| Coruscant_Journal | Date: Wednesday, 21 Dec 2011, 10:36 PM | Message # 1 |
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The Wretched of Vjun, an Editorial
By Bart Cochrane
Vjun, Nuiri Sector — The ship trembles as it descends toward Vjun, as much in apprehension, it seems, as the dense acidic composition of the planet's atmosphere. Brown clouds part to reveal a landscape equally as brown, the only color in sight the flourescent green pools of acid that fill the planet's every crag and ravine. Who, I wonder, would want to live in such a dreary and forboding place?
Not even the people of Vjun, as it happens. Most of them are stunningly poor, as I quickly learn upon setting down on the planet's aptly named capital "city," Bitter End. There is indeed a grim finality to the people who live in this small settlement and the conditions in which they do so; those who can't afford to weatherproof their abodes are at the mercy of the planet's frequent acid rainstorms. As one walks the earthen streets of Bitter End, the horrific burns on the faces, arms, and hands of passersby are sadly predictable, but no easier to look at. There is quiet desperation in their eyes, but they're the lucky ones; acid burns are the number one cause of death on Vjun.
These are the "people of Vjun," such as they are. Despite its pretensions, the planet has had no sense of identity since most of its population died of a plague a decade before the Clone Wars. Today, it is an unapologetic collection of castles and fortresses, the homes of wealthy nobles like the planet's senator, Bernard Oriel, who hold the people of Bitter End in perennial captivity. The people are so poor that many of them are forced to share the acid proof boots needed to walk outside, and few, if any, can afford the steep fees that are required to leave the planet.
And these are often the so called "freemen," who have toiled to earn their independence from the nobility and have little to show for it. Indeed, newly "free" of the nobles, they are "free" of their property too and must start a new life in this forbidding place whose primary export is the acid beet. The rest of Bitter End's residents are referred to, openly, as "serfs," who labor for the planet's nobility.
Vjun's ruling class, cloistered in their castles, seem oblivious to this—perhaps willfully so. Often, the nobles seem preoccupied with the titles they hold ("First Earl of Malreaux," for example). Over 99% of the planet's wealth is held by this tiny proportion of its population, only 5%, who live in opulence and command their own miniature fleets and armies. Little more than honor guards, they are justified by "tradition" but conveniently serve to keep the people in line (in fact, uprisings are uncommon; it seems the people have no will for it or for much else, either).
The planet has enjoyed some prominence in the Senate, as 100% of Senator Oriel's proposals have passed—no small feat in a fractious political environment. He is rumored to be under consideration for Chairman of the Senate's influential Defense Committee. But none of his proposals have benefited the people of Vjun who, ostensibly, he represents. The Empire is no better; it maintains a number of top secret installations on the planet (including Lord Vader's personal residence, if the rumors are true) and an asylum for the politically insane, but employs none of the people of Vjun and does nothing to improve the quality of life on the planet.
Vjun's nobles tell us—a bit too defensively—that there's a job for everyone on the planet who wants one. But working for the noble houses can be arduous. Planting or harvesting acid beets is hard work and seasonal at best. Sewing the famous Vjun tunics that sell for thousands of credits on Coruscant is more reliable work, but involves long hours to meet the galaxy's endless demand for this "luxury" clothing that seems perennially in style. Few on Coruscant seem to be aware of how much misery goes into the garment they wear in polite company.
But refusing to buy a tunic isn't likely to help the wretched of Vjun. What's needed is attention to their plight and, if necessary, pressure on Vjun's nobility and its senator. For many, it's too late. But the 800 or so men, women, and children of Bitter End—to say nothing of the planet's other "cities," which I wasn't able to visit in the time I had—needn't be doomed to a hell far worse than any of the fabled hells of Corellian myth. I was relieved to see the planet recede from view as my ship left, but it's a view that few of the people of Vjun will live to see.
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