This isn't how I wanted to die. Not like this!
There are good, glorious deaths—like for the Motherland, for Stalin; or in bed with a gorgeous top model with legs up to her ears and breasts tight as a drum.
And then there are dumb, idiotic deaths.
Like mine.
Allow me to introduce myself—my name is Yegor Fraev, I'm twenty-one years old, a student at a law school.
In my dreams, I'd build a career as a corporate lawyer, live in my own mansion, wake up in bed with young beauties, never marry until old age, and, when the curtain finally fell, knock up some babe and quietly move on to the next world.
In reality, I had a bunk in a six-person dorm room and a couple dozen rubles in my bank account.
And also, I got killed by an electric shock in the dorm shower.
To be honest, it's a dubious kind of fun when electricity runs through you. I think I even saw the water droplets on my skin boil and flash-evaporate. It was something like what happened to Revan in the Emperor's throne room, when Vitiate was roasting the legendary Jedi inside his own armor with Force lightning. And in Episode VI, when Palpatine was frying the younger Skywalker, steam was practically pouring off him, like the kid was drying out in seconds.
Like a battering ram to the chest, the jolt threw me away from the shower door to the far end, slamming me into the tile so hard all the air burst out of my lungs. Cracking the back of my head against the wall, I felt my eyes closing, and heat flared in my chest, as if someone had poured molten metal into my diaphragm. I wanted to scream from the pain, but not a single sound came out of my mouth. And then came cold and darkness.
Tenebrae damn you—what did I ever do to deserve this?
***
"LIVE!"
Not a plea—a command.
A voice stripped of emotion. Not a hint of asking. A direct order, not open to discussion. The vibrations coming from that bodiless bass jolted my consciousness.
I couldn't feel my arms or legs. Only endless drifting, as if I were falling from a great height into an abyss. Impenetrable darkness surrounded me—cold, making me feel wildly uneasy. Viscous—I was sinking into it like quicksand. I wanted to answer the voice, but couldn't, because I was drowning in the dark.
Is this what life after death is? Heaven or Hell? Reward or punishment?
The more questions I asked myself, the more I felt panic washing over me. I was scared. Terrified. I hate ending up in situations I can't control. And here, honestly, I didn't even know where I was, or what was happening to me.
As it had hundreds of times before, anger replaced fear. Bare, scorching anger, instantly swelling into rage—abstract, all-consuming rage.
I was furious. No answers, and this incomprehensible state—either flight or being dragged down…
Gradually, I realized who the target of my rage was.
The dorm commandant. A worthless, shriveled old bastard with perpetually greasy, thick lips, oily eyes, and filthy little jokes. Back in my first year, I'd heard rumors he'd ruined more than a few dozen freshmen girls, making life hard for anyone who didn't want to "put out." As long as I'd known him, he'd always been prowling the floors, eyeing the female students. But there hadn't been a single case where he actually did anything in the dorm.
And I'd told him about the exposed wiring a week ago—plumbers had been fixing the drain and smashed everything they could. As a result, our shower had bare wires, and the women's shower stopped working altogether. The guys from the neighboring room even offered to fix it, but no—he wouldn't allow it.
Then it hit me. Pashka, my neighbor, said the girls from our floor had to go down to the first floor now to take a shower. And right next to the women's shower was the commandant's room…
The previous commandant had been a kind old granny, and there were never any questions. But now… I'd bet my life that pervert wasn't in any hurry to fix anything, as long as the girls kept walking past his door. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if he was peeping on them in the showers.
No, seriously—what a piece of shit! I died because of a senile pervert! For that, he ought to be hung by the balls and skinned slow. And I'm not even sure they'd lock him up once they figured out what happened. We've got a humane state, for fuck's sake.
Goddamn it!
That's why, with all my soul, I'm on the side of despotism. Palpatine, for example, achieved the kind of order in his Empire the galaxy hadn't seen since the days of Vitiate—the ancient Sith Emperor.
But that's all fairy tales, as my stepfather used to tell me.
"You'll never amount to anything, screwing around with that bullshit!" he'd yell when he caught me rewatching Star Wars or playing games set in that universe.
