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>Nasive
The second Tale of Miklinar

The Star Wars movies, their universe, concepts, and characters are the property of George Lucas and whomever else he has licensed. My characters and concepts, unless otherwise noted, are my property. In case of dispute, Lucas wins, no argument. There is no money being made on this story.

Miklinar waited until he was in a proper mood before he told the second of his Tales. Two of his friends had quarrelled, could not be reconciled, and one had been killed shortly thereafter. The other...

Miklinar's drink today was thick, opaque, and black, even when spread thin on a white surface. But he sipped gingerly at the powerful liquor, not wanting to lose control before the story's end.

"This is a story of the abuse of power. Not the huge power of Empires and Star Destroyers, but of tiny men, tiny toys, and damage to body and soul.

"Garn found out what pettiness could cost. And I call the Tale after its most obvious victim, not its only one.

"This is the Tale of Nasive."

     Vader spoke silently to his aide, "I had intended that we spend the week in jump alone together, but the Admiral insisted that his messenger accompany us."

     Garn looked over at the intruder. "Should he have an unfortunate accident?"

     "No. We'll deal with him."

     Nasive tried to be cheerful and sociable. Garn wouldn't speak aloud at all, only stare at him. "He" set up a knife target next to Nasive's cabin door, and practiced at random times -- knives, stars, needles. Once the messenger came out of his room to find a wickedly spiked and barbed sphere still quivering in the target, centimeters from his nose.

     Finding Garn sitting in the dark staring at his door unnerved Nasive, but what finally drove him to stay in his cabin was a musical instrument with a seventeen-note scale, and the singing...

     "He's gone," Garn reported. "He chose to use the travel-sleep. It's set for when we land."

     "Good. Now, to try your new armor."

     The armor had provisions for growth built in. "About a month yet to reach two meters. This is comfortable. And it feels... proper. Now, the helmet?"

     Vader shook his head. "No, not yet. Nor the robes. Pilot's helmet for now."

Miklinar paused. "Is it clear that the Imperials think that Garn is male? Her figure had always been slight, and in the uniform...

"Certainly, Nasive thought so."

     Vader in his armor and mask, Garn in robes. Garn's glance had dropped below her master's waist, and suddenly she grinned. "Is this a new design feature in the armor, or one I hadn't noticed before?"

     "It was there. But, with no use for the action, why should I encourage a breach in the armor?

     Querulously, "Were they assuming you had a taste for rape?"

     "Not necessarily. Sex, yes. Many Imperial officers ... use ... their subordinates that way. Some subordinates are happy with the arrangement."

     She dropped to her knees before Vader, disengaged the lower front panel. Gentle hands, then lips and tongue ... "Stand up," he said, more hoarsely than usual.

     She looked up at her master, so far up from her close position. She shook her head -- but gently, so gently. She worked him with mouth and hands until it would have been impossible to reseat the armor. "Now, my lord Vader, take me." She pulled away from him, far enough to move. She backed away, still on her knees, still looking up.

     He reached down and lifted her to her feet. Where to... Ah. The bed/shelf in medical, where she had been strapped down on her first voyage with him. He lifted her onto the shelf and her robe fell open at his touch. The look on her face... "Are you drugged?"

     Voice a little slurred, "Not ... exactly. My own body chemistry is doing odd things to me. I want you to take me, my lord, as you stand now." Her eyes wandered up and down him, devouring. "Oh, my demon prince, my beloved."

     For a long moment, Vader hesitated. He had used the role -- dare he let the role use him? Had Garn fixated on this image of him, and, if so, would it become a problem?

     Then the lust she was feeling filtered in past his own. Yes, there was a certain amount of fixation, but there were also images of Vader without the armor, what her mouth could do with hers, and his mouth on her breasts. "I see. This way is good," in the armor, "but it's not as good as it can be."

     "Perhaps. But, for some purposes, this is better. There's a need in me for exactly this, and a need for the other." But both included the mental touch that a mere actor in the same panoply could never counterfeit.

     He could see the different elements of this desire in her thoughts: the raspy breath (retained in the new design), the great gloved hands, her legs wrapped around his armored body, the enveloping robes, above all, almost floating, the demon mask.

