From Heaven to Hell/Story

From Heaven to Hell

I did not think I would end up like this.

The Lambda-class shuttle suddenly jumped out from the violent, yet quiet, fabric of swirling lights that was hyperspace. Around me, my suitcases shook as the craft twirled and turned in an attempt to slow down to a desirable speed in realspace. The co-pilot, having left his position in the cockpit, pulled the glass door and called out. “Mr. Sifour, we have entered the Relaea system. Do you wish to take a look at the view?”

''My future prison? Ah well, let it be.''

“Of course.”

I stood up from my chair and left the passenger area for the transparisteel window of the cockpit. Outside, hung in the darkness of space, was a blue-green planet, clouds careening in quick motion and sunshine reflecting off from oceans.

''At least it is not a desert planet. I hate deserts.''

I examined the world closely, gazing at the shiny clouds, the brownish plains and the lush green forests. I observed the clouds speed past his eyes, forming oblique patterns and dissociating into tiny individual pieces that dissolved in the turbulent atmosphere. Suddenly, I heard the pilots talk.

“Turn the compensators on, Jack. This planet’s as rough as ever.”

Rough?

“Roger that. Sensors indicate a speed of 400 kilometers an hour along our projected course.”

Now wait a second.

“Sir,” I said, turning to the one named Jack, “what is that number supposed to mean?”

“Ah yes, Mr. Sifour,” he replied, “that is the wind.”

''So this is the trap. How am I supposed to live there?''

“Please,” I heard one of them talking—all so distant—, “Mr. Sifour, return to your cabin. The flight across the atmosphere can be dangerous.”

I sighed and turned to leave the cockpit. Once in my room, I sat into the soft couch and fastened the mechanism that kept one in the chair. I was pressed into the soft leather.

It might just as well be the last of softness I see.

Soft, soft… I pushed myself against the couch, sole embodiment of pleasantness and safety as the ship was yoked around in the chaos outside. I closed the world out, trying to stop my senses. For a moment, I only saw darkness—satisfying, protecting darkness I did not want to end. I floated in nothingness, far from the shuttle, far from the planet, far from everything…

“Mr. Sifour!”

No…

“Mr. Sifour, are you alright?”

I opened my eyes, only to see the pilot bending over me. His face showed fear and despair as he stared on me. “I am absolutely fine, Lieutenant,” I tried to calm him. Then, I realized that we weren’t moving anymore—we were solidly sitting somewhere. A faint yowling noise could be heard.

So this is it.

I strengthened myself and gathered my luggage. Leaving the shuttle, I stepped out to a landing platform covered by a glass dome. Around me were all the spaceport facilities. I headed for the VIP café—I felt thirst, thirst as bad as any punishment the Empire has given me yet. Reaching the bar, I put the suitcases down and looked at the waiter.

“I would like a cup of Corellian ale,” I said. I have always had a feeling for alcohol.

The bartender filled a transparent cup with the foaming liquid, bringing it to my table.

“Thanks,” I uttered, overcome with longing for the ice-cold drink that made one feel so good. I carefully grasped the cup and raised it to my mouth, releasing a spoonful of the substance through my dry lips.

At last.

I sat quietly, overtaken by the awe caused by the wonderful ale that flowed down in my body and eventually settled. I raised the cup again for another boost and received the same reaction that I had been longing for ever since I boarded the shuttle on Bastion. A week of deprivation ended as tsunamis of the cool, soft liquid raced down in me. As I looked up, I saw my cup was empty. I struggled to stand up and brought it to the counter. The bartender gazed at me with his expressionless face.

“That’s 25 credits, sir. ” I threw a greasy chip onto the counter. He grabbed it and gave me the bill, muttering a “goodbye” as I left.

I hope the people here will be better.

Walking along a corridor, I noticed a limousine with an Imperial insignia. As I approached it, hoping that it was sent to pick me up, I saw that it was not hovering: it was sitting solidly on the duracrete.

Is this planet that obsolete?

I opened the door and showed my identity card to the driver, a well-dressed man wearing a military uniform. He must have noticed my interest, because he answered my unexpressed question.

“You know, sir, there is no point in using repulsorlifts in tunnels.”

Tunnels?

“Sergeant—,” I attempted to ask.