I never knew my real father—he disappeared long before I was born. Mom didn't like talking about him, and my stepfather…
For a moment, it felt like the hatred I felt at the thought of my stepfather gave me enough strength to blow up a star.
If there was a person I hated with every fiber of my soul, it was my stepfather.
I never called him by name, never addressed him as anything but "stepfather." I hated the man who turned my life into hell.
He came into our lives when I was five. For sixteen long years I endured his taunts, his beatings, his mockery of my awkward—tall but painfully skinny—frame, my congenital nearsightedness, my scoliosis…
They say strong character is tempered in the fires of family conflict.
All I learned was how to hate. If I brought home a C, he beat me half to death. Anything went—fists, boots, belts. He accepted no grades but straight A's. I couldn't even have a B, because that was failure. And failures were meant to suffer.
And I suffered. For every single failure. I remember in seventh grade I won an academic olympiad among ninth-graders. Well—"won." I took an honorable third place. I came home with a certificate. A couple hours later I was taken to intensive care—"fell down the stairs." Even though I remember perfectly well that the "stairs" were my stepfather's fists. A few times he even beat me with a police baton—he served in our glorious police.
For the same reason, nobody ever reacted to my repeated hospitalizations: broken bones, bruised organs.
In sixteen years I learned to hate absolutely everything about him—from his fingernails to his stinking breath.
That hatred lived with me all the time. Even when I ran away from home at eighteen and enrolled in a law program in a neighboring city. None of my family members knew where I studied—and, frankly, they didn't give a damn. They had a kid together. What did my stepfather, and the woman who indulged him (the one I used to call my mother), care about me?
I grew up angry at life. Like a wolf cub, I hated my family. And I hated the people around me.
When you've been counting on no one but yourself since you were little, and on nothing but your own strength, you stop valuing concepts like friendship, like caring about someone. Only your goals matter. And who cares how they're achieved.
Some call it selfishness. Some call it charisma. I don't give a shit.
I call it my life—my style. I live for myself and for myself. And the rest of the world can shove its ideas about morality, manners, and everything else up its ass.
Part of me understood that you can't look at people like expendable material. But I shut myself down almost immediately.
Who are these people around me? Losers. The same kind of losers as me. Would any of them help me if I were being robbed? No. Would any of them donate me a kidney? No.
None of them deserve more attention than what's necessary to reach my goals.
My stepfather taught me that only individuals are worthy of attention. Important people who can solve problems. Whining, sniveling failures are slaves—the strong of this world have always wiped their boots on them and always will.
And if you don't want to spend your whole life on your knees, then you should step over the heads of the less fortunate on your way to the top. Climb so high that the opinions and desires of the crowd below can't touch you.
"If you want to sit around and do nothing, you have to sit very high," my stepfather instructed me.
I found an escape in Star Wars. The struggle of Good and Evil, the eternal conflict, decided one way or another by countless significant figures… Vitiate, Revan, Vader, Yoda, Dooku, Windu… Those are just the first associations… In reality there are hundreds and thousands—characters from books and films, games and all the other merchandise of that Universe…
I'd thought hundreds of times about what my life would be like if I ended up in Star Wars. Would I become a Jedi? No, unlikely. A Sith? That had its downsides too. Those guys had their own issues—especially the Force, which you can't always even understand…
But if I had it, anytime, anywhere, under any circumstances, I'd build my own Empire. Like Vitiate, I'd rule it for thousands of years, avoiding a crisis of power. Law and order of a totalitarian regime, clear rules and laws, harsh punishments. A state you could be proud of. And the Republic… a typical shit-democracy, where, sure, plenty of worthy people grew up who could've made the galaxy better, but…
"THAT'S INTERESTING."
That voice again—the one I'd already managed to forget. Goosebumps rippled through me. My nonexistent body seemed to regain its shape for an instant. I could even feel the coarse, sandstone-like floor tiles of the dorm shower…
What's happening? Maybe the voice will answer? But where is it? Where's the owner of the voice? In the dark? I need to find him—judging by everything, he isn't new here.
