The Gift

Dark Lady

Rating:        NC-17  There are sexual situations in this story, and a little violence.
Disclaimer: Star Wars characters, names, and places belong to George Lucas.  Everything other than these things owned by Lucas, belongs to the author.  No profit is being made from this story. .
Summary:  The young Khameir Sarin receives a gift from his benefactor, Governor Palpatine of Naboo.    
Feedback:  Please send feedback to Dark Lady@blueyonder.co.uk
Initial posting: On dmeb2.
Dedication: To Lord 'Santa' Maul.

The full size Chaos Engine is exhibited at the Tate Modern art gallery London.  A most intriguing device and very Sithly in concept and design, it is worth a visit. The sculptor, Jean Paul Tinguely, made it.

The Gift.

The box was from Regional Governor Palpatine on Naboo – a shipment of books and other scholarly items to his ward, Khameir Sarin.

Perhaps not his ward officially speaking, but since the death of his parents, Palpatine had taken quite an interest in the boy, making visits, encouraging his studies, sending books and devices of interest, some of them very strange and cunning.

Khameir impatiently pushed at the door to close it, for he was eager to examine the contents of this box.

The box was sitting on his console, no doubt placed there by some younger child who had performed the errand as part of his duties.  It had been placed in front of the computer monitor; and Khameir, who was at the threshold of manhood,  sat in front of it.  After carefully studying it, he touched the box with one finger and turned it round, looking and feeling with the Force for clues as to the contents.

This was a game he liked to play with these ‘presents’, to guess the contents.  Sometimes he was wrong, more often now he was right.  Some of the books he received were very strange, very odd.  He read them all avidly, devouring the contents eagerly.  All the subject matter contained therein was fascinating, but some subjects encouraged further enquiry, such as the ancient tomes about mind-expanding drugs of a certain type, and ‘Instruments devised to increase the pleasure of pain.’

This latter had been a very old book, hand written on a flexible material which looked strangely like a hide or skin.  The sketches and drawings had been annotated in an unknown hand, with suggestions for improvement and comments about the efficacy of the devices employed.

 He had studied the book, and sent it back to Palpatine suggesting that such physical methods of increasing pleasure derived from pain imposed a barrier, that Force users could employ more direct methods…

Khameir knew of the Force.  His benefactor had told him that he was 'extraordinary' in this regard, in the knowing and feeling of the undercurrents of life, and the web of sentience that was the Force.  'Power will be yours," his benefactor had told him, "if you will but learn self-discipline and self-control, for that is the key to a universe others know nothing of, save for the Jedi." 

There had followed exercises and meditations, and instruction in the processes of logical thought and intuition, and now the child, who was nearly a man, saw and felt what others barely perceived.  Being of a violent nature, he detected anger before love, and the raging fires of hate before the still pools of serenity, and yet Palpatine urged him to sample the full range of emotion, that he might choose whatever path he would tread, in full knowledge of what he used.

Or what he rejected.  Even at such an early age, the boy had always chosen the easy path of anger and violence, finding that, for him, the Force bent more easily to these primitive emotions.  Moreover, he was impatient, and desired to learn quickly, and he would not wait to learn to use the more subtle tools of gentleness and persuasion.

But his path in life had barely begun.  For the moment, he was only a boy eager to open and examine his gift, and despite his searching of the Force and mental prowling around the physical entity of the box, there were no clues yet.  He closed his eyes, flexed his fingers and placed the tips on the box.  He stroked the surface lovingly, then flattened his hands placing them firmly on the sides.  His mind stretched into the box, through the plasti-board and around the wrappings, flexing along the spidery lines of a force which permeated everything, and which he had learned to use in a simple and direct way.

He probed into the contents of the box, questing along the web of the Force for signs of purpose and intimations of use.  There were cubes, small and crystalline which incubated a pseudo-life,  encased in plastic -  perhaps datacubes,  and something hard and black, split into two parts.  It seemed made of metal, and formed no pattern in his mind.  There was material which had once been part of a living animal, and had once been skin. This was present in both thin leaves, and something more substantial.  The one was thin and brittle, the other was soft and flexible.  The one was itself wrapped, the other would encase.  The thin leaves had a faint aura of ancient power, which was dim and wasted with the years. The other things - for there were two of them, a matching pair - exuded newness and vitality. He hoped they were boots, for the boots now on his feet were old and patched a little, and had been handed down from an older boy.  Lastly, there was something to eat and something to experiment with, something which was dried, made of leaves and florets.