“My name is James, sir.”

“Ah. James, is—“, I coughed. “Is the city underground?”

I received exactly the reply I expected—and feared.

Hours later, I was sitting on the backseat of the limousine as it sped along a subsurface highway. I kept my eyes closed due to the unnatural, metallic light that flooded the speeder from the lamps hung up on the tunnel’s sides. And, as the ale slowly entered my blood, I felt sleepy.

Sleep.

I sunk into an unconscious, relieving state, hovering over the nothingness and not sensing anything. Sunk beneath an impenetrable layer of darkness, I dreamed of my past life.

I had a wife… children… a house…

I had a life.

I woke up for a soft grasp on my arm. It was the driver.

“Mr. Sifour,” he said, “Mayor Rempor wishes to see you.”

I somehow rose from the leather seat and followed the sergeant through the door and into the “building”—corridors and rooms carved into the side of the tunnel. Artificial, painful light was everywhere, and I could hardly breathe the atmosphere of exhalation, exhaust fumes and smoke. Eventually, we stopped in front of a wooden gate guarded by two stormtroopers clad in pure white armor. The sergeant opened it, and I entered the office behind. Looking around, I noticed two bookshelves, a cheap carpet and a workbench with a chair next to it. Then it turned and I saw a diminutive Human in a grey suit greeting me with a smile.

“Ah, Mr. Sifour. We have been expecting you.” He stood up. “I am George Rempor, the mayor of Relaea City, the capital of Relaea. Welcome.”

I shook hands with him and also introduced myself. He invited me to a chair near a table and pressed a button. A servant appeared, whom Rempor instructed to bring some drinks. I took advantage of the opportunity and asked for Corellian ale. As Rempor heard this, he grinned.

“Ah, ale. I understand, comrade. It is one of the few things that make life possible on this rock.” It might have been the alcohol I drank at the spaceport, but I joked.

“Maybe ‘in’ this rock, sir.”

He laughed.

“Just call me George. We are, after all, future colleagues.”

The servant returned and brought a bottle of ale with two cups, along with an elongated glass I did not know.

“George,” I inquired, “what is that drink?”

“Oh,” he cackled, “that is something we call ‘pálinka.’”

I suddenly became curious.

“Pálinka?,” I asked, testing the alien word. Pálinka?

“It is a distilment of a fruit. Pure tastes and thus, this is the other thing that makes life possible in this rock,” George replied, laughing. “Would you like to taste it?”

It had been a long time since that spaceport.

“Of course!,” I cried in astonishment. The servant poured a handful of the substance into a clean, curvy glass. I raised it to my mouth and slowly smelled it. '' Sour, yet fruity. Rempor might be right.''

I calmed myself and drank a gulp. I felt a shock as the alcohol viciously attacked my throat, but it settled in seconds and I felt its taste—sour, yet fruity, the spirit of trees that might have grown on far away planets.

Bastion… my family…

Tears ran down from my eyes, and I grabbed the bottle to drink more. More. As the second wave reached my stomach, I noticed Rempor’s face, gazing at me in anticipation.

“Richard,” he asked, “are you interested in your future workplace?” '' Darn. I had forgotten that I am stuck here for perpetuity.''

“Y-Yes,” I groaned. “Yes, George. Please tell me about it.”

“As you wish,” replied George. He sat back on his chair, poured himself some pálinka and started.

“Well, Richard,” he started, “this planet has some of the strongest winds in the galaxy.”

“I realized that,” I interrupted, sarcastically. Would this pálinka be so strong? Yet, Rempor appeared to be unaffected.

“Thus, we live underground. The cities, the roads… everything is beneath the surface.”

“Wait!” I cried, fearful of all this. The awful lights, the sour air… “Do you mean that no one can come up to ground level?”

“Well,” said Rempor, “there are some places where you can. In deep, thick forests, you can travel by heavy vehicles or even walk for some minutes.”  This sounds good.

“And… where will I live?”

“The government has issued you a property in the vicinity of this establishment.”

I gulped. “Could you please describe my future job?”

Rempor’s face suddenly became substantially darker.

“You will have to visit these… miners every two days or so and listen to their complaints. Then, just report them.”

Not too bad.

“Is… is that all?” I sighed in relief.