For some reason, I had the impression the owner of the voice was very close. If only I could thin the darkness a little, and there he'd be…
A mental touch against the darkness rewarded me with pain. Again I felt as though I'd been electrocuted. But much stronger than last time. And even the aftereffects of that touch were different—nothing like the first time. For a moment, I felt my arms and legs again, the cool tile beneath me…
"Yes!" the voice gained a hint of emotion. "Again!"
Honestly, it wasn't exactly a pleasure—to touch that again. I don't know how I managed it the first time, but now…
"AGAIN!!!"
The voice squeezed me like a press. It was strange—not feeling yourself, but still realizing you're being crushed like by a road roller. And crushed harder and harder. Without the slightest chance to break free.
It became clear the voice had decided, without appeal, who was who here. And the fact was, I wasn't the one dominating this situation. Fine. Let's see what happens next.
And, in the blink of an eye, I touched the darkness again. Through that icy contact, I felt the darkness filling me. Cold poured into my body in thick waves. And with it returned the sensation of my own body. Arms, legs, head… The numbness that flooded me nearly arched me into a bow, and a groan tore from my mouth.
"GET UP!"
The voice kicked me in the side. The fleeting sensation that my back was braced against something hard abruptly changed into countless tiny stings the moment my face touched sand scorching hot, like a skillet.
"Agh—ptoo!" I snapped my eyes open, spitting out the searing sand that had gotten into my mouth, and forced my head to turn to the side.
Wait—sand? I was in the shower!
The viscous, icy darkness dissolved as if it had never existed. I was lying on my back, feeling, even through dense clothing, the rough grains of sand pressing into the back of my head and the underside of my body, my legs…
Heat, like an oven… Even a light breeze brought no relief. The moment it touched my face, I felt monstrous pain, like half my face had been sliced off with red-hot metal.
With an inarticulate moan, I jerked like I'd been hit, away from the place where I'd been hurt. Pushing off the sand with my feet, not seeing where I was crawling because my eyes couldn't catch focus—feeding my brain a blurred pale-blue smear—I tried to get as far as possible from where I'd come to. My heart threatened to burst from my chest, and my mind was going insane from the sheer abundance of horror and pain rolling over me in waves, sometimes weaker, sometimes stronger, driving me mad. Like a red-hot needle driven into the back of my skull, these vague sensations of someone else's distant pain burned my mind from the inside.
I couldn't hear my movements—the whisper of sand, the singing of birds.
Nothing at all. Like I'd been deaf from birth and—
The next second, I regretted thinking about hearing.
A piercing sound, like a circular saw screaming in a lumber mill, slammed into my brain, a heartbeat later replaced by a thunderclap of unbelievable power. Dozens, hundreds of wails in different pitches—strongly reminiscent of blaster fire—rang out around me. But my eyes refused to obey. I couldn't see what was happening, or what kind of hallucination surrounded me. And that made me scared.
The close squeal made me snarl in rage. What kind of bullshit is this? First I suffered in some viscous void, and now the darkness was replaced by an incomprehensible farce. What is this—some kind of test? Am I a lab rat to you?! May you all be torn apart!
I felt the rage that had been building inside me, fed by fear, burst outward. Like a monstrous tsunami, something tore out of me in every direction—something that spread around in the blink of an eye, sowing destruction. I didn't feel like my actions—this unclear something—caused pain. But I heard the grinding of mangled metal, the snapping of shorting wires…
The moment that something left me, the anger subsided. Along with it, nearly all my strength left me too, and I lay motionless on my back in the blistering sand.
A second passed, then another, before I realized the blue haze before my eyes was sharpening. I could make out that I was looking up at the sky, where thin, wispy clouds were visible…
Then the sky in my view was filled by a blue figure with pretty facial features. At the sight of me, she smiled, revealing two rows of sharpened, predatory teeth. But the blue creature didn't tear into my throat or start ripping me apart. She extended an elegant blue hand, which I automatically grabbed with my own.