Explorations over, the box was swiftly opened, the contents scrutinised.  Yesss, right on every guess!  He was pleased, would report this success to Palpatine.

There were indeed datacubes, and the leaves of the strange material were wrapped in preservative membrane.  The something made of metal, was very irregular in shape and all spines and sharp edges.  It was in two parts, its purpose hidden.

There was a small box of sweet cakes made by Palpatines’ cook.  He was going through a growth spurt again, was always hungry.  He grinned, his yellow eyes lit up and his stomach growled in anticipation – the honeyed delicacies would be much enjoyed!

Lastly, there were some packets – he guessed exotic herbs from far-flung worlds, to give new insights to meditation and help the disassociation of his mind from his body – and boots.

The datacubes were stored away, the cakes munched, the herbs sniffed and rubbed through clawed fingers.  He would try one of these later, perhaps in a tisane.  

The boots were of exquisite manufacture.  He put them on, agile fingers quickly lashing the strappings around his ankles and tightening the buckles. The soles were sturdy, yet light and flexible, they made no sound on the hard floor of his room, as he walked to and fro, testing them.  The black leather was soft and fine-grained.  There was light-alloy armour in the toes, and three buckled straps bound them tight around his ankles. To his delight, the left boot had a concealed pocket within which a slender blade might be concealed.  He stamped around in the boots to start wearing the newness off them, and vowed that when he was given permission to own his own weaponry, a small stiletto knife would be the first thing he would acquire.

Satisfied as to fit, he stood feet apart, hands on hips, looking down at the boots and flexing his toes, enjoying the feeling of newness in them.  He was not much interested in material things, for his personal inclination was to the spartan and ascetic life.  But to have new boots, and boots which fit; boots which were not hand-me-downs, or patched and repaired - that was a grand thing indeed.  His benefactor was truly a benefactor!  These parcels of books and intellectual curiosities were always intriguing and exciting, and always contained things to appeal to the hungry boy, and things which were necessary to his well-being.

He read the note again.  There was a postscript, carefully written in Palpatine's elegant hand.  “Perhaps you would translate these for me…” he read,  “The script is foreign to my eyes and you surely will know some of it…”

Khameir turned his attention to the book.  The flat bundle of preservative material was unwrapped and carefully opened to reveal leaves of a substance unknown to him.  The leaves were brittle, yellow with the passage of time, and but few.  There was writing which appeared to be penned, not printed, and in an archaic Iridonian script.  He spread the pages carefully on the flat surface of the console and switched on the reading light.  Then wriggling his toes in the fine, new boots, he prepared to work.

Khameir turned his attention to the book.  The flat bundle of preservative material was unwrapped and carefully opened to reveal leaves of a substance unknown to him.  The leaves were brittle, yellow with the passage of time, and but few.  There was writing which appeared to be penned, not printed, and in an archaic Iridonian script.  He spread the pages carefully on the flat surface of the console and switched on the reading light.  Then wriggling his toes in the fine, new boots, he prepared to work.

Turning to the first page, he studied the title, written in a script he recognized as an ancient version of the Iridonian demotic, which was similar to the local dialect, and which possibly translated as:

“The energies of destruction and creation,”

A synopsis followed, and it may have read:

“Being the summary of investigations into the actions of the mind during sexual congress including the generation of those energies which may be described as being of the destructive and creative impulse."

Fascinated, enthralled, his sharp and curious mind captured by the possibilities which might lie in the pages of this book, he worked on the translation late into the night.

He used the College library to look for ancient dictionaries.  Finding only recent works, he scoured the Iridonian net and found learned tomes and dictionaries hidden among old works of religion and faith.  He could almost see the dust as they were pulled from their electronic archives, and he sneezed, succumbing to the power of his own suggestion.