“As of now, yes,” he replied. “But, it is time to go home, Richard.”

I was surprised.

“Go home? It was daylight when we landed.”

“Ah,” he said in a tone that brought negative expectations, “this planet has an awfully long rotation period.”

I gasped. “Do you mean that there is no… night and day?”

“Technically there is, but that would be undesirable for Humans. Therefore, we control the lights to simulate a 24-hour day.”

That was enough. I muttered goodbye and returned to the entrance. James drove me along the bright avenues before stopping in a somewhat darker side street.

“Your house, sir,” he said, pointing to a nearby steel door with windows around it. He produced some keys from his pocket and opened it, leading me into a hall.

“Sir, this is the hall. There is also a living room, a kitchen and a dining room as well as two other rooms. I must caution you, however, that the uppermost room is not to be used.”

I was disturbed. Is Rempor hiding something?

“James,” I asked, “why not?”

“Um...,” he hesitated, “it was your predecessor’s.”

I did not understand.

“Why is that a preventive cause?”

“He hanged himself in there.”

I was shocked. What kind of dark events are going on? I turned to James.

“Is… is the reason known?”

“According to his physician, he was depressed by the environment.”

Not the best expectations. I tried to calm myself.

“Right. You may leave.”

James complied and left, after bringing my luggage in. I turned the light on and sat on the couch, pouring me some ale. As I drank and drank, I began to think uselessly.

''I had a family, a decent job, a pleasant flat. All was heavenly…''

''Had that scandal not occurred, I would not be here. After that, I lost everything. I was publicly ashamed, deprived of all I owned, separated from my family and dispatched to this Relaea colony.''

''Why didn’t they kill me? They had thousands of opportunities.''

''Way to remember that this was still the New Order. At its best.''

I stopped thinking for a second to get some more ale. The drink formed a protective cloud around me—something that was truly mine in a world that sought to alienate me from my fellow citizens and relatives. The pain started again. I drank some more and successfully returned to my previous state. I felt nothing but sheer anger against the Empire that twisted my mind to an unbearable extent without even a single direct step for this. There was no torture, no interrogation, just indirect methods that drove me into anxiety. My life was destroyed in a courteous and polite manner. Grey, faceless officials tossed me from assignment to assignment effortlessly. Suddenly, I heard the faint sound of a bell from the corner of the room. I looked there, seeing that the evening newspaper had just popped out from the wall box. Extending my arm, I caught it and began to read its somewhat archaic, High Galactic letters.

A training accident on a Star Destroyer. Mining troubles. I moodily shut the paper and absently began fumbling in the heap of papers beneath the table. I suddenly touched something hard that did not fit with its companions.

Now what?

I pulled the thing out. It was a dusty file, which contained hundreds of papers, mostly police reports. At least something better than the newspaper. I started reading.

Life itself lay in front of me, showing all its sides. The miner who killed his mate to gain a large piece of mineral, hoping to sell it. The burglar who accidentally murdered the houseowner whose property he broke into. All packaged neatly in a neutral, informative report. Lost in an expressionless world without senses, I slammed it shut, determined to survive. I grabbed the bottle and headed for the stairs, to the bathroom. As I watered my dry body with the sickly oily water from the tap, I was overcome with memories—our holidays on cheerful beaches, our massage shower at home, pleasantries that were now impossible. I began crying quietly and tried to chase the pain away with even more pálinka. Cup followed cup, and I eventually fell onto the bed, which happily accommodated me. I cried all my sadness into the blankets, the suffering induced by the unforgiving system I lived under, the stress I experienced in the recent time.

I lay there, tears flowing along my face. I stared at the ceiling, following the path of some insect that slowly crawled there, heading towards the door. I inhaled the watery, odd smell of the room, the aging wood and finally realized that my situation was irreversible. I was within a whirlpool, lost in the clutches of the Empire, and had to give up all memories of my past self. Richard Sifour was no longer Richard Sifour; he was the man the Empire made him, even if he did not like it.

It was then that I sensed how tired I was. My body was exhausted by the long shuttle journey and the liters of alcohol I drank; my mind was inoperable and cranking and my personality was shattering. I grabbed the cold blanket and enveloped myself with it, delving into a dark sea of memories and wishes: the Force, which I accessed through sleeping.