With tremendous strength—strength a creature so fragile and beautiful simply couldn't possess—she hauled me up to my feet. A light hum near my legs made me look toward the source of the sound: a snow-white and blue lightsaber blade.
"Are you all right?" Aayla Secura laid a hand on my shoulder in a protective gesture, helping me take my first step toward the group of Jedi converging in the center of the Petranaki arena. Surrounded by hundreds of thousands of battle droids, the Jedi—no more than a couple dozen left—battered but unbroken, listened to Count Dooku's voice echoing from the viewing box…
His words were far too familiar for me to bother listening.
With an absent stare, I wandered over the figures I knew so well—characters from the Star Wars universe who had just survived a slaughter. Dozens of Jedi bodies lay in shapeless heaps among the ranks of battle droids.
Hundreds of thousands of blasters were trained on the center of the arena, waiting for the former Jedi's command to finish off the intruders on sovereign Geonosis…
And among them was me… some nobody, killed by electricity in a dorm shower.
If fate has a sense of humor, it's a very twisted one.
***
Hallucinations? A cosmic joke?
What is this?
I can't say I'm a diehard Star Wars fan, but I'm deeply invested. It grabbed me in childhood and never let go.
So it wasn't hard for me to understand exactly what point in time I'd landed in… the very beginning of the Clone Wars.
In short: ten years had passed since the Trade Federation's attempt to occupy the planet Naboo. The attempt succeeded right up until a former slave named Anakin Skywalker got involved. There he was, by the way, standing about three meters away from me, devouring his beloved senator with his eyes.
So—recently, that very senator, Padmé Amidala, had been targeted for assassination. The Jedi got tied into investigating the incident, and as a result everything ended with illegal infiltration—first by Obi-Wan Kenobi, and then by Amidala and Skywalker—onto the notorious planet Geonosis, which had left the flourishing and just (not) Republic. In essence: espionage, pure and simple. But that's details.
The Jedi Council had sent two hundred of its adepts here. They ran into the Separatists' mechanical army. After a short but brutal battle, everyone who survived on the Republic's side ended up under the droids' gunsights.
"Are you all right, Knight Dougan?" asked the blue-skinned Twi'lek. Secura kept supporting me, basically not letting me fall. Because from the fatigue that had hit me and the shock of what was happening, I was, I'll admit, not standing very well.
I stood in the center of a ring of Jedi bristling at the enemy, one arm thrown over Secura's shoulder while she, in turn, held me around the waist, not letting me smack into the sand.
Around us, multicolored Jedi blades hummed. A dozen members of the Order stood frozen, ready to surge into battle the moment Windu finished his conversation with Count Dooku.
"I… khh-khh… I'm fine." My chest hurt like hell, where a dirty-white tunic bore sooty marks from a shot. Did I get hit?
"You bought us time," the blue-skinned woman continued. "If we survive, promise you'll teach me that technique."
"As you say," I rasped, having not the faintest idea what she was talking about.
My head felt like it had been filled with cast iron. Like I'd drunk a lot—too much. And then gotten smacked with something heavy. My body didn't obey well, but when I raised a hand to my eyes, I noted it was human. Good. Feeling my head, I noted the absence of tentacles, horns, growths, and other nonsense. Long black hair down to my shoulders, a burned wound on my right cheekbone, a few old scars on that same side, short stubble…
Judging by what I could see and feel, I was definitely not in my own body. I'm a redhead—I can't possibly confuse my buzz cut and my long ponytail with this. And the scars…
"…Very well," Dooku's Force-amplified voice carried to me. "I am sorry, my old friend."
With enviable synchronicity, the battle droids leveled their weapons at the surviving Jedi. Including me…
Secura said something quietly—cursed, apparently, in a language I didn't know. Still holding me by the waist, she ignited her white-and-blue lightsaber with one hand, preparing to defend us.
"Look!" Amidala's shrill, excited cry drew everyone's attention to the gunships descending straight onto the Geonosians' and Jedi's heads. Higher still, the triangular silhouettes of Acclamators were dropping in, ready to vomit onto the planet streams of troopers encased in gleaming white armor, made on the rainy world of Kamino.
