One Day

I.

The slave woman screamed.

And screamed, again. The small room filled with the agonized sounds, more like those of an animal than a sentient – deep, visceral cries of pain and effort. A pause, in which to catch a heaving breath or two, trembling gasps of air between assaults.

The other slaves, mostly women in this section, went about their business. It was not uncommon to hear a fellow unfortunate in the throes of some punishment. But this was something other – something better, and worse. Better, because it ended in joy. Worse, because every joy a slave possessed was another thing waiting to be torn from her hands by a capricious owner, by the same cruel fate which had sold her into bondage in the first place.

Another scream, trailing into a grunting moan, and then another. A shout, a wordless cry of inescapable agony, of mind-wrenching pain…and then a great gasp of relief and collapse.

The voice of the midwife could be heard then, ordering her makeshift assistants – little more than other slaves – to get this, bring that quickly. A different kind of scream pierced the air. Loud, shrill, strong, full of new life. A baby screamed for the first time, his tiny lungs filling with air and then expelling it in ear-piercing shrieks.

"You are blessed - the child is strong!" the midwife smiled. She swaddled the infant boy in strips of clean cloth, as was the custom on this planet. His shoulders bore the promise of future power, the kick of his legs as he resisted the encompassing bands of cloth bespoke a spirit not easily quelled.

"Give him to me. Let me have him," the exhausted mother begged.

The other slaves peeked in now, through the doorway. The mother clasped the baby to her breast, face streaked with sweat and tears. Bloody cloths scattered over the floor, and flies already idly buzzed among them, carried in on the sweltering breeze filtering through the stone-grated window. The stained ceiling and cracked floor bespoke only poverty; but for one moment, one blissful moment, the slave woman was infinitely rich.

"My son," she crooned. "My beautiful baby son."

The crowd screamed.

Or perhaps it was more of a cheer, an exultant, happy shout of victory. Yes, that was what it was; it would never do to focus on the razor-thin boundary between a cheering crowd and an angry mob. Only the few who understood the true nature of Power would see the deadly poison in the heart of mass emotions. And he was not – officially – one who understood Power.

No, he was one who only accepted Power reluctantly, because it was the will of the people, these dear, dear people who had just elected him Senator to their insignificant planet. These dear, dear people who had no understanding of Power whatsoever. Who had child-Queens ruling them; who kept only a small security force to defend them against the galaxy's ills; who valued art and culture and courtesy more than alliances and factories and propaganda. His people.

The current ruler approached, flanked by a retinue of other girl children. The Queen herself had to work hard to keep the ridiculous headdress balanced atop her head. Her painted face, with its precise red accents and pale white visage, was grave as only a child can be grave.

"Queen Melidala," the newly-elected Senator greeted her, with his most avuncular smile. "It is my honor to serve our people by your side."

The little girl looked up at him, through the mask of the makeup and the ornate jewelry, and her green eyes shone with admiration and trust. "It is a great comfort to me that our people's cause will be in such capable hands, Senator," she intoned. Goodness, she must have rehearsed that speech quite perfectly last night. He noted that it could have been made to whichever man won the election; such was the nature of politics. While the Queen was a child, those who stood behind her – the advisors and tutors and the captain of the Guard - were not. He would do well to remember that. Power never underestimated its opponents. The Queen was in many respects a decoy, a smoke screen which disguised the real balance of power on this world.

He knew all about that – oh, so much about it. If only they could guess.

He held out one arm in the ceremonial style, and the infant Queen took it. She allowed him to escort her inside the royal palace, where the official banquet was to be held in his honor. The best of everything was to be laid out to mark this occasion. He smiled at the tawdry display of wealth: marble, crystal, silk and brocade, precious metals and servants everywhere. It was but dross – signifying nothing. The real riches were those he held now invisibly. And those he would never let go.

"Ah," he murmured in his most genteel manner. "I am quite overwhelmed."

The saber blade screamed.

That's how it sounded, anyway. The truth was different, as the truth so often is. A lightsaber blade is perfectly silent and still, as balanced and pure as the Force itself. It is the air around the blade which seems to scream, as that hyper-focused edge of light sears through it. The air burns and shimmers and vibrates, sometimes in multiple tones. Particularly when the wielder of the blade performs a kata at such velocity that his motion is a blur of violet fire. Then the very space shatters and is set alight, and sings a high, ecstatic note to the ear.

The Jedi Master finished his warm up, and the sound stilled to a low hum, like the meditative om of a recluse monk on some stone sanctuary long ago. In fact, the truth was not only different than appearances, it was also more complex. The blade was silent, compared to the air surrounding it. It was the silent center of that sound. And the man holding the blade, the Jedi – he was the silent center of the blade's motion. And the heart of that man – the Jedi's heart – was a silent center of his actions. And the center of that heart – which was the Force itself, for a Jedi's heart is a window open on infinity – was a silent center of the man. And so they co-existed in hierarchy, these concentric spheres, each containing a more precious and purified center, each sustained and made whole by its own center, down to that core which was everything and nothing at once.

This was balance. To master balance, one must be balance. One must know that what appears dark is sometimes dark only in relation to a pure light at the center, as the sun eclipses and darkens its own lesser halo of light. So: the lightsaber form might appear dark; but not the man using it. And that man might appear wrathful, but not his heart. Always the light stayed in the center, and the dark at the periphery, where it was subject and ruled by the Light.

