Dark Legends

by George Mann

  Such was the power and influence of Slokin now, however, that even Potniss could no longer be trusted, for the man had grown tired of his master’s demands and secretly coveted Slokin’s collection for himself. So it was that he came for Slokin with a silver knife when Slokin’s back was turned.

  Paranoid that something such as this might occur—for whom might he trust now—Slokin was ready, and made to run, but the doors were barred and there was no other means of escape. Potniss had thought of everything, and the treasure would be his.

  Slokin screamed as his former adviser closed in.

  So Slokin’s life was forfeit, and Dok-Ondar’s warning of a curse was proved true. The mask truly was a danger to any who were unworthy of it—and none who had taken it on had yet been worthy. Potniss was soon captured and tried for his crime, and the mask was returned to Slokin’s collection. Soon after, a sale of the estate—for Slokin had no family—saw the items scattered amongst the stars. As for the mask—well, it resides once more in Dok-Ondar’s emporium, awaiting the next unwary customer foolish enough not to heed the proprietor’s advice.

  THERE WAS ONCE A great empire so vast and successful that all the many worlds that came to be touched by its influence flourished and sought to join with it, for they understood that to be a part of something bigger was to strive for greatness.

  An empire is nothing without its subjects, and each and every one of them, be they engineers or pilots, miners or troopers, had a part to play, like a tiny cog in a great machine, pristine and orderly and working for the greater good.

  So it was on the great fleets of starships that sailed across the void, delivering word of the Empire to all the many worlds that had yet to learn of its benevolence. Every individual had a role, and like a well-oiled machine, the ships ran and the people performed their tasks without question or concern.

  Questions can, of course, be dangerous things and were not encouraged amongst the crew of such vessels. One day, however, when an Imperial officer named Alger Denholm, who was serving on the Star Destroyer Exactor, was called before the ship’s captain and promoted with immediate effect, he found himself at something of a loss.

  Most Imperial officers in such a position would be brimming with pride at being noticed by ship command in such a way, and while Denholm was sure to offer his most gracious thanks, he was, in truth, perplexed by his sudden and unexpected change in circumstances.

  It wasn’t that the elevation in rank was unwelcome—merely that Denholm did not understand the reason for the change. There had been no indication that he had gained favor with the captain—indeed, he’d barely spoken to the man prior to that meeting—and even by his own admission, he had done little of note during his recent career that might qualify him for such a sudden alteration in position.

  Until the previous day, Denholm had been serving under another officer, Lieutenant Marsden, as he had for some months. It was rare that an officer in the Imperial Navy fraternized with his subordinates or fostered anything akin to a friendship, but Denholm had always found Marsden an honorable man, and as far as he was aware, everything aboard the Exactor had been running smoothly and Marsden had been performing more than satisfactorily in his role. Indeed, Marsden was known to have earned a great deal of respect amongst the rest of the crew and was well regarded by Denholm’s peers. Additionally, the ship had not been involved in any recent battles or engagements, and there had been no word of Marsden being reassigned to another post or vessel.

  Inquiring after Marsden—whose role he had assumed—Lieutenant Denholm was told simply that the other man had moved on and the position had therefore become available. Unnerved—for the whole matter had something of a sinister air about it, particularly in the way the senior officers clearly wished to avoid the subject—Denholm was nevertheless forced to accept his new position without further question.

  Still, he could not shake the sense that something untoward had occurred and the matter was being hushed up. Where had Marsden gone? The Exactor had been away from port for some time, so the man had not been granted shore leave. He supposed it was possible that Marsden had taken a shuttle, or perhaps even been tasked with undertaking some covert mission off-ship, and Denholm sought comfort in such notions, preferring to think that his former superior had gone on to bigger and better things. After all, was he not on the same career path as Marsden? Might he not someday be charged with a crucial undercover mission, too?

