Maya's Truth

Flash. Hiss.

Flash. Hiss.

The sharp flash of blaster fire, silent but for the searing sizzle of light energy singing the very air it arcs past: it is such a simple sound. I pull the trigger again and watch the beam rip through the cold night, disappearing somewhere, maybe thirty meters past me, exploding a hapless dusty red boulder, one not unlike the one I sit upon.

Flash. Hiss. Boom.

I do not even hear the rocks exploding under the devastatingly hot blast—soaring temperatures expanding far faster than its molecular cohesion can contain–I only hear and see the blaster bolt: the light and the sound, ignoring the corresponding fury’s moment on the stage, acting its final scene of tragic, senseless violence. It seems all too familiar a theme.

Flash. Hiss.

I do not know what else to do. I am simultaneously counted among the galaxy’s greatest heroes and its most despicable villains; it depends on whom you ask. For me, there are too many images, too many thoughts (too many screams) to sort through at once. All I can do is revel in pure mindlessness, imbibing the mental detritus: as anything greater would devolve my supposed intellect into a pile of useless space trash. One image was enough. One scream was enough.

Flash. Hiss.

Flash. Hiss.

I am Fabius Kane: a smuggler, a pirate: an all around scoundrel. I’m a human, a Corellian. I also happen to be a Jedi in training: a disappearing breed under an increasingly overbearing, omnipresent Imperial regime. I am known and feared across space as a ruthless and dangerous rogue, associated often with some of the most notorious names in the galaxy. Yet others see me as a hero, a new hope. I wish I could tell you which one was right.

Flash. Hiss.

It is weird. I can see the rock shards splinter in all directions, spiraling through the air upward and out, some towards me, some away, but I cannot hear it. It is as if my brain can only handle so much input at once. I drop my right arm to my side, as if it were suddenly to heavy to hold up, concomitantly lowering my heavy blaster pistol.

I grew up on Nar Shadda, which means greed, corruption, and violence is a part of me. It is the environment I grew up in: fostered by the Hutts, flourishing in a Petri dish of remnant scum and poverty. People they are all just terrified they will die alone and poor and are willing to backstab their own blood to get their ends. Maybe. You learn hard lessons in a place like that. I would like to think I am better than that. Perhaps not much better, but better. I always told Papa Beedo—

Flash. Hiss.

Flash. Hiss.

Flash. Hiss. Boom.

I always said I was not in it for any revolution. I was there for the money. But I saw both my birth father and adoptive father killed over indigency. I understood that money meant freedom: keeping your life as well as your sanity. But I also learned loyalty. Donovan and I had always looked out for each other and that made us stronger. Our fathers looked out for each other until they met their respective ends. For money. For a time, that made them stronger. So Donovan and I always pushed ourselves to out excel everyone around us. He was always more laid back than me—he is a Sluissi after all—but we accomplished a lot together. We got out of that hellhole and got our own starship. We even paid off all our Hutt debts after paying way too much interest—but then again, gangsters do not usually offer competitive loan rates.

All I hear now are screams. I could handle one. Two. Three. And that is how it happened. When things went wrong on Lannik, I gunned down a Hutt’s arena manager and his Barabel bodyguard. They were one and two. Both were done in anger. I understand that anger now. I did not know why that fire burnt so strongly in me then. I just thought I was mad.

Flash. Hiss.

Their deaths weighed on me., though I needed to clear my head after that. Yet, after landing on Dagobah, I seemed to feel a sense of clarity even before the others arrived. Then Alexander died. I had not had one of my people go down since Donovan and I ran gangs on Nar Shadda; time makes you forget the feeling, it makes you forget the pain. Once we took to space, the casualties were always theirs. I was a fool to think that could last. But we moved on. We had to. Sure, I heard his screams. Again. And again. And again. But what should I have done? At that point, the ship was not paid off. We had to go on. Or else we would have been dead.

There were others after that. Too many others. At some point, I stopped feeling bad for each one. But that was before Beedo.

Flash. Hiss.

Flash. Hiss.

