Chapter Twenty-three

“Master Skeet! Master Skeet! Wake up!”

But Skeet was already waking. He didn’t need Enneight’s panic-stricken voice to be roused from his uneasy slumber. The incredibly sharp white light and the loud roaring noise that seemed to cause the speeder to vibrate was seeing to that.

He sat up, squinting through the plastiglass window of the landspeeder and trying to ascertain what was going on. He held up a hand to shield his eyes and get a better view through the suddenly illuminated box canyon.

There was a starship coming down. With forward navigation lights on high and retro-burners on full it slowly lowered at the end of the canyon, completely blocking the exit. There was a low rumble as it connected with the ground that was followed by a whirring noise that whined down to a low hum. Hisses and pops escaped the cooling ship, loud even through the speeder’s closed canopy.

Skeet stared at the vessel. He knew there were starships monitoring the racers from low orbit but he didn’t know why one would be touching down this late in the race. Had he been disqualified? Had he unknowingly cheated and was about to be penalised for his action?

As a precaution he pressed the engine start stud and tapped Enneight on the photoreceptor.

“Keep her powered up, Enneight. I don’t like this.”

“I whole-heartedly agree, sir.”

Skeet twisted in his seat and flicked the switch that would fold back the hood. As it receded to the rear of the vehicle he stood up and jumped over the side to the ground, taking a couple of steps towards the settling ship.

“What’s going on?” He shouted, unnerved by the lack of apparent life in the vessel. “Am I disqualified?”

The ramp to the left side of the craft unfolded from the side, lowering to the ground slowly and with a flurry of escaped gases. Skeet shook his head and waited, wishing if it was a disqualification they would just get on with it and tell hi, or if he was being warned that they would at least just let him know and he could carry on. He checked his chronometer on his wrist, which he had re-set for Tatooine time, and shook his head. The suns would be up in an hour or so and it was still cold.

Slowly, Skeet’s face changed from an expression of impatience to one of realisation and then shock. He had a clear view of the ship now that the navigation lights had been powered down to a dim shine and the dust and sand had cleared.

It was the ship that had saved them as they had blasted away from Junduk IV. He recognised the domed cockpit, the twin rear stabilisers and the top mounted cannon that had destroyed the TIE fighter before it had time to damage the Happy Contriver.

Skeet stepped back, his first thought was to simply get into the speeder and get away. This course of action was immediately quashed; the vessel had landed at the entrance to the box canyon, cutting off any escape he may have attempted.

He began to turn to the speeder but a figure descending the fully opened ramp forced him to turn. As soon as he looked at the dark figure he knew that he was lost.

Arcc Nedeen walked down the ramp, the dark blue robes he wore black in the dim light. They rustled softly, the cloth strangely still in the brisk cold wind. He stepped of the ramp and approached Skeet.

The closer he got the colder Skeet felt. The chill wind had nothing to do with his shivering, it was the approaching figure. It exuded menace, the feeling sweeping across the gap between them and sinking through his senses, stronger the closer he came. When they were just a few metres apart Arcc stopped.

Skeet took a deep breath and tried to calm his nerves. He had seen what the figure could do and how it felt to him, and here he was, apparently safe in a box canyon and now trapped like a womp rat in a cage.

Arcc stood still, watching Skeet and apparently looking him over, observing his form and inspecting his appearance.

This continued for a long time, Skeet feeling like he was being scanned by a medical ‘droid, like he was being checked over before being sold into slavery. He took another deep breath and decided to try and break the icy silence.

“Who are you?” he said, the question escaping like a whisper.

“I am Arcc Nedeen,” Arcc answered, lifting his head slightly so that Skeet could see his fixed grin under the hood. “And you are Skeet Jonas. I have so looked forward to this meeting.”

“Why? What do you want?”

If Arcc were capable of smiling he would have.

“You.”

Again the silence as Arcc allowed his words to sink into Skeet’s mind.

“Why?” Skeet asked.

“Because I need you. I need your youth, your strength, your untrained skill. You have the Force in you, Skeet Jonas. I will help you access it, make you powerful.”

As Arcc spoke Queed descended the ramp, his heavy blaster rifle nestled in his arms like a child, his helmet’s visor dark but strangely shining in the light. He walked up to the front of the ship but didn’t approach any further, content to watch the proceedings from a distance.

“I am old, Skeet Jonas,” Arcc continued. “Old and tired. I have lived for many of your lifetimes in hiding, shying away from the galaxy and avoiding your Old Republic. Now I wish to come back into the fore. My race was powerful, once, but now I am all that is left. With the Jedi Order, those that destroyed my kind, gone and the Empire in command I can once again rise. But this body is old. Withering. I need to pass on my skill. I want to train you.”