Two or three gunships set down right on the arena, raking the droid ranks with lethal beams of energy. In a matter of seconds, a droid-free zone formed around the Jedi; however, the survivors didn't rush the mechanical enemy with sabers bared, preferring to stay put and deflect the rare, stray blaster bolts flying toward the Order.
The moment the gunships' bellies kissed the arena sand, I felt someone else grab me under my other arm. Secura and another Jedi—Eeth Koth—hooked me under the arms and dragged me toward the nearest gunship, whose troop bay yawned welcomingly open.
Once inside the gunship, I felt rough clone hands yank me away like a sack of potatoes to the far end of the bay, making room for the Jedi rapidly packing into the gunship. Secura—the only one I recognized… a couple more familiar faces, but I couldn't recall their names…
"Take off," the Twi'lek barked at the pilot, and in that same instant the gunship surged into the air.
My stomach instantly lurched up into my throat, and nausea didn't take long to hit. But, strangely, nothing from inside me ever saw the light of day, though I had to endure a couple unpleasant minutes. A disgusting sensation—when you're turning yourself inside out, but there's nothing to throw up…
Outside, battle raged—colorful blasts from cannons whistled past, black plumes of explosions blossomed. Our gunship, along with half a dozen others, banked hard, pulling away from the arena.
Weakness didn't leave me. My head still buzzed, my mouth was dry. My arms and legs wouldn't listen. Like a puppet, I sat in the rear of the bay, left to myself.
So. A quick summary of the day.
I died on Mother Earth. Reborn in a galaxy far, far away.
I ended up in the body of a Jedi—the clothes I wore pointed to it, and so did the fact that Secura was talking about some Force technique I'd supposedly used…
And besides, if I closed my eyes and focused on what was happening, I could feel hundreds of thousands of sparks of life around me. Like tiny warm fireflies, they surrounded me, wrapping me in a cocoon of their heat. And, as a distant echo, I felt those sparks going out…
"DO YOU WANT TO LIVE?"
The sepulchral voice sounded as if it were right next to my ear. I flinched from surprise, and goosebumps rose over my entire body. The air temperature around me noticeably dropped. Like someone had turned the sun off in one stroke. And cut me off from those sparks of life.
"DO. YOU. WANT. TO. LIVE?"
This time the voice repeated the question in separated words, like to an idiot. But maybe that approach helped me understand the voice was inside my head. Not somewhere nearby—inside me, like my own thoughts. Though if they were my thoughts, I wouldn't be asking such stupid questions. Of course I want to live!
But the voice fell silent. Strange. Didn't hear me? I repeated my desire. No answer followed. What is this? Did I say something wrong? Or didn't motivate it enough? What the hell is going on?
Suddenly, I raised my eyes and saw an elongated silver projectile covered in stabilizer fins flying into the pilot cabin.
A missile.
We were no more than five meters apart. How long would it take the missile to cross that? One second? Two? Fuck! The last seconds of my life! What is this shit? I just died, woke up here, and now I'm going to die again?
I want to live like crazy! And if I got lucky enough to end up in this Universe, I don't just want to live! I want to be a Force-user! I want to fly starships! I want my own lightsaber! Damn it—I want a lot of things!
"WHY DO YOU NEED LIFE?"
One second. The missile grew so large I could already make out its pointed nose. Death seemed to be chasing me.
But there was still the voice asking all these questions. And, apparently, only I could hear it—because the Jedi and clones around me didn't so much as twitch. So it was my personal voice. And for some damn reason, it decided to play games with me.
Why, you bastard—you're still asking if I want to live?
Anger began filling me, slowly growing into rage. The situation wasn't suited for a chat with an imaginary friend, but this unknown someone had decided to mock me, to interrogate me. You're in my head—so look through my memories! Poverty; living half-starved; if I'm lucky, work from dawn to dusk just so I don't die of hunger. A corrupt government and a country falling apart. I don't want to live there! I want to live here! To be master of my own fate and do what I please for my own sake!
"BASIC."
A fraction of a second.
Basic? Go fuck yourself.
