“Please stand, Jade Hart,” said the translator. Jade was already standing as no chair had been provided. “Do you have anything else to say in your defense before the final verdict?” Jade stared up at the tribunal. Towering over her, in a bus-sized, elbow-bent tree branch sat nine robed Wookiee judges. They looked comfortable, cushioned by beds of bluegrass.
Jade, the Jedi Exile, nodded and cleared her throat.
“I won’t lie to you. I did what I did on Kashyyyk out of inexperience and stupidity and, well, fear.” Long sleeves of the wroshyr tree-building cocooned around her, as if she were inside a hollowed out termite nest. Over a hundred eyes glared from the Wookiee audience. Talk rose to a low rumble. Jade continued. “We were on a battlefield subject to battlefield stress. At any moment, the Sith could have surrounded us. At any moment, a fire could have engulfed us. Hell– their ultimate space weapon rained hell from space– I thought we were next.” The rumbling rose as people shifted in their seats to talk to neighbors.
“Yet, what I did was still wrong.”
The noise ceased. In this eco-chamber, where the air was thick and humid, where people walked on fertilizer and swung on vines, even the hummingbirds had fluttered around Jade to feed on her next words. Jade coughed twice and continued. “I don’t know what would have happened had I left those people in that forest. But when I took him–” her voice caught in her throat and she clutched her arms–”the boy. When I took him and led him to my ship I was promising him something.” Jade squeezed her fingernails into her elbows so tight it hurt. She stared into the wooden floor panel in front of her feet. If her eyes could bore holes, she’d be melting into the planet core.
“I offered him a false promise. That in my arrogance, I could protect him, all of them, from their enemies.” She finally looked up, not at the robed judiciary before her, but at the family and friends of all who had lost loved ones as a result of her actions. Her eyes were beaten and bloodshot, like they had been whipped by a wet towel. “I was wrong. I was totally wrong. I can’t protect people. Not my master. Not my mother. Not myself.” She looked up through a skylight as if searching for a god who would tear into her soul and find something salvageable. Then she cried.
Silence.
“We will recess momentarily and return with a verdict,” said the robed Wookiees through the translator. A court attendant offered Jade a glass of water, which she took. By the time she drank it the court was back in session. A purple-robed Wookiee clasped his hands. “We thank you, Jade Hart, for coming on your own volition to Kashyyyk and offering yourself for judgment. We have also taken your age, 15 years old at the time of the crime, into account. Yet this does not absolve you. Our judgment must be fair and impartial.” The Wookiee judge scanned the audience, before zeroing in on Jade again.
“We, who speak for the Wookiee victims, find you…”
“Not guilty of genocide.”
“Not guilty of mass murder.”
“Guilty… of involuntary manslaughter.”
Jade nodded and wringed her hands.
“We sentence you to 10,000 hours of community service on Kashyyyk. You must complete the first three thousand hours of your service on Kashyyyk. After that, you will be eligible for parole, and if granted, you may leave the planet with the expectation you will return to complete the remaining hours at a later date.”
There was a range of cries, moans, barks, and bellows. Even the tree seemed to offer an opinion, creaking and cracking like an old rustic chair. A couple guards led Jade out a hidden exit. A court worker accompanied her. They stepped outside. The world seemed reborn, like it had been given a new coat of paint. Blue skies, black dirt, mountains of trees, monuments of trees.
“I bet this is a breath of fresh air compared to that jury room,” said the court worker.
“Did you know that a Jedi can hold their breath for hours when needed?” asked Jade.
“That’s a myth.”
Jade smiled.
She took a deep breath. Held it.
Kept holding.
Jade, the Jedi Exile, nodded and cleared her throat.
“I won’t lie to you. I did what I did on Kashyyyk out of inexperience and stupidity and, well, fear.” Long sleeves of the wroshyr tree-building cocooned around her, as if she were inside a hollowed out termite nest. Over a hundred eyes glared from the Wookiee audience. Talk rose to a low rumble. Jade continued. “We were on a battlefield subject to battlefield stress. At any moment, the Sith could have surrounded us. At any moment, a fire could have engulfed us. Hell– their ultimate space weapon rained hell from space– I thought we were next.” The rumbling rose as people shifted in their seats to talk to neighbors.
“Yet, what I did was still wrong.”
The noise ceased. In this eco-chamber, where the air was thick and humid, where people walked on fertilizer and swung on vines, even the hummingbirds had fluttered around Jade to feed on her next words. Jade coughed twice and continued. “I don’t know what would have happened had I left those people in that forest. But when I took him–” her voice caught in her throat and she clutched her arms–”the boy. When I took him and led him to my ship I was promising him something.” Jade squeezed her fingernails into her elbows so tight it hurt. She stared into the wooden floor panel in front of her feet. If her eyes could bore holes, she’d be melting into the planet core.
“I offered him a false promise. That in my arrogance, I could protect him, all of them, from their enemies.” She finally looked up, not at the robed judiciary before her, but at the family and friends of all who had lost loved ones as a result of her actions. Her eyes were beaten and bloodshot, like they had been whipped by a wet towel. “I was wrong. I was totally wrong. I can’t protect people. Not my master. Not my mother. Not myself.” She looked up through a skylight as if searching for a god who would tear into her soul and find something salvageable. Then she cried.
Silence.
“We will recess momentarily and return with a verdict,” said the robed Wookiees through the translator. A court attendant offered Jade a glass of water, which she took. By the time she drank it the court was back in session. A purple-robed Wookiee clasped his hands. “We thank you, Jade Hart, for coming on your own volition to Kashyyyk and offering yourself for judgment. We have also taken your age, 15 years old at the time of the crime, into account. Yet this does not absolve you. Our judgment must be fair and impartial.” The Wookiee judge scanned the audience, before zeroing in on Jade again.
“We, who speak for the Wookiee victims, find you…”
“Not guilty of genocide.”
“Not guilty of mass murder.”
“Guilty… of involuntary manslaughter.”
Jade nodded and wringed her hands.
“We sentence you to 10,000 hours of community service on Kashyyyk. You must complete the first three thousand hours of your service on Kashyyyk. After that, you will be eligible for parole, and if granted, you may leave the planet with the expectation you will return to complete the remaining hours at a later date.”
There was a range of cries, moans, barks, and bellows. Even the tree seemed to offer an opinion, creaking and cracking like an old rustic chair. A couple guards led Jade out a hidden exit. A court worker accompanied her. They stepped outside. The world seemed reborn, like it had been given a new coat of paint. Blue skies, black dirt, mountains of trees, monuments of trees.
“I bet this is a breath of fresh air compared to that jury room,” said the court worker.
“Did you know that a Jedi can hold their breath for hours when needed?” asked Jade.
“That’s a myth.”
Jade smiled.
She took a deep breath. Held it.
Kept holding.