     And an unwelcome intrusion: a voice from across the room. "So, Lord Vader, you are not so immune to the pleasures of the flesh as it had seemed."

     Garn reached out and seized Nasive's mind, blanking his sight, then rendering him unconscious. She held him unconscious as they finished, and kept him that way until after clean-up.

     "The easiest solution is to put him back into journey-sleep, let him awake, and convince him he dreamed."

     Vader nodded. "Make it so."

     Garn moved Nasive back into his room. A glance at his travel bag discovered a curious toy. "The lonely man's friend. Yes, set it for two hours -- no, three." The apparatus fit front and back, both impaling and enveloping him. "I'll set the sleep for four, come back and return the ... toy ... to its container. He won't remember seeing us without thinking he got between us, and he knows that wouldn't happen in reality."

     Three hours. Garn came back to monitor. The messenger was whimpering softly as the "toy" rode him. Where it had enveloped him was a focus of incredible pain.

     She disengaged the "toy" and inspected her victim. Yes, there was such a thing as "too much," at least for a male. She healed him a small amount, then cleaned up and stowed the "toy." With half an hour left on the sleep-timer, she inserted a memory of Nasive being impaled and ridden by Garn.

     "Is that wise?"

     "The memory included his pleading for my attentions, and that it wasn't very pleasant -- large and barbed, I think were the parameters. He won't ask 'again', and no one else is likely to, once word gets around."

     "Barbed?"

     "Implants. Yes, it's deliberately done on some worlds. A death cult -- 'I will take you, but I am your death.'" She shuddered.

     A nod toward Nasive's door. "He lived."

     "There are degrees. He's not very ... comfortable."

     "Are you sure he'll survive?"

     Half an hour, an hour -- no exit from the messenger's quarters. The computer chimed for breakout. "Go check on him."

     Garn opened the door without bothering to knock. She found Nasive huddled around himself in the middle of the bed, sobbing. Fascinated and horrified, she reached out and touched his shoulder. He screamed, a high pitched scream shriller than any woman's.

     A quick mind probe told her what his last few hours had been like: all the demons of the netherworlds, mounting him and being mounted, with barbs everywhere, and all resembling Vader in his mask. Garn wasn't even in the background. "Wake up," she said. "The sleep machine gave you nightmares."

     "No." A sob. "Look." Red ruin where the "toy" had been overlong. Garn killed the pain with a thought, healed, soothed the mind. Soon there was no damage, only a slight soreness.

     "It didn't happen. It was a dream."

     Nasive looked up with real fear in his eyes. "If that is what my lord wished me to believe. Don't set the demons on me again, please, my lord!"

     "Be wary of journey-sleep." Garn turned to go.

     "My ... lord?"

     Without turning, "Yes?"

     "You are Lord Vader's ... lover?"

     Maybe the memory-shift didn't work, demons or no. "He is my 'noble protector.'" "Noble protector" was a euphemism usually defining a superior officer having sex with an underling, but could also mean a "mentor/student" or "officer/protege'" relationship. By any of those rules, Garn was Vader's property, hands off without specific permission. But it wasn't always sex.

     "You healed me."

     "No. I awoke you. Nasive, we're only ten minutes from breakout."

     "Yes, my lord."

     Garn with Vader on the bridge. "Take her in." Vader sat back and watched Garn fly. "Very nice. How's your jump navigation coming?"

     "I've finished the text, and I'm nearly done the workbook. Then there are supervised jumps. Do I go for regular training, or will you test me yourself and provide proper documentation when you think I am ready?"

     "A distinction without a difference, since I hold authorization both from my own world and from the Empire to instruct, test, and license pilots of all classes. Don't expect the tests to be easier for that."

     Garn sighed. "My lord, with you, I need only do things correctly. I need have no concern over whether I politically align with my instructor, or whether I refused his advances. Or whether his superior likes me."

     The first two were obviously not a consideration. "Eventually, the last will be your concern. The closer you grow to me, the more you will have to deal with the Emperor."