  But the lack of understanding nagged at Denholm, for he had always been of an inquisitive nature, and while he understood the need for discretion, his freshly acquired clearance level should have been enough for the other officers to at least offer some indication of what had become of the other man. Denholm was forced to admit to himself that he was nervous, too, for if Marsden had done something to anger the captain, wouldn’t it be better for him to know so he could avoid compounding or repeating Marsden’s error?

  Polite inquiries amongst his new peers also led to telling silence, and soon those peers began to noticeably avoid Denholm, taking the other direction in a corridor, entering and then leaving the officers’ mess when they saw he was present. Denholm chose not to challenge them on it, however, believing that the onus was on him, as a newly minted lieutenant, to win them over through his deeds. Perhaps, he decided, they were simply unaware of his skills, his suitability for command. That would be an easy matter to correct.

  Thus, Denholm carried on as ordered, stepping up to shoulder his new responsibilities, taking each new task in his stride. Always he strove to present himself in the best possible light to those around him. Indeed, as he settled into his new role, he proved himself more than competent, receiving praise from the captain for the way he’d taken so quickly to the pressures of command. Denholm had given himself wholly to the role, forgoing all else in favor of his duties. No longer did he sit at his desk at night, drawing detailed studies of the flora from the forest moon of Endor for the folio he had been preparing, nor did he join his former friends—now under his command—for meals or the occasional game of sabacc. Instead, he spent his free time taking just that one extra tour of the ship, performing just that one extra inspection of the crew members’ uniforms, or studying the etiquette manuals to ensure that his every interaction with the ship’s command was beyond reproach.

  And yet, in parallel with his rise through the ranks, Denholm found himself growing increasingly isolated as the days passed. Still his peers were uncomfortable in his presence. Still he was shunned by his subordinates—those who had once been his friends. And still he could not help wondering what had become of Lieutenant Marsden.

  It was some time into his new role when the first of the bizarre incidents occurred. It was late in the ship’s rotation, and Denholm was completing his final rounds when, in the corridor ahead, he caught a glimpse of Marsden. The man was walking as if in a hurry, head bowed. Surprised but elated, Denholm hurried to intercept him, hurtling around a bend, calling his name . . . only to discover, to his embarrassment, that the other man had disappeared before Denholm could reach him. Not only that, but stormtroopers and other officers were staring openly at Denholm, disapproving of his evident lack of decorum.

  Confused, Denholm straightened himself out, his cheeks flushing. Forgoing the remainder of his rounds, he headed straight for his quarters. There he poured himself a drink and sipped it shakily, attempting to shrug off his burning sense of embarrassment. Surely it was a simple case of mistaken identity? Another man who looked just like Marsden? If it had been Marsden, he would have stopped at the sound of his name. Yes, that had to be it, Denholm assured himself. Nothing but a misunderstanding.

  Still feeling a little uneasy, Denholm retired to his bed, confident that things would have blown over by the morning.

  He woke in darkness. The air in his bedchamber was cold, yet he was drenched in a chill sweat that trickled down the back of his neck as he sat up, pulling the sheets tighter around him. Had he heard something? He wasn’t entirely sure
. It was unusual for him to wake in the night—the thought of all the stormtroopers patrolling the corridors outside his quarters was enough to ensure he usually slept well—but perhaps the strain of the past few weeks was having more of an impact on him than he had thought. He sighed, drew a deep breath, and mopped his brow. He decided it was probably the drink he’d had before bed, churning in his stomach.

  Just as he was about to settle down again, however, he heard a sound like someone clearing their throat, coming from the shadows at the foot of his bed. Startled, he called for the lights, but to his dismay there was no response from the automated systems. He remained in darkness, sitting up in his bed, certain there was someone else in the room. He called out, asking who was there, but the only response was another noise, this time more of a gurgle, like the sound of someone choking and unable to breathe.

  Horrified, he lurched to his feet. Whoever was in his room was struggling for breath. He had to get help. He tried the lights again, but still there was no response. He could see the silhouette of the figure, standing at the foot of his bed, clutching their throat. Desperate, he ran for the door and burst out into the corridor, calling for help.

