the rest of their body. Bruise-dark with red striations, the face was not fat and thick as those of many Hutts, but narrower, like a slimy arrowhead. The mouth was disproportionately wide, practically bisecting the whole head. And as if on cue, it opened and a long, lashlike tongue licked the air, tasting it. The Hutt hissed and blinked the one good eye – the other was rheumy, the skin around it pocked and pitted with flecks of embedded metal, like a moon with glittering debris caught in its orbit.
 

Fiach Dubh

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The Hutt began to slither. Fiach has met others of this species. This Hutt was longer, leaner, not like a slug at all, but more like a serpent.

The Hutt slithered and wriggled towards them. Behind its head were a series of bulbous nodules and tumour-like protuberances. They hung, bound together with red ribbon – a strange accessory perhaps serving as an emblem of the creature’s vanity.

As the Hutt neared them, humans emerged from the various tunnels and chambers. They hummed and sang gibberish which dissolved into a single word:

“Liima.”

Something in Fiach’s mind clicked into place. Back on Klatooine, she’d been exposed to a human-trafficking gang. One that specialised in children. And that name was connected.

Liima the Hutt. Fiach remembered now. Either she’d been forced to come here, or maybe she’d always been here?

Fiach scoured their surroundings. The Hutt’s followers were many, but they appeared undisciplined. Their armour was filthy and in disrepair. Their weapons were crusted with the grit of this planet. They looked ragged and run-down.
 

Fiach Dubh

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Liima the Hutt owned this part of Jakku. And her slime trail stretched much farther than this territory. Like the infamous Jabba on Tatooine, her influence (and her corruption) had a long tail. She ran the black market here: slaves, scavengers, kesium, bezorite.

Her power came from what she controlled – she controlled resources, and so she controlled people.

As Liima reached the Padawan and her companion, she spoke, a gargled command that echoed in the chamber.

Whatever she said had meaning, as from the many surrounding her, a man stepped forward. He carried something over his shoulder. From a leather strap hung a black box and a dented, rusted speaker. A translator device. The man climbed atop her, draped the translator over the meaty lump that passed for her shoulder and he slid back off. When placed, the box hung down below her mouth.

Liima spoke again.

The speaker crackled with static, and then a word emitted from it in mechanical, monotone Basic: “SPEAK.”

Fiach’s left eyebrow raised. Surely it was the Hutt’s turn to speak. Fiach had no idea what they were here for. She glanced sideways at Norma, who looked visibly perplexed at the command.

Deciding to be honest and compliant, Fiach spoke. “I am Fiach Dubh of the Jedi Order. Why have you brought us here?”

There was an audible murmur and what passed as an echo of the Padawan’s words as the word Jedi seemed to pass everyone’s lips.
 

Fiach Dubh

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Of course, Fiach knew that she should have been deferential. Hutts prefer to be spoken to as if they were not merely sentient, intelligent creatures. They liked to be served. They wanted worship. This one more than others, it seemed.

There came, from the Hutt, a low noise that grew louder and louder. The lack of translation became obvious. It was a laugh.

Finally, the Hutt spoke. “LOOK AT YOU. YOU ARE NO JEDI.”

“I assure you, I am a member of the Order.”


Again the Hutt bellowed with laughter. She roared in her gargle-shriek tongue and the speaker offered a translation: “YOU ARE NOTHING. YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHY YOU ARE HERE, FIACH DUBH.”

This raised the ante somewhat. Until this point, Fiach presumed, naturally, that Norma was the reason they were now being held captive. It was her mission after all and the Padawan was along for the ride. But if the Hutt knew her name, she must have known she was coming.

Fiach stole another look at Norma, who was looking even more bewildered. That suggested a trap of Norma’s making was out of the question. If nothing else, it was too elaborate.

“What made you pick me?” Fiach asked her companion, quietly.

Norma’s brows furrowed. “Your name was mentioned. I put out that I was looking for a Jedi for my mission and the name of the person I was looking to locate and someone gave me both pieces of information. You…and Jakku.”

“Then you were played,”
Fiach replied.

Fiach stood upright. Her saber was gone and she wondered where it was, so for now, she had to work with what she had.

“I suspect the answer starts on Klatooine.”

The Hutt’s laughter ebbed and died.
 

Fiach Dubh

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“TELL ME WHY I SHOULDN’T JUST KILL YOU?” the Hutt declares, her natural voice clearly raise an octave or two.