     "Yes, eventually. But not today, and not tomorrow... and not over something as minor as my jump pilot's license."

     "True." Mask turned back toward the door. "The passenger?"

     "He's hurt, bad. I repaired most of the physical damage, but I think his mind's broken."

     Wonderingly, "Garn, you've never hurt anyone seriously before, have you." Not a question.

     She sighed. "No, my lord. I haven't. I've killed, yes, but each time it was so quickly that the victim may never have felt it."

     He nodded, reminding himself aloud, "I recruited a medic. Garn, attend Nasive. You cannot do that kind of damage and walk away. Look at what you've done. You have to know what you do. Gloat, if you like, or be repulsed, but acts have consequences. Learn them."

     "Yes, my lord."

     Nasive was sitting in the lounge, with travel bag packed. He looked up in mild panic when the door opened, relaxed a little when it wasn't Vader. "My lord, we are there?"

     "Yes."

     "Excellent." He stared over at Garn. "I... I had a very bad reaction to the journey-sleep."

     She reached out with a light probe. His surface thoughts were collected, but he was seeing demons under and behind all the machinery in the shuttle. "Lord Vader asked me to see to you." He twitched, bad. She grabbed ahold of his mind, and dug in.

     Oh. The toy had never been used by Nasive, not actively -- it was something he had worn once, without turning it on. And the demons... "Be calm," Garn soothed, aloud as well as mentally. "They watch you, but they will not harm you."

     Fearfully, "Never?"

     She touched his face, stared into his eyes. "Do nothing against Vader, nothing against the Sith, nothing against the Emperor, nothing against the Empire. Serve well, and you will be safe. Be diligent and avoid vices. The demons can only use your vices to torment you."

     "Your promise?"

     "Yes, You will know if you fail to serve, if you do not do your best. The demons will warn you -- you will have time to correct yourself." She let him go. "Good duty to you."

     "Thank you, my lord," he whispered. Nasive stood as the ship docked, picked up his bag, and walked to the door. His walk was strange.

     "Problems?"

     "My nightmares. They rode me to exhaustion. I hurt like this once before..." he grinned shyly, "A party which degenerated into drugs and sex. I ... let myself be used by too many, tried to use too many in return."

     "Ah." A glance own, "The instrument in your bag..."

     Nasive shuddered, then looked sharply at Garn. "Is that it? I didn't imagine that you or Vader would take me as I slept, but to use that on me...I'm told it's not safe to use for more than ten minutes. I don't think my ... tormenter? ... assailant? knew that." He shook his head, "So unnecessary. If you had chosen to be friendlier, I might have been happy to ... oblige ... you, either yourself or your curiosity."

     Garn just watched him. Finally, "I see. Your journey with us has proved more instructive than I had thought. Thank you. Fair you well, Nasive."

     "And you, young lord." Wistfully, "Could it be that you were interested, but dared not allow yourself to show it?"

     Garn shook his head. "No really. Curiosity only, about the toy."

     "You can have it, if you wish."

     "No." The door opened. "Perhaps we'll speak again, some day. Take care."

     "Nasive's dead."

     "Oh?"

     "A combination of drugs and blood loss. The report's vague. Possibly he slit his wrists. The report doesn't quite call it suicide... odd."

     A sudden burst of Sight, and Garn knew exactly how Nasive had died. "The drugs were an aphrodisiac and a euphoric. That toy of his, used until he was broken and bleeding inside, and almost literally worn off outside. He gave himself to the demons."

     "What?"

     Garn detailed her conversation and mind-work on Nasive. "I don't know if it worked. He might have been pressured by his associates and suicided rather than live with the demons."

     "Oh, we'll know. This came for you." A diskpak, about the size a small book would take. "Read it in private, discuss it with me if you wish."

     Reading took two hours -- she had stop and clear her mind at intervals. This was Nasive's private journal, from shortly before his trip with Garn and Vader, to shortly before his death.

     "I killed him."

     "I had no doubt of it. The information was not part of the inquest over his death only because he landed it directly to one of my people, with instructions that it was to be delivered to 'Lord Garn Anthru-Vader.'"

