The Transfer

[Khaeden]

Khaeden Sarin slammed his fist on the desktop. Spider webs of static emanated from his fists contact point; the discharge coursing over the metal surface of the desk. The holonet screen attached to the in-board computer system scrammed itself off at the surge. Khaeden’s emotional turmoil was ever present, but it’s outward expression was rare.

“Transferred. How can they transfer me! I’m the best pilot they have! The best figh… ah to hell with it.”

He seethed in the light of the desktop lamp. His personal chamber in the bunker dark, and sparse of décor. This forcible detachment from his unit was commonplace in Khaeden’s life as much as his career. Though he raged about the new orders he received; he knew it was going to come down to this. Again… and again… and again.
He was a Sith. Trained in secret, and relegated to a life of hiding his true nature out of his desire to serve the Emperor. There was no place for him in a galaxy where force users were hunted. It was either bottle his power until such a time as he could utilize it… or stifle it entirely, join the rebellion, and sing with the other hunted force users about how special a place the galaxy would be once the Empire was defeated. He would rather eat a blaster bolt than stoop so low.

“Peace is a lie. There is only passion.”

From duty station to duty station he drifted through the ranks; never in one place for very long. He would gain some comfort in an assignment, only to expose himself as particularly “gifted” in some fashion. This was, of course, looked upon with disdain in a galaxy of expected compliance and conformity. His peers would become more or less enamored with his skills in a starship or on the battlefield… and his senior officers would become fearful of his prowess. Sensing that there was something “beyond” simple skill or luck that drove Khaeden’s success. Regardless, it simply made Khaeden an outcast once again. The resentment it made him feel was what drove his latest outburst.

“Through passion, I gain strength.”

Khaeden had filled every role he had been assigned with feverish zeal. He took pride in the collections of trooper armor now packed into the gear boxes. Each like a notch on his psychological belt. But again it emphasized his lack of acceptance subconsciously. His only comfort in the news of his new transfer, was that he had no information on what it entailed. While some would be hesitant due to the lack of information; at his core Khaeden felt a tingle of adrenaline at the thought of something new to challenge him. However, the resentment he felt in spite of expecting this change, was momentarily overpowering.

“Through strength, I gain power.”

He erupted from his chair, moving to the far, darkened corner of the room where a wroshyr wood box engraved with Iridonian symbols laid by itself on the floor. Khaeden knelt to the box, clearly comforted by it. He picked it up gently, opening the top and allowing his eyes to caress the contents. His rage slowly abating, he reached in and removed the silver trimmed hilt of his lightsaber. He closed his eyes at the feel of the ancient weapon in his grasp. The power of the weapon was palpable to him. He never tired of wielding it when he had the sparse opportunity to do so. His excitement permeated him to the tips of his horns.

“Through power, I gain victory.”

His fiery eyes opened as he stood and ignited the blade. The high ceilings and lack of furniture aside from the desk, gear boxes, chair and sleeping pallet allowed him to twirl the blade back and forth. His momentary fascination with the weapon now became a long form kata that arced the dusky blade through the room. The stark hum of the blade burning its way through the air. The odd indirect glow cast on Khaeden’s features from the Blackwing crystal of the saber emphasized the malice behind the fluid movements. Khaeden stopped and stared at the blade; his passive expression now turning to an ice cold smile. He spoke to the blade as he would a precious child. In whispered tones he invoked, “One day, I will let you sing. One day we will show all who have forced us to hide what it means to truly fear. One day, we will carve a path through our enemies that will announce our true nature. Then… maybe… I will be able to absolve my family name of its disgrace. Either way… I can’t bury my power much longer. It grows…”.

“Through victory, my chains are broken.”

Khaeden’s admittance was no exaggeration. Though he was forced to contain his abilities it was becoming more and more difficult every day. His emotions would take over; and he could feel the power they invoked spilling outward. His dreams had become more and more prophetic, though disconnected and random. He remembered very little; though he did recognize that his new assignment to the regiment on Talus was part and parcel of his destiny. The tingle at the base of his spine indicated that his subconscious knew of the importance of this new post. Somehow, he was peripherally aware that his life was about to change profoundly. He knew that this ‘Outpost Kappa’ was going to play a crucial role in his rise out of the smothering secrecy he’d been forced to endure.

“The Force shall free me.”

The blade collapsed in on itself as Khaeden allowed the blade to power down. He felt the crisp air being circulated by the ventilation system in the mustafarian bunker and his skin prickled at the preternatural silence that now filled the room with an expectant quality. His animosity at the transfer now forgotten, he placed the saber back into the wroshyr box he had initially retrieved it from and simply whispered, “Soon. Very soon.”