Papa Beedo, Cobalt Blue, whatever. The crazy old man that somehow became an overnight pop sensation, was the first one that really convinced me that the Force was more than a bunch of shit. Donovan and I never really knew what to make of Vima-Da-Boda. She was a crazy old woman, the same way that Beedo was a crazy old fool. But he could do things that I could no longer deny; he did things that could not be anything other than some mystical power.

Flash. Hiss.

Maybe he just seemed crazy because he was the first person I met that cared about something other than himself. Damn he was crazy. Talking about the galaxy was sick and needed to be healed. What did I know about that? I knew about credits. About goods and services. Things you can touch. Things you can see. What the fuck did I know about the galaxy crying for help?

Flash. Hiss.

Flash. Hiss.

I look at the smoking blaster barrel. I find the resultant miasma as ambiently alluring as the blaster fire that caused it. I touch the barrel with my other hand. It is hot. I glance at the gauntlet on my left arm. Rotating it counter-clockwise, I see the seams for the compartment where I used to carry my lightsaber.

I did not want it anymore, so I gave it to Donovan. It is kind of funny. Donovan was always the strong one; at least in that way. It is pure luck that I was ultimately the one to be trained. I look at my open palm as if I was still holding that blade; my fingers curl, catching the hilt that isn’t there. My head tilts up, seeing the blade that isn’t there either, hearing the snap-hiss of ignition. It was blue. I could not fix that. He probably can. Turn it green or something. I bought if from Beedo, who found it among the belongings of a deceased serial killer. The same killer that put Donovan in a coma. (I won’t even mention that fuck’s name. Let him disappear forever; let all his evil be forgotten: all the attention he wanted effaced from history.) Donovan does not know that. I never told him. Why should I? Karma’s what you make of it. He knows it came from Beedo. For him, that makes it a holy talisman, marking forever the passing of a great man. Luck. That is all it is. I did not want it any longer. It only punctuated my failure. A Jedi’s failure. Besides, he needs it. He needs the strength that Veroshk gave me, and given our circumstances, that was the only way I could do it.

Flash. Hiss.

Flash. Hiss.

Flash. Hiss. Boom.

Veroshk is dead. Beedo is dead. Half of my present is dead and most of my past. Before he–only days ago, Veroshk told me some things I did not know. He told me my mother did not leave my father over money. It was because of me. Because she was a Jedi. Because the High Inquisitor Tremayne would have found her and killed me as insurance against any further future Jedi insurgency from the Nadeen family (my mother’s maiden name). It was not the money. Only now Tremayne’s dead. It was not the money.

Flash. Hiss.

I take a deep breath, catching air in my lungs: it is dry, dusty. For the first time I notice a subtle haze of tiny particles clouding the area. I look over my shoulder at The White Wing. It should not be my ship. Donovan and I bought into a fraction of our ex-friend, the late fiend he-with-no-name’s ship when it needed repairs. Only later, we found out it was not his either; he had killed the original owner. Then he stole away on the ship and sold it to a bunch of other spacers. Suddenly, Veroshk comes out of the blue and says your Corellian mother’s dead, it was not the money, you need to face your destiny, and oh yeah—the Syndicate bought out your old ship, The White Wing.

Flash. Hiss.

It was not the money. As if waking from a dream, I can remember the gentle mother who tucked me into bed and whispered prayers in my little ears, and realize she was not the money greedy whore I thought, but a self-sacrificing martyr who died to give me life. My father was not a broke loser. He was the painful victim of a world gone mad, where being gifted meant you were a target. But Donovan’s father kept us alive when we should have been dead. Loyalty. My past is dead. It is a lie.

My present too. That’s half dead. Especially the present-past. Alexander, Petra, and Arahk? Dead. Xax and his droid? Dead. The ersatz Mat’tha? Dead. The sick fuck and his droid? Dead. Dead. Redge and Zerrisk made it. IL-1D20?

Flash. Hiss. Boom.

Flash. Hiss. Boom.

Flash. Hiss. Boom

Only Naria, Donovan, Spid and Beedo made it. But now Beedo’s dead.