  Immediately, several stormtroopers broke from their patrol to come running, and together they rushed into Denholm’s quarters, weapons ready, fearing an attack. But as Denholm stumbled back in behind them, dressed only in the bedsheet in which he’d wrapped himself, he discovered the lights were on, bright and full, and there was no one in the room. Hesitantly, the stormtroopers searched the rest of Denholm’s quarters, but there was no sign of an intruder.

  Confused, embarrassed, and deflated, Denholm ushered the stormtroopers away, claiming it must have been a bad dream, knowing full well that, as soon as they were out of earshot, they’d be laughing at his expense. The whole ship would probably be laughing at him by morning.

  Angry at himself for getting carried away, he flopped onto his bed, but once there, he failed to return to sleep.

  The next day, tired from his disturbed night, Denholm nevertheless continued with his duties. He was not so ignorant as to be unaware of the people—mostly subordinates—laughing at him behind his back, but he chose to give them no quarter and remained dignified throughout. Indeed, if anything, he was a little easier on the crew that day than he had been in recent weeks, as if to show that he had nothing to hide and nothing to prove.

  Yet, on several occasions throughout the day, he had the most disturbing sense that he was being watched. He could feel a pair of eyes on him, cold and calculating, tracking his every move as he strolled down passageways, sat in conferences, and issued orders to his subordinates. On such occasions he would shudder from the onset of a sudden chill, would feel his heart race and sweat prickle his brow. He knew, instinctively, that he was not alone, that some malign presence stalked him through the ship. He would glance behind him from time to time, turning quickly on the spot, and while this inspired a number of strange or concerned looks from those passing by in the corridors, he could not catch sight of the perpetrator. It was, he presumed, an agent of his peers, set to keep a watchful eye on him and report back with any fodder for their gossiping, but it left him feeling isolated and disturbed.

  So it continued, and during the course of the next few days, Denholm felt the presence almost hourly. He became accustomed to it, modifying his behavior, even when alone, trying to ensure he wasn’t caught out in some way that could be used to embarrass him before the captain. He tried to catch them out, doubling back on his route around the ship, veering unexpectedly in the corridors and ducking through doorways into storage lockers or unused quarters. But no matter what he did, he could not set eyes on the person following him.

  His sleep, too, was increasingly disturbed by what he took to be night terrors—during which he would catch glimpses of a pale, twisted face in the gloom and awaken to the sound of choking.

  It wasn’t long before Denholm’s problems came to the attention of the captain, for it was during one of the captain’s briefings that Denholm next caught a glimpse of Lieutenant Marsden, walking past the briefing room, his head bowed, his hands cupped behind his back. As Denholm watched, eyes widening, Marsden turned to glance at him through the window, glassy eyes flashing with recognition. Denholm—who had grown increasingly disheveled from lack of sleep—jumped immediately to his feet, crossed to the door, and passed into the corridor midway through the captain’s speech. All looked on in horror as Denholm, frustrated, ran up and down the corridor in frantic pursuit of a man they all knew to be gone.

  So it was that Denholm was taken to one side by an uncharacteristically concerned captain and told to report to the medical droid for evaluation. Appalled, but only too willing to adhere to the captain’s wishes, Denholm did as he was ordered. The medical droid could find nothing wrong with Denholm, however, besides severe fatigue, and issued him a sedative, followed by two days of complete rest.

  For the first time in weeks Denholm slept soundly, administered to by the droid, and was back on his feet within the allotted time. He felt refreshed and ready to attend to his duties with renewed vigor, wishing only to put all thoughts of Marsden behind him.

  However, a couple of hours into his shift he once again caught sight of the man, hurrying away down the corridor ahead of him. This time, Denholm fought the urge to give chase. It was, he reasoned, the aftereffects of the sedatives, or else he was still suffering from exhaustion and needed further rest. He shook off his discomfort and continued with his day, planning for an early night, trying desperately to pretend that everything was going to be all right.