This was clearly not going the way Fiach hoped and she closed her eyes momentarily, calming herself and allowing her mind to focus on what she knew and what might be able to use. Clearly, they would already be dead if the point was to simply end Fiach’s life. There had to be a purpose in keeping them alive?

“Because I have something you need,” Fiach replied coolly. She had no idea what it was – but the Hutt couldn’t know that.

“YOU ARE MISTAKEN.”

“Then kill us,”
Fiach replied and heard an audible gasp from Norma next to her.

“THE SLAVER WAS FOOLISH TO EXPECT ME TO BE ABLE TO DEAL WITH YOU. IT IS BETTER TO CUT MY LOSSES NOW. YOU NO LONGER HAVE YOUR SABER – YOU ARE DEFENSELESS WITHOUT YOUR WEAPON…KILL THEM.”

OK, so it didn’t go quite as Fiach planned and her next step would be crucial.

The horde surrounding them shuffled forwards. They would clearly follow the Hutt’s order, but were clearly wary of her being a Jedi in their eyes.

Fiach allowed them to close in on her until she could smell their breath and then, with a wave of her arms, she called on the Force and pushed them away. There was suddenly a large circle of open space around the two captives.

“There is an old saying that is relevant here. The saber is not the weapon, the Jedi is.”

The Hutt screeched her order again. “KILL THEM.”

Fiach knew she could not keep her previous effort going indefinitely and so waded into the oncoming crowd. She threw a punch. Her knuckles connected with the trachea of one of the men, and he staggered back, clutched at his throat and keened in a high-pitched whine. The Padawan adopted a strong stance with one foot behind her and started swinging as if each punch and kick was going to save their lives – which they probably were. Her fists connected. A jaw snapped. A kick met a mouth and a tooth scattered.

But they kept coming and she kept ducking, moving, kicking and punching.
 

Fiach Dubh

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The Hutt screamed again and the box translated. “STOP.”

Fiach was aware the horde backed away and she could now see Norma. She knelt on the ground, blood dripping from her broken nose.

“Why?” Fiach asked, her voice calm given the circumstances.

“YOU ARE MORE VALUABLE ALIVE.”

Fiach’s eyes rolled. She had been here before. “Children,” she said. “You bring him children. What is my value to you?”

The Hutt said nothing. But the silence spoke volumes.

“WHAT I SEEK IS MORE VALUEABLE.”

Fiach did not like the sound of that. Just like Norma’s original conversation, the nature of the ‘job interview’ suggested she was not going to be happy about the ask.

“I SEEK A WEAPON.”

“No.”

“THE OTHER WOMAN WILL DIE IF YOU NO NOT HELP.”

“If you’d learned more about Jedi, you would understand we do not bargain with people’s lives. And more importantly, your weapon sounds as though you intend to kill more than one person, so this is in opposition to the greater good.” She glanced down at Norma, “No offence.”


The Hutt laughed. “THE WOMAN’S DEATH IS AVOIDABLE – AND IN YOUR HANDS. DEATHS AS A RESULT OF THE WEAPON ARE UNDETERMINED.”

Fiach had to hand it to the Hutt – she was smart enough to use Jedi logic against her.
 

Fiach Dubh

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Cold, rank water hit Fiach in the face. It poured over the top of her head, a sour bile-spit smell filled her nose. She coughed and sputtered, standing up inside her cage. Two wannabe stormtroopers stood on the grated metal ceiling of the makeshift prison in which she sat.

One of them troopers held a bucket. The other had his blaster rifle pointed at Norma, in an adjacent cell.

“Wake up,” the one with the bucket said. He let it hang loose, and it knocked against the side of his armour – armour that was no longer the pristine white it once was. This armour had been marked and gouged, painted and carved into. The one with the blaster rifle had blood-red dye spattered on the face of his helmet, shaped into the crude icon of a skull.

A portion of food landed beside the Padawan. A rubbery plastic packet of protein mush. Sometimes it was a powder, and they gave her a little water with it, and the powder sizzled and turned into something: a ballooning piece of bread, a cup of gruel, a biscuit so hard it was like biting into a fresh-baked brick. Today, though, it was just this packet of goop. She tore the top off with her teeth and greedily slurped it down. It tasted like Bantha spit smelled.

But she knew she had to keep her strength up – and was not accomplished enough to draw energy from the Force the way some Knights and Masters could.
 
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