Flash. Hiss.

And I did it.

*           *           *

I stumble off of the rock, Rodian ale coursing through my blood. Enough reflection. Enough bullshit.

Flash. Hiss. Boom.

I’m Fabius fucking Kane. No one beats me. No one lives to tell anything unless I want them to. I toss the empty bottle into the rocks and start blasting the falling shards, acting faster than anyone has a right to.

Flash. Hiss. Flash. Hiss. Flash. Hiss. Flash. Hiss.

I stalk the glass, limping over the uneven red earth in an effort to methodically eliminate all traces of the fallen glass, melting the small pieces even as I did the coarse blue skin of Beedo’s skull.

Flash. Hiss. Flash. Hiss. Flash. Hiss.

My foot catches on a rock, causing me to fall. Before the ale I might have recovered, but now it’s too late; I’m too slow. I fall hard: smashing an elbow first, then the other hip as I twist away from the sudden jolt of pain; it acts only as a mirror to my insides, rather than a sobering reminder of reality.

I killed him.

I did it.

Tremayne leapt down off the rail, effortless, even as the others like I clutched to that rail to steady us on the narrow walkway—his garments softly fluttered behind him as he dropped onto that walkway, his arm gracefully swooping sideways during his descent, like an orchestra conductor swinging his baton through the melody—gently cleaving a burning scar through Beedo’s chest. He could have fallen to his death then, but Spid caught him.

I only wanted to help. I fired past Spid to get the murderer of my mother. But I only hit him with one of two shots. The other one clipped Beedo’s head. It seared his faux-blue flesh and melted his greatness and destiny in one careless blast. My failure only led to Veroshk’s sacrifice. He knew Tremayne would have killed us all without Beedo at our side. It’s my fault. The others depended on me. Especially with Beedo gone. But there was nothing I could have done.

Flash. Hiss. Flash. Hiss.

I can’t sort out Beedo’s silent death, which screams to me each moment, threatening to mire me in a dark quiet: one which I’m afraid of how I would emerge from, nor the self-sacrifice of Veroshk and to what I know to be his ultimate redemption to the light in dying for us and taking Tremayne with him, because even before that foolish sin I made a mistake bigger than anyone else in history.

I shot wide.

Only luck carried my shot that close. Some say better lucky than good. They don’t know shit. If that was true, billions of people wouldn’t have had to die.

I turn over on the rock, only now conscious of the fact that I have been lying where I had fell, lost in the Rodian ale, pain, and blood. I turn over slowly, feeling the sear of new injuries. Fuck it. I blink and the pain is gone. I wipe the now orphaned blood off of my forehead and adjust to my back, trying to ignore the pounding ache in my head that has nothing to do with any physical condition.

I shot wide.

Had I hit that Death Star dead on, they would never have gotten a shot off, and most of the Corellian system wouldn’t have been wiped out. The Death Star blast was even more awry than mine and so it took a while for Center Point Station to finally implode upon itself, but it did. Its explosion wiped out ninety percent of the life in the Corellian system.

Now the planet my parents called home—one of the oldest, most powerful, and most respected planets in the Old Republic, and even now in the Empire—is all but dead. And I’m the one that’s responsible.

I hold up the blaster pistol to fire again but stop.

I put it to my head.

I’m the one who is responsible for billions of people dying and I can’t get their deaths out of my mind. I can’t get their screams out of my head. I find myself wishing that this connection to the rest of the galaxy, the Force, was something Beedo and Veroshk had never taught me; I wished destiny had cursed someone else with this gift. I wished I hadn’t felt the awesome horror of billions of lives ending suddenly and violently all too close.

The blaster barrel is cold on the side of my forehead. I must not have fired it in awhile.

They are all I hear.

My arm lies on the ground; I don’t have to exert myself. I only have to fire.

They are all I hear.

Flash. Hiss.