By the time that sleep beckoned, he had completed a page out of the twenty or so pages comprising the book.  The next pages would be easier and he was enjoying the contents enormously.  There were charts and a graph, most likely of brain activity.  He slept.

He knew what sexual congress was, but it was of only academic interest to him for now.  Sexual desire was still an abstract concept, even though his father’s training for adulthood had been most comprehensive and very thorough, preparing him for the mind-storms and violent physical urgings that awaited him when he encountered his Tai Shan for the first time, preparing him for the use of his own body and the pleasuring of another.

“Dignity is rooted in control,” his father had counseled, “as is the smooth path of civilisation,” teaching his son the customary breathing techniques and control of his body that would be necessary when the time came.

The young Khameir intended to sail the deeps of space in starships, he sometimes wondered whether his knowledge would always be of a theoretical nature, whether his father’s teaching had fallen upon a waste ground.

The next evening, after practise with the staves, he raced to his new assignment, eagerly opening the book, re-reading the page he had previously worked, imbibing the content and the sense of the work already done.  Again, he worked hard into the night.  The book continued…

‘And it has been found,’ the author wrote, ‘that during coition the mind is excited to the degree that energies are given forth…’

There was a chart…

The chart showed waves generated by the minds of some twenty different beings of varying species during the act of coition.  The text asserted that these waves could be detected by Force adepts and measured by certain subtle devices.  The results were tabulated alongside, they were annotated and anomalies highlighted.

“…and that the nurturing form of the species exhibits the greater peak.” said the book.

The waves were charted for all genders of the participants, and the female, or nurturing, gender exhibited a greater peak.  There was no explanation for this, no thesis or hypothesis, merely the observation of the fact.  Perhaps the author could find no explanation, presenting the findings for another to research and interpret.  The boy frowned for he was puzzled by this, thinking in his naivety that perhaps the female was the passive party in such an enterprise, for surely the male was the active and generating principle.

“The achievement of an ecstatical state of mind greatly facilitates… '

There was another chart, measuring ecstasy against the peaks.  How is ecstasy measured, he wondered?  By the degree of abandonment during sexual pleasure?  Does the mind dissociate? Must the activity be observed directly?  A million questions raced through his mind, the practical sort and the impractical sort; the question of how such observations may be undertaken, the question of measurement.  What are the units of ‘bliss’, of ‘satisfaction’?

“… and is facilitated by, desire, and that during episodes of creative or of destructive purpose, those energies are greater…”

he third chart was of of violent episodes, where pain was inflicted.  Pain was measured against later ecstasy, and footnotes to the main text described how that pain was delivered, in many and varying forms.

In good scientific manner, he studied the anomalies also.  There were instances where a certain activity wave was barely detected, and these were marked.  No state of bliss or ecstasy had been recorded during those episodes he saw.  By bliss or ecstasy he assumed the author meant release from the tension built up during the prelude to coition, but exactly how this occurred, or what took place in the mind - he had little real understanding..

 

Halfway through the book now - Palpatine would be pleased at the work, although why he should be interested in a subject such as this was a mystery to him.  There was no consort in his benefactor’s life, of that he was certain, no female of the species such that creation of another being in this way was a possibility.

Before sleeping, he drank the tisane made with a pinch of one of the packets of herbs, studying the instructions for quantity and purpose.  The taste was dusty and slightly bitter, there was a spicy undertone.  On meditating, he found no extra lightness of soul or agility of mind.  He dismissed the herb; reminded himself to check the making of it on the following day, fell asleep…

He dreamed, and as he dreamt the book whispered to him.  He dreamed of shadowy and languid white limbs entwining with his, there were the faintest of kisses on his lips, a whisper of breath upon his cheek.  There was a sound, a faint sigh as if of ultimate pleasure, and he felt soft velvet under his hand, then sliding, the warmth of another, and his own increasing pleasure.

He woke, sweating.  He was hard, hot, breathing quickly and heavily; he was alone in a pile of rumpled bed coverings.