“You want to train me?” Skeet said in a shaking voice. “For what?”

“So that I may live again in a young, fresh body. You are the first untrained Force user I have found in decades of searching, Skeet Jonas. I have chosen you to be my vessel.”

Skeet was horrified. If he had guessed at Arcc’s intention correctly then the dark figure in front of him wanted to do more that train him in the Dark Side of the Force, he wanted his body.

He closed his eyes. Both his mother and uncle’s words flooded his mind.

Relax. Be calm. Anger and fear are the Dark Side. Do not take that path. Only men of evil walk that path.

“No,” Skeet said, forcing back his fear and his anger, his hate for this vile creature before him. He opened his eyes. “You will not have me.”

Arcc roared. The sound was like a loud thunderclap, and before Skeet realised what had happened the dark figure had leaped into the air, impossibly high. A lightsabre ignited under his robes and lashed out with a green-bladed light, swinging through the air with a loud humming that increased and decreased with intensity as he swung the weapon. Skeet didn’t have time to get away as Arcc landed squarely in front of him and bought the sabre up over his head and down towards Skeet’s.

Skeet dropped in panic, his legs giving way with fear anyway as he fell to the ground. The blade was inches from his face, stopping suddenly like a freeze-frame. The intense heat from the blade caused Skeet to sweat more than he already was.

Arcc stared at him from under the hood, and then lifted up his free hand to grab the cloth that covered his head and pull it back.

With wide eyes and deep breaths Skeet regarded the fully uncovered dark Force user.

Arcc Nedeen had a long face, with a set grin that covered almost all the lower part of his face. Small horn-like growths grew from his cheeks and went up in several lines over his scalp and his temples. A single long horn grew from his chin and curled upwards. He had no eyes to speak of, just two black sockets that appeared empty, with scaly brows. Thin black hair grew in lines over his chin and face. The hair on his head was long and apparently damp, tied back in a topknot that caused it to spill down his back but away from his face. A high ribbed collar surrounded his throat so that it seemed his head grew from his clothes.

He snapped the blade back with a hiss.

“Join me. We will be powerful, you and I.”

Skeet couldn’t speak as he stared up at the nightmare before him, but after a small stammer he managed to whisper his answer.

“Never.”

With a spin of the lightsabre Arcc thrust at Skeet again, this time singing the front of his racing tunic.

“Do you fear me?” he asked.

“Yes,” Skeet said, wanting to be defiant but only managing to be truthful.

“That is good. Fear is the door to the Dark Side. I will help you through it, Skeet Jonas. You will understand that fear and hate are powerful. They can aid you, make you strong. Who else will teach you your true potential? Who else is left?”

“I fear you,” Skeet said. “But I don’t hate you. You’ll find that hate doesn’t come to me easy, Nedeen.” Now he was feeling strangely defiant, even starting to get to his feet. He knew that if he was going to die he was going to die standing, not his knees.

“But you do hate. You hated the racer for shooting at you, felt rage at his attempt on your life. That was how I found you on this world, you shone like a beacon when you became emotional.

“If you will not feel hate for me, then maybe I will have to draw that from another source.” He turned away from Skeet, his blade still levelled at his throat. “Queed!”

The armoured bounty hunter approached, confused by the summons. He slowly walked, the rifle now held in a posture that conveyed the fact that he was ready for trouble. As he came closer he said, “What is it?”

Arcc flicked his hand, a rumble emanating from nowhere around the three. Queed’s helmet unlatched from its clasps as the Force grabbed it and it shot into the air. Queed, shocked by his sudden unmasking, stepped back and reflexively put a hand to his face.

Skeet stared at him.

At the face.

It was the same man who had stood over his mother’s body.

He had thin hair, the left side gone due to horrendous scarring. One eye seemed to permanently covered by dead flesh whilst the other was patterned with scars and attempted healing.

He shook uncontrollably, a feeling slowly growing from his belly and up into his chest, through his arms and down into his legs. Pure rage, anger...

...Hate.

Arcc slowly bought another lightsabre from his robes and ignited it, the blue beam shooting out. It was a silver cylinder, apparently damaged as a long burn mark stretched up its length, but still operational. Skeet unconsciously accepted it as Arcc pushed it into his hand.

“How do you feel now, Skeet Jonas?”

With a roar of years of frustration and feeling like he was a boy again Skeet leaped forward, clumsily manipulating the sabre but still bringing it around in a swing levelled at Queed’s chest. Queed lifted his rifle but it was sliced in two, sparks showering both men and Arcc. Queed back-pedalled, feeling naked and vulnerable without his helmet on, and tripped over his own feet, landing hard on the ground. He held up a hand in shock.

“No!”

But Skeet didn’t hear his words and bought his blade up and then down, straight for Queed’s head.