This was his discovery. His invention. He felt filled with gratitude for the honor of discovering it, for the treasure of understanding it. He wanted nothing more than to share this wealth with another.

He went to find his teacher, as a child goes to share some delightful token with its parent. He went to find Yoda.

The peacocks screamed.

Funny, the Prince reflected, that here on the steps of the cathedral, deafened by a cheering, weeping crowd of friends and family, by the sonorous notes of the finest orchestra in the sector, by the tolling of great bells and even by the joyful drum of his own heart in his ears, that he should pick out that one sound. The graceful, brightly plumed birds strutted across the lawn, their heads high. The largest among them lifted his magnificent tail to the sun and shook out its exquisite length, displaying his finery to the golden star as though in clear, self-confident challenge.

Perhaps it was because a small part of him felt the same. He felt that the very heavens could not outrival him for glorious happiness. On his arm, by his side, so close he could smell her perfume, was Breha Antilles, hereditary ruler of their world, and chosen ruler of his heart. The priests had just bound them in holy wedlock, man and wife forever until the stars were sundered from their thrones, and he knew in his heart that even this would not quell his love for her.

Passion maybe – he was wise enough to know that this lesser feeling would mellow with the passing decades. But not yet. He was almost rude to the Vice Premier, because he was so enraptured with Breha's hair, and the way the silk of her white gown slid over the smooth curve of her arm, the way the light caught the regal lines of her nose and cheeks, the perfect dimple beneath her lip.

The Premier was his uncle by marriage, and a man of experience. He winked at his grand-nephew's lapse in attention and fell into place behind the couple as they descended the steps together. A transport was waiting – elegant, understated but beautifully engineered. The Prince felt a swell of pride at all that his people, their people had accomplished. At all they still might do. There were hints of corruption in the Core, of a crumbling of the old ways and the old values. Here life was not yet tarnished. Here the ancient Republic's values and virtues still thrived. If he lived for anything, it was for that. And for Breha, his one and true love.

He stole another glance at her as they floated gently away down the main concourse toward the banqueting hall where the wedding reception awaited them. Her dark eyes slid sideways to peer at him under a veil of gentle lashes. Those eyes held kindness and compassion and wise counsel for all. But for him, they held something more. Infinitely more.

He settled back in the seat of the expensive vehicle, in his exquisite clothing, amid his retinue and the pomp and splendour of his station, and knew that even were he reduced to rags and starvation, he was the richest man in the galaxy.

"Breha," he murmured so that only she could hear. "Let's skip the reception."

Her eyes laughed. But she only said, "No, my lord. We must not be so selfish."

And he loved her the more for it.

The young man screamed.

It wasn't really something for which he could be faulted. He was flesh and blood, and only sixteen years old. And the deadly-thin flechette which had just pierced straight through his shoulder hurt. Force, it hurt. But he felt ashamed for the outburst anyway, and snapped his mouth shut in the next instant, blue eyes screwing up with controlled pain and renewed determination.

He switched to a one-handed style, grateful that it had not been his sword arm that took the blow. His lightsaber flashed and danced, its pattern shifting to a frantic defensive blur as he deflected bolts and tiny sharp projectiles back at the ruthless mercenaries advancing down the corridor. At his back was the blast sealed door to the murderers' targets – the Poojam and his entire cabinet. This was an assassination and robbery attempt that would not succeed. Behind the blast door,the Poojam was in a state of high dudgeon, shrieking and yelling, his emotions a muddy smear sensed through the Force.

"Stand aside, whelp," the foremost of the assassins growled, raising a fist to signal a temporary cease-fire. His slatted eyes rested on the thrumming lightsaber blade briefly before sliding up to the startling red stain spreading on the Jedi's cream tunics. "Or it'll be over yer dead body."

"I don't think so." The Poojam might be a fool, but the Jedi were assigned to his protection. Lives were at stake. There would be no standing aside.

The villain waved a clawed hand and his company let loose again, hammering at their obstinate foe until he found his back hitting the blast doors. His saber moved continuously, ahead of thought, barely intercepting the plasma bolts and razors shot at his torso and head. He used both hands, the pain in his left shoulder blurring into the scream of the saber as he battled to defend himself, and the doors, from the attack. The assassins fell as their bolts slammed into their own bodies, one by one, until only the leader remained. He fired his blaster point blank at the Jedi, knocking the saber clear out of his hand, and sunk an armored fist into the bleeding flechette wound in the boy's shoulder. With a wicked grin he raised the blaster one last time –

-and then completely lost his head. A sweep of thrumming fire cut it from his body, leaving the hulking torso and legs to gracelessly topple to the floor a second later.

Behind the fallen Togorian stood another Jedi, leonine features highlighted in cold green by his saber's blade.

" Master…" the Padawan protested. . "The Treasury…!"

But the tall Jedi only shook his head. Let the remaining pirates take the entire contents of the Poojam's precious money-vault. He had abandoned his post at that end of the compound as soon as he had felt the danger to his apprentice. "I have more important treasures to protect," he said, in a tone that brooked no argument. He reached out to grip his student's arm.

"Well then…" The boy offered a wicked, if somewhat unsteady, grin. "What took you so long?"