Scientific curiosity and training rapidly overcame his puzzlement and fascination.  The content of the dream was recorded on a datapad for later analysis and interpretation.  Eventually, his mind calm and relaxed, he slept again.

The dream returned, but more vividly this time, as unbeknownst to the boy, the herb and the book synergistically worked their magick together on his mind.

He floated again on a misty sea of nothing, cocooned in a white space, then felt again the shadowy entwining of limbs around his own.  But now, he felt the brush of phantom fingers on his cheek in the ancient ritual manner, soft lips on his own, cool hands around his back, on his chest, his hips, on his…

And he woke again, hard, his body wanting something nameless, or someone.  The want, the need, was painful in its intensity and urgency.  There must be control, he thought, as he cooled himself by the open window, letting in the fresh night breezes and meditating.

Achieving a measure of calm, he slept again, and the dream struck a third time, more vividly and stranger yet.

The ghostly twining limbs brushed his again, most intimately.  He opened his mouth and lips like paradise lightly touched his with a searing kiss, hinting at a passion unbounded, unbridled.  A tongue danced with his; tasting his mouth, running over his fangs, and ethereal hands moved over his body, teasing him, exploring every contour of him.

He reached out for this phantom lover, but she twisted and turned, evading his grasping hands. There was the sound of soft laughter as she evaded his clutches, and his skin was on fire with the need to feel her against him. His heart raced and his lungs heaved. His arms and legs flailed as he struggled to hold her still and bring her under him, but her lips eluded his as her insubstantial hands gave him fleeting and intimate caresses which set his nerves pulsing with lust and desire.

As frustration mounted, anger increased - he wanted completion and needed to fill her. With a last great effort he forced her knees apart and with a half-sob, clumsily pushed himself into her.

Then there was no more struggling.  She sighed, and her legs slid around his hips.  She felt warm and tight as she moved against him in a sweet rhythm he seemed to have known forever.  Her arms were around him and she kneaded his back, stroked his neck, caressed his horns, kissed him deeply - all the time pushing onto him with an urgency that matched his own.

She murmured something to him, he growled softly in the back of his throat by way of reply, looked into deep black eyes, fathomless pools, drowned in them as his body shuddered and shivered in release.  Then his consciousness expanded, spread over his world, the galaxy, turning and spinning around the hub of the universe, and he fell endlessly into a dark well of oblivion.

He woke, the bed was crumpled and tangled, the coverings were twisted, and seed was spilled on the sheets.  There was little possibility of further sleep tonight.  He showered quickly, then continued with the book.

‘Destruction’ said the spidery text written by the unknown hand, ‘and by destruction is meant the application of external forces around the persons enjoying this sublime activity as a means of distraction from the reality without...’ The text was not clearly apparent and the grammar was difficult, in the old form.  He struggled with interpretation.  External forces then, were perhaps violent expressions of the nature surrounding them, any event where life itself was threatened.  Again there was a chart and the circumstances of each finding were noted in very small script.  Volcanic eruptions, tornadoes, a star-ship ploughing through deadly radiation storms as the passengers took refuge in passionate embraces – all were represented here.

And all charted for the delectation of the reader, and the satisfaction of the scientific mind.

Such tragedy.  Did the physical expression of desire mitigate against the approach of death itself?  Did such carnal activity give the illusion of life while death stalked ever nearer?  Did the little death of orgasm, bringing sweet and temporary oblivion, eclipse the encroaching presence of the true death?  No answers here, only speculation.

‘And the final thesis, that destructive or painful intent to the more passive party incurs such arousal and enchantment that the energies are most pronounced, is proven by the evidence…’  Proven indeed by charts of such a nature that the energies given forth by the perpetrator of the act greatly exceeded those of the passive party.  In fact, were the greatest of all.

There is power in pain and the inflicting of it, thought the boy.

There was a paragraph as an afterthought perhaps, about rhythm, spin, and dance to music.

“A cross-cultural activity,” stated the author, “found in so many species across the galaxy that the desire to take part seemed to be almost built into the genetic coding of any species which might describe itself as 'sentient'.  Such synchronised and rhythmic movement most frequently leads to congress, and it is disputable whether the discreet public display of sexual desire arouses, or whether desire itself causes the use of spin and rhythm to intensify primal urges later satisfied in private."