  The next day brought further, similar sightings, but Denholm ignored them as before, trying to keep his mind on track. Nevertheless, his behavior became increasingly erratic over the following days as he found himself distracted midsentence by these unwanted sightings, speaking out at Marsden’s assumed presence, or lurching strangely at the sound of someone coughing close by. He once again became paranoid that someone was following him and, in fact, that his mysterious stalker was Marsden himself. Perhaps his former superior was trying to tell him something, to speak to him in private or warn him about the eerie choking figure, but for some reason was unable to show himself when others were around. Had Marsden been so disgraced that he could not even show his face? Thus, Denholm took to lurking by himself in the quiet places of the ship, hoping for a clandestine encounter with the man, but no such meeting was forthcoming, and while he felt that cool, lurking presence, he found that he could only catch sight of Marsden at the most inopportune times.

  Everyone on the ship gave Denholm a wide berth, and after he attempted to confide in one of his former friends, speaking about the strange things he had seen, even his subordinates began to avoid him whenever possible.

  The small, dark hours of the night were increasingly plagued by visitations from the mysterious choking figure, too, and Denholm had taken to staying awake all night to try to avoid the eerie visitor. He grew so tired, however, that he would eventually drift off, only to be awoken by that terrible sound from the foot of his bed, to glimpse the form of the pale figure as it clutched its own throat in terror.

  Denholm feared he was going mad—that the stress of the new job and the uncertainty of what had happened to Marsden were leading him to hallucinate. And yet he had no one to talk to. He knew that his work had begun to suffer as, fraught and scared, he was unable to adequately attend his duties. Yet he had to go through the motions, lest he find himself disciplined or court-martialed. His job was the only stable thing left in his life, and he convinced himself that if he could hang on to that, he might yet reclaim his sanity.

  So it was that he found himself—despite another sleepless night, during which the strange apparition had been most persistent in its harrowing appearances—wearing his dress uniform in the main hangar of the ship, along with a dozen brightly polished stormtroopers, awaiting the arrival of a visiting dignitary. All Denholm wished to do was get the pleasantries over with as
quickly as possible and hand the visitor off to a colleague. He felt nauseated and edgy, constantly peering out of the corner of his eye in case he saw Marsden wandering the hangar or sensed the man’s familiar presence close by, watching him.

  He scanned the serried ranks of stormtroopers, their faces hidden by impassive masks. What were they thinking? Did they know about the person who was following him? Did everyone on the ship know? Did they know, too, what had happened to Marsden? Perhaps, he thought, he should ask—put them on the spot, interrogate them about how much they knew. His hand trembled. He started to take a step forward—and then the sound of an approaching shuttle caused him to flinch and fall back in line.

  The ship sailed in gently through the shimmering port, coming about before easing itself onto the shining floor with a long sigh. Denholm straightened up, clasping his hands behind his back. This would all be over soon. The visiting dignitary was probably some scrawny old ambassador who needed fawning over by the captain. It would be a simple matter to escort them through the ship to their temporary quarters.

  The shuttle door opened with a pneumatic hiss, the ramp extending until it rested easily on the floor. At the top of the ramp, framed by the hatchway, was a silhouette in black—tall and imposing. Denholm stiffened. Suddenly, the air around him was cold. He shuddered. Chill sweat beaded on his forehead.

  The man started down the disembarkation ramp, boots thundering with every step. His black cloak trailed in his wake. His labored breath hissed through his imperious black mask. Lord Vader, in all his terrible glory.

  Behind Denholm, someone made a choking sound. He felt the hairs on the nape of his neck prickle as cold fingers seemed to brush against his flesh.

  Denholm screamed. A shrill, piercing cry that echoed throughout the silence of the hangar. He twisted on the spot, eyes bulging at the horrifying sight of a spectral Marsden, clutching his throat as if in terrible pain, lips mouthing something in terror and desperation. His horrible, choking cough was all Denholm could hear, filling his ears, his mind, drowning out all other thoughts.