Rage, like a little reactor raging inside my body, began to fill my entire being. Heat surged through me, and I felt that right now, maybe for the only time in my life, I was responsible for my own fate. And most importantly—I really was a Force-user. And this heat flooding my body couldn't be anything but the Force. Gods, what bliss it was to feel the power of the Force!
It hit me that I'd felt this heat before—when I was lying in the arena. So I can manipulate the Force by sinking into my anger? That's the path of the dark side!
And to hell with it—dark side, light side. I want to live, and if I have to turn to darkness, I'll bathe in it headfirst!
I let anger fill me completely. I became anger. Like I'd been incomplete before, and now I'd found the missing piece. Indescribable power! But the power was like a blaze trapped in a sealed room. It burned me, scorched me, but couldn't break out—couldn't leave my body. It felt like I understood everything, knew everything, could destroy the missile in a thousand ways, but all that power was locked inside me. And I couldn't see a way to spill it outward.
Since birth, choices were made for me. What to wear, what school to go to, how to spend my free time, what my hobbies would be. Any objection I made was always crushed.
Enough. I'm my own master. I'm in another world. A world where all shackles can be torn apart, if you want it. And I want it. I won't obey circumstances anymore. I will decide for myself.
My decisions are mine alone. And only I will deal with the consequences of my choices. So, voice—if you don't intend to help me, get out of my sight before I smear you across this world into a thin pancake. If what I'm feeling in myself right now is the Force, then I want more. More Force, more power. I WANT TO BE HERE! That's my desire, and I don't owe you an explanation, you bodiless asshole!
One meter.
I saw a shadow of horror wash over Secura's face—she saw the missile too. The other Jedi were only just lifting their heads to look toward the danger, but she'd already noticed it. And understood. I saw her reach for the light side, but I knew she wouldn't make it.
I saw her beautiful body, its unnatural color. Her pretty face, her lekku, the tempting curves of her figure.
I'd never noticed much attraction in myself—not just to alien women, but to any women who weren't European; even Asian girls or girls from the Caucasus might as well not exist for me. But here, in fractions of a second from danger, I felt I wouldn't mind seeing her without clothes.
Except Jedi aren't allowed.
Hell, what nonsense crawls into your head before death!
"YOU CAN OBTAIN ABSOLUTELY ANYTHING…"
Some scene stirred in my memory… I'd heard those words before!
I watched the cone of the missile's nose punch into the cockpit canopy, shattering the transparent material into tiny fragments.
A fraction of a second—and I'd sink into Lethe, taking with me memories of this wonderful world. And memories of my contact with the Force.
"…IF YOU'RE READY TO MAKE SACRIFICES."
A metronome appeared in my head, measuring out the final fractions of my life.
"I'm ready!" My cracked lips breathed the words out before the missile's body swelled, releasing the energy of its explosives.
I felt the moment a blade entered my flesh, tearing it open, sinking into muscle…
And in that same instant, the power sleeping inside me broke free.
Like in slow motion, I watched the Force burst out of me, a blue-violet mass tearing from my chest and rapidly overtaking the missile.
The Force swept through the bay without harming anyone. The Jedi and clones froze as streams of the Force touched the missile, evaporating it millimeter by millimeter, turning it into a spray of sparks. One second—and the missile was gone, leaving behind a gaping hole in the cockpit canopy.
Secura and the others seemed petrified. The temperature around us dropped sharply, washing me in cold. But the cold began to draw into one place—the pilots' cockpit, where the blue-violet mass of the Force hung in the air.
With a soft pop, the mass broke apart, taking on a human shape.
And the face was familiar. Back in another life, I'd read about his monstrous cruelty, cunning, power. About his longevity and strategic mind.
He was tall, solid, encased in armor. The little head of a snarling predator on the breastplate—like a chestburster clawing its way out… Even in death, he hadn't lost his majestic presence.
An intelligent, emotionless face covered by beard and mustache. And the Sith Emperor's ice-blue eyes burning cold.
"We need to talk," the Force spirit said in that familiar bodiless, emotionless voice. "Apprentice."