Dance, either ceremonial or otherwise, was not taught in the Military Academy.  The military arts were taught with fine precision, the young warriors minds and bodies honed to a soldierly perfection.  The only rhythm they encountered was the drill of the parade ground to a single beating drum or the steady beat of repeated laser canon fire; the only spin that of the practice bout.

But in the past, the boy had tapped his fingers to the music of a festival, had felt the rhythm of music at a carnival, had spun in a swing to amuse his sister, had felt his senses aroused and his mind sharpened, consciousness expanded…

“Spin is the basis of creation, apply spin to a pulse of energy, and matter is called forth…’

Spin again.  He remembered the hermit, the shaman on the mountain, and his words came back from another time and place…

“Investigate spin, boy” and the memory of the scent of vanilla and honey invaded his mind, drifted under his nose.

The author continued….

‘and in conclusion, it must be apparent…’  Nothing was apparent, thought the boy as he read on.  ‘…that these energies may be harnessed and turned back on their originating circumstance, for all that may be measured may be captured.’  No mention was made of ‘how’.

There followed a short bibliography.

The translation complete, the young man went to bed.  There was time for a little sleep before the morning, and he was tired.  No dreams now, a restful sleep, with an ache in his loins and a yearning in his mind - a wanting and needing of something nebulous and ephemeral.  A ghostly lover who might never exist.  Would she, ever?  he wondered, drifting into oblivion.

“And you enjoyed the book, the translation?”  Boomed Palpatine, on one of his visits to his ward. It had been some months since he had sent the gift of books and boots.  He scrutinised Khameir’s expression with hooded eyes and a small smile, waiting to discern some turmoil in the boy’s mind and body,

Khameir was seated in the Head Master’s study, Palpatine stood next to a deep and comfortable chair, one hand draped casually on the back of it.  There was a ring on the hand, a heavy band of white-grey metal set with a large black stone.  The stone was fascinating, the black shifted and turned under Khameir’s gaze, drawing him into it.  He felt himself become relaxed, started drifting perhaps, then he looked up into Palpatine’s eyes and drowned…

“Did you complete the translation boy?” asked a hollow voice from far away, whispering almost.

Khameir started, awake and conscious again, fully alert, and pulled his gaze from Palpatine.  He felt stripped naked, totally defenceless as though his mentor had unfolded and examined every thought, and knew every tiny desire and concupiscence that had ever troubled him.  His mind felt empty except for the truth, with which he was compelled to answer.

“Yes Sir, and all was presented to you as you requested,”

“No mention of the harnessing of this strange force created by such a commonplace..." Palpatine's face twisted and he made a little moue of disgust, "... activity?  No discussion of how coition and destruction could be melded and put to a purpose?”  As he said this, Palpatine slowly gestured with his hand, drawing the ring in front of Khameir’s eyes.

The vivid memory of the dream flooded the boy's mind, and, mesmerised, he looked at Palpatine’s face directly.  “There is a book mentioned in the bibliography, entitled ‘To harness coition.’ If you know of it, the pursuit of it may be worthwhile.”

“That book is lost, has been lost for many years.  Indeed, it was lost in the purges.”  Palpatine gave him one last searching look, and smiled faintly, as if he knew every thought, every emotion, and every erotic dream, that Khameir had ever experienced.  Then he turned towards the window in an easy flowing movement, and hands clasped behind his back, looked out at the mountains beyond the training fields and parade grounds.  It was the winter season, and a storm was brewing outside.

The sun was bright and hard, yet flurries of snow danced outside the window, while the mountain tops were shrouded in dense white cloud, which promised blizzards and a thick blanket of snow by morning.  A chill settled onto the room, and the light started to fail.

“The purges?” questioned Khameir, his mind released.

“Our fearless guardians of peace and justice my boy.  The Jedi.  They who steal and pillage, rape and kill.  Our ancient enemies who purloined our inheritance to burn it on a pyre so all-consuming that not even ash remained.”