*           *           *

Blinding lights, swirling around my head: a visual cacophony accompanying my sudden consciousness, winding toward me then instead away, curling side to side, riding ambient air currents: their movements suddenly less than pure chaos, a mess sorting itself out as my eyes open wide. The fiery wisps seem to emote a vibe that speaks to me: saying, trust us. How can I not, knowing only that I am not where I went down: mired among the red, orange, and yellow miasmas, each crowning my vicinity and above in circular paths—instead of sitting in a blasted red quarry. As I pull myself to my feet, I begin to perceive that they are not random bursts of light, but mimics of life: fiery birds, flapping their incandescent wings; the air around them crackles with the snaps of fire consuming oxygen. It seems like I have been staring forever when standing and turning I am suddenly dizzy. I put my hands out instinctively, finding a wall where a moment ago was nothing. I bow over, catching my breath.

Pulling my head off of my resting forearm, I look at the wall. I look up. The building goes up. I pull away as if realizing I had unwittingly embraced my greatest enemy. I spin. I spin again. I recognize the architecture. It is Corellian.

The birds come back, screeching toward me, wings tucked behind them, each diving straight towards me, only to pull away at the very last moment as I throw myself onto the pavement. Not feeling my flesh searing, I look above. The birds circle around me again, dropping lower with each turn, but coming no closer. They are moving so fast, so furiously, they have created a solid circular wall of fire around me.

Beyond the wall, I see someone approaching. My right hand immediately darts to my waist, reaching for the heavy blaster in my holster. I grasp air. I look down; the holster is empty. Forgetting that I gave it to Donovan, I hit the release on my gauntlet to drop the lightsaber into my palm. Nothing. I try the same with my other gauntlet, trying to find my blaster pistol. Nothing. I feel the small of my back for my taped hold-out blaster. Nothing.

No weapons. Without them—or a ship—I am useless.

Instead, I try to focus my senses on seeing who is coming. Maybe I can defend myself with the Force. I saw Beedo strike down people just by gesturing. Perhaps I can do that.

The silhouette of the person on the outside of the fire wall gets darker as it gets closer. I ready myself, dropping into some semblance of a battle stance. I can tell it is gesturing its arms upward, holding them perpendicular to the ground. Then it walks right through the flames.

I drop to my knees slowly, paralyzed by the sudden weight of seventeen long years.

The flaming birds break their ranks and each fly skyward at a different angle, leaving me alone with a woman dressed in flowing white robes; her hands have fallen to her sides. As she steps gracefully closer and closer, I can feel a burning sensation in my eyes. I clench my jaw. It is impossible. Unless—where am I?

Did I?

“Hello, Fabius,” that voice which used to tuck me into bed and whisper prayers in my little ears says.

I still cannot speak.

She puts her hands on the sides of my head, gently rubbing my cheeks with her thumbs. She leans over and kisses my forehead. I clasp her hands, cupping them in mine and squeezing. I need to make sure it is real. That she is real. “Mother,” I whisper.

She smiles a tight-lipped smile.

The birds are circling slowly overhead.

“Poor Fabius,” she says, still stroking my cheeks. “All you ever wanted was your own little corner of the galaxy, to quietly pass your years in.”

Her eyes, reflecting the fiery birds around us, look sad. I nod. “Just Donovan and I. And some maybe some beautiful women,” I add, blushing.

She smiles, again keeping her lips closed. She blinks. “Sometimes—“a tear escapes her eye—“we can’t get what we want, Fabius.” Even as she maintains her smile, I can see her jaw muscles tensing, clenching, trying to fight what would not be a smile.

I look up, trying to ignore the burn in my own eyes, instead watching the birds circle above us, perhaps pretending that their bright glare is what makes my eyes water.

My mother, Maya Kane, kneels in front of me, dropping to my level: pulling my head down to look her in the eyes again. “It is no coincidence that Vima da Boda found you, Fabius. I sent her to you. But she had to leave for the same reason I did.”

“She wasn’t abandoning us?” I ask staring into her eyes. “It wasn’t anything we did?”

“No,” she says. “She gave her life to save you and Donovan.”

My eyes flash and it is not from the blazing birds above. “Tremayne,” I mutter, but less as a question and more as an accusation.