     "One of the disks is encoded."

     "A simple key, since he didn't include it." Vader took the disk, waited for Garn's permission. Not quite in sight of Garn, he typed. The first one was wrong, the second try succeeded. Vader nodded, closed the file, and handed the disk back to Garn. "But you must find the key yourself."

     "No help?"

     "I deduced it in two tries. If you haven't cracked it in an hour, I'll give you a basic course in cryptography to study. A quick hint -- what do most programmers use for passwords?"

     "Something easy to remember, like a mate's name or a child's... He used my name to lock it?"

     "Nearly. Solve the rest."

     It took nearly an hour. The code phrase was "Garn, my beloved," the final phrase in the uncoded journal.

     The "dream disk" was horrifying and fascinating. "He convinced himself that he was in love with me. And because he wanted me but I belonged to you, he was betraying you by wanting me."

     "I have letters from him begging me to to release you."

     "And your answer?"

     "That you had sworn to serve me and my house, and had not asked to be released. But he never contacted you?"

     "No, he did not. He thought I was possessed by you, spiritually as well as being your property."

     Vader drummed his fingers on the desktop. "He would have been safer if that were true. I want a full report from you to parallel those journals, with a summary, plus a section on how the technique can be adapted to other uses."

     "What? My lord, that was horrible! I killed him as surely as if I had ripped off his penis myself and watched him bleed to death."

     A hand raised to stop the words. Garn quieted. "Lieutenant."

     Garn snapped to attention, face schooled to a blank. "Sir."

     "You have lost sight of all that I am called on to do." Vader stood up. Garn realized that, even though her height had increased, she could not match his size, or his sheer presence. "This is not something I should have to explain to you. It is my duty to collect information to preserve the Empire. Some of my methods are not kind, are not elegant."

     "Sir."

     "Yes?" almost a purr.

     "I understand. This disturbed me because it was pointless, and because it was so personal."

     "Could it work if it were not personal? Even if it were not pointless?"

     Garn thought about it. "No. It wouldn't." She took a deep breath. "You'll have your report, Lord Vader, as soon as possible. If you'll excuse me?"

     "No, not yet." Vader took the disks, some blanks, and returned to his seat at tha console. Some typing, some disk swapping. "I have removed your name and mine, in all occurrences. The word 'demon' has been replaced with the word 'vegetable.'" Garn stifled a giggle. Vader noted that with relief. His apprentice had been drawn too far into the dreams. "There are other substitutions. Use these substitute words in your reports. I will restore the words once you've turned it in."

     "Thank you, my lord."

     "Now, sit, breathe." Garn obeyed. Vader felt her mind calm. "Forgive me. You forgot what I was, but I forgot what you were. You were never even given the basic courses on being an operative, nor the indoctrinations associated with them." Long pause, thoughts coming together. The special door-locks slid shut. Vader removed his helmet, drew Garn into his arms. Garn pulled Vader close, sobbed once into his shoulder. "How many men have you killed? Besides Nasive?"

     "The mechanic, the interrogation officer, that governor."

     Vader nodded. "You feel the other deaths were justified, this one wasn't."

     Muffled, "They were."

     "Perhaps. I wouldn't have killed any of them."

     "What?"

     A faint, cruel smile on his face. "The mechanic would still be suffering. The other two would have been untouched. Our styles differ."

     She sighed, "My lord, am I a disappointment?"

     He shook his head. "Far from it. I have to break the habit of crediting you with my strengths as well as your own unique ones." His gloved hand stroked her cheek. "I need your notes on the journal, so I can see what you actually did. I will look for applications myself -- there may be specific questions for you to answer later."

     "I understand." A long silence, holding on. "My lord?"

     "Yes?"

     "Do we have an hour or two to spare, right now?"

Miklinar threw back the rest of his drink and slid back into his chair, brooding. One of his close friends started rubbing his shoulders, but he waved her off. "No. Not now." A deep breath. "M'seri. Perhaps in a day or two, you will hear the Tale called "Apprentice". But not tonight."

He ordered another blackness, and lost himself in its depths.

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