Jedi?  Rape and pillage? Enemies?  The boy felt a darkness grow, that was centred round Palpatine.  The darkness was a maelstrom of anger and rage, destruction and chaos.  The darkness moved hungrily toward him and excited by the violence contained within, he seized it, embraced it, wondered at the power and immensity of it.  He eagerly parted the black skeins of the dark with his mind, followed the threads of the future, fingered the drifting eddies of life, studied the deep pools of the past.

“You do not fear it.”

A statement of fact.  Palpatine’s voice echoed, faint and far away and the boy realised that he, Palpatine, stood at the centre of this maelstrom, controlled it, bent it to his will.

His benefactor turned and smiled a rosy beneficent smile, as benefactors do, and let slip a little terror, a little chaos, for Khameir to taste and try.

“Try your power! Take it!  Bend it!  Control it!” hissed Palpatine’s voice as the boy grasped the horror, turned and twisted a dark skein, watched as a dim future became unveiled.

He saw the brightness of a lightsabre, double-edged, a mythical weapon of such deadly grace and beauty he lost his heart to it.  He saw starships ply the trade-routes, battle-ships falling out of the sky, men and women in dark cloaks flee a great rage and anger.  As this future unfolded, it became indistinct, showed many paths to many more futures, disappearing into a clouded swirling murk.

“Choose your path boy!” whispered the voice.

His young warrior's heart lusted after the sabre so he followed this thread, glimpsed a book, and an indistinct schematic in his mind’s eye.

“Enough!” commanded Palpatine, standing by the window in the bright sunlight, watching him, a little smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“You shall have your heart’s desire, boy.  In due time.”

Regaining his senses, Khameir realised he was very tired, physically drained.  This he ignored as a great exhilaration spread through his lean body, made his skin crawl and shiver as a feeling of power coursed up his spine into his mind.

The Head Master’s voice was indistinct outside the door.  He cleared his throat, gave an instruction to an unseen boy, entered the room.  “Your ship is ready Governor.” He said, striding to his desk and wondering at the stillness of the boy, and the expression of rapture on his face.

Palpatine walked over to Khameir and stood in front of him, looming over him so the boy must look up to meet his eyes.

“Well done my boy.”

‘Very well done indeed!’ Was in his mind.

“Continue your studies in this manner – you will be a credit to this College you like so much.”

‘And to me.  We shall work together perhaps you and I.  But first - know your enemy.  And meditate, work your power, see what you can do.  But with care, and gently, for you are young in the use of it.’

Khameir rose and Palpatine laughed, heartily clapped him on the shoulder as if man-to-man, and turning to the Head, made small and pleasant conversation, went to his ship and departed for Coruscant.

The interview at an end and Palpatine gone, Khameir's life became ordinary again, and the dull grey-ness of daily routine recommenced.  The arrival of his mentor always brought the promise of excitement; the glimmer of life in a busy metropolis; the hint of exotic glamour from the capital of Naboo.  With his departure, all was drab and for a moment he felt empty and drained, and life weighed heavily on him.  But he had fine new boots that befit the warrior he would become.  There was a promise of a future, and he had the use of the Force, albeit there was much to learn.

In an introspective mood of increased self-awareness and with a lightened heart, Khameir went back to his spartan room.  He thought about his dream, and decided it would wait, for he was not yet quite a man, and the matter of his dream was fitting only for a man.  But the lightsabre? To that concept he had lost his heart, totally.  Such an exquisite weapon was the stuff of legend, elegant and graceful, lethal and deadly.  He knew little of them, save that it was rumoured that those who wielded them had mysterious powers, and that they could never be killed. 

 Lack of knowledge was easily remedied. While the snowflakes falling outside fell thicker and faster, bringing a promise of snow-fights and cross-country skiing exercises in the morning, and an eerie cosy quality to the small room, Khameir logged on to the Galactic net.  He would see what the Jedi Temple site had to offer in the way of information.

Pax Pacis et Justitia, said the logo.  

The boy, who would soon be a man, smiled.  Justice, indeed!  he thought.

END

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