Her left hand slides to the back of my head, cradling my neck, while the other drops to my chest, putting pressure there, right over my heart. I feel a sudden warmth where she touches me. I put my hands over hers, touching her flesh: touching her warm, real, soft flesh. I cannot stop it anymore. I do not want to. Wetness slides down my cheeks.

“Fabius!” she says sharply, shaking my head gently. “You have to be careful of your anger. It is too strong. You cannot succumb to the Dark Side. Not you.”

I say nothing, but look up her, my eyes still flashing: my anger not dissipated so easily.

“Do you want to become like the Skywalker? Like the Emperor before him? Or like Tremayne himself?”

“No,” I say.

‘Then you must let go of your anger, Fabius. There are other ways. This is too important for you. You must trust me when I say that the light is the true path of the Jedi; that it is stronger in time. Of all people, you need to understand this”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

Her hands pull away from my chest and clasp my hands. “I know you just want to make your fortune and retire, but it can’t happen. It never will. Why do you think Tremayne kept looking for you? You know he must have told the Emperor who you are. You won’t be safe. Anywhere. Even the Darksider on Nar Shadda you encountered at the Hutt casino knew. Xax was merely the first one through the door. Why do you think he then concentrated his attacks on you? Why was Papa Beedo drawn to you? And Veroshk? Even Yarros Starhammer saw it in you; that’s why he chose you to help save his brothers and father. He could see that your destiny was great. It’s even part of your bond with Donovan. Every Force-user you meet knows it, Fabius. You can’t escape it.”

She stands up and begins to back away.

“No,” I whisper. “No, you can’t leave, Mom. Not again! I’m not ready for this. I can’t do it alone!”

“You are ready,” she says. “And you won’t be alone. I’ll always be with you.”

Even as she says the last words, she continues to back away.

“Wait—“ I begin, but as I stand and step forward, the blazing birds dive down between us, forcing me to stop, then circle around me, preventing me from reaching my mother.

“The Phoenixes won’t hurt you, Fabius,” my mother says, her voice becoming more and more faint. “I must go. You must accept that as you must accept your destiny.”

“No!” I scream and dive through the fire wall only to snap into a sudden sitting position from my seat on the dusty, red rock where I had fallen: surrounded by nothing, no buildings, no fire, no darkness either; the sun is up. I look around me. Nothing except blasted rock. I look behind me. A blaster burn right behind where my head was. I look up at the sun. In my mind’s eye, I can still see the fiery birds—the phoenixes, as my mother called them—even though they were gone. I look back at the blasted rock by where my head had been. She had saved me. I turn over and kiss my fingers and then touch the warm rock with those same fingers. “Thank you, mother,” I whisper.

I look at the ship.

The White Wing would no longer do in many ways. It was an older ship in a wrong time in the right place. As I stood, I decided that I would have the entire ship refurbished and gutted, as was only appropriate. I wanted every outside surface destroyed and redone: new panels, new paint, new furnishings and new accommodations. New rations, supplies, and controls. I had plenty of money and a dwindling sense of greed. The new ship, when done, would be called the Mayan Phoenix. I know it will become the most infamous ship in the galaxy. I know this not out of any sense of false pride, but with the final understanding and appreciation for the sacrifices of the past and a reluctant acceptance of my destiny.

As Veroshk asked, I will meet this Jedi Master, Zyan-Krol. I will train. I will learn. And then I will return to the galaxy: with a vengeance. But first, I need to compile a new lightsaber. My lightsaber. Donovan and I mapped the specs for my old one weeks ago, as we tried to figure out how it worked. I know I am not as technologically adept as him, but I can find the pieces and put them together. And this time, the blade will be grey. For him. For Veroshk. For he who gave his life so that others could live.

I walk off towards a dead tree in the distance. I can already see a branch about three meters long. With it, I can record on a holoprojector that I have in the ship all I know about lightsaber use. Then I will send it to Donovan. He will need it before we meet again. With the projector, I think I will also send a deed for one-half ownership of the Mayan Phoenix. She saved us both, and so did he. They wanted both of us to live. We’re both special. We both have a destiny to face.