Lucky Knight — Roleplayer Guild

"Laugh it up, fuzzball."

The Aundus-Valay, Above Zetrea
Outer Rim

As they ventured downward through the decks of the Aundus-Valay and descended past the opulent veneer of civility and wealth, Kujata was struck by just how much disparity there was between the ones who worked above and those who lived below. Where the highest tiers of the vessel were draped in finery and full of offices and quarters befitting kings and emperors, the lower levels were quickly growing cramped and pungent, thick with the scent of a thousand sweating sentients who between them had only half an air-scrubber.

Most of the corridors that Leej led him down were wide enough for maybe three or four to stand abreast, dimly lit and lined with plates of metal showing signs of rust or various molds at the lower lip of each main air vent. Here and there were small kiosks hawking food and news, or selling secondhand goods too poor to offer up to those who lived above. Unfamiliar with most of the brands, Kujata could only guess that these goods were knockoffs or the product of competitors unfit for the market they competed in.

Signs in a dozen languages pointed off to housing units and community spaces provided by the Zetrean government in the vain hope of keeping these employees – indentured servants, perhaps? – from losing their sanity down here in the mire. Every now and then the Jedi Knight detected the faint whiff of caff, or the more pungent tang of potent alcohol. Reaching out with his senses, reaching out beyond the immediacy of his mind and his being – he sensed a lot of life down here that showed no vibrancy, only exhaustion.

Exhaustion which the little guide before him seemed utterly immune to. Despite the distance they'd traveled the Jawa moved at the same pace, the same relentless press forward. Kujata took care not to outpace his companion but had to do little to slow himself down – despite Leej's small stature he was surprisingly quick. If he was half as good a guide as he seemed then it shouldn't have been a surprise. Little fellow must get a lot of exercise running back and forth across the expansive Aundus.

A small gloved hand emerged from the patterned robes that Leej wore, waving Kujata onwards.

“Is not far now. Many apologies for length of journey, kindly one. Is worth it. Leej promise!”

Kujata swept his senses through the surface of the Jawa's thoughts, and was rewarded by something he wasn't expecting – the little tour guide really did feel sorry for how long the trip was taking. Honesty was a rare commodity. The Jedi Knight fought the urge to dig deeper and instead focused on trying to keep his own thoughts in order. Do not play in the houses of others without opening the door of your own, Terzeh once told him.

It was bad manners to steal into the thoughts of those who couldn't see into your own, after all, though it seemed that few Jedi really observed that belief. Funny how reflexive it became to rely on the ability to read others. To sense the effect that your words and actions were having on another without trying to rely on your ability to read the language of their body. To poke and prod their mind to see how truthful they were being, how they really felt, what they really thought.

Seemed to Kujata that it made those like him lazy. It dulled them, removed them from the moment, from the immediacy of a situation. It was easy to make of the Force a crutch instead of a companion. Oh, there had been times when it was necessary, when one could not afford to trust. But that was a whole other crate of banthas entirely.

“So! Make small time talk. Why Kujata is on Aundus?” Leej continued, trying to fill the silence. “Is big time business man, yes? Much wealth, great influence?”

Big time business man? Kujata suppressed a grin. He supposed one could see it that way, sure. At his very moment he was technically representing a 'big time' business, and he was a man. But that was just about as far as the term could be stretched. He definitely wasn't here for himself; if he'd had his way he'd probably be off relaxing on some even more distant Rim world, maybe some place with a view of the ocean, as far from galactic civilization as he could get.

But he owed a favor to someone who had no compunctions about cashing in what she's owed. Camana Xair had few compunctions about anything at all, come to think of it. He still remembered a great deal about the first time he'd been asked to return a favor … and just the memory of the memory was enough to make his cheeks warm. But that was neither here nor there, though it should certainly have been a lesson about asking favors of the Lady of the Onyx Star.

Yet he'd gone back. Perhaps, in his heart of hearts, he was hoping he'd be forced to repay his favor the same way. But this time she'd had other plans for him – putting that lightsaber to more practical use – and so here he was in a place he had no business being, working off a debt he shouldn't have taken on, for a woman who played him like centuries-old nalargon with a dozen missing keys.

The Xair Consortium needed what the Britu Clan could offer, and the Britu Clan needed the Consortium's Republic ties. It was in many ways a winning combination and would end up doing the Republic a great deal of good, if indirectly. Yet he'd asked himself over and over again – is this something a Knight should be doing? Is this something he could justify if found out by the Council?

And of course, why me at all? At which Camana's dour face brightened just a little. 'Honestly? I've no idea. Can't explain it. You just popped into my head when I was working out the details, and who am I to deny the mysteries of my own mind? Besides, I'm sure a Jedi Knight could find a dozen ways of simplifying this arrangement that a trained merchant couldn't even dream of.'

Accursed woman! At least she was honest. She always seemed to put him in a state most unbecoming of a sworn servant of the Jedi Order.

There is no emotion, the mantra declared. There is peace.

But the founders of the Jedi Order had never met Camana Xair.

Kujata vil Turazi breathed deeply and attempted to clear his mind, striving once more for that crystalline moment of peace he'd found in the garden above. Thoughts built up and swarmed, they clouded and gnawed and tore at his focus, at inner peace. Truthfully the war against the pressures and pulls of a life lived in the galaxy at large was one which constantly challenged everything it meant to be a Jedi, to have sworn one's self to the Force and to the Light Side on which tranquility and contentment were built. 

A war which cannot be won, yet must never be surrendered – Terzeh's words, still etched into his mind. Words he'd never be rid of despite all that had happened. Thinking of her brought back the sound of bells, the ones she wore and those she'd taken him to hear in the skyways of Thanas, bells which droned out their aching melodies to an empty sky filled with the blood of a dying sun, crimson and the blotting of bruises all along the horizon...

He put that aside, feeling calmer now. Once more in control of himself. “Big time business man, Leej,” he said. “Definitely big time business man.”

Did the Masters struggle with this same inner turmoil? Somehow he doubted that Vrook Lamar had the same trouble or the same depth of emotion. Or Vandar. Zez-Kai, Lonna, and Atris, well … maybe. 

At least it was easier now. At least the hunt was over, and those … darker things, those primal things … stayed far below the surface on all but the worst of days. Far away and long ago, he told himself. So long ago that it was a story now, not even a memory.

Only stories.

“Impressive!” the Jawa exclaimed, waving his arms. “Most impressive! Leej like big business, like credits. Is always interesting to Leej how business work, how rich sentient makes a way in world above. Will get there someday.”

A thought struck Kujata, unbidden – the little Jawa seated at a desk of solid Alderaanian wood, hands behind his head and clad in a robe of gold, boots up and chair tilted backwards. He laughed. He couldn't help himself.

“Leej, my not-yet-friend, I have absolutely no doubt about that.”

The Jawa chortled. “Yes, yes! Many credits to Leej.” The robed figure rubbed his hands together. “Already have much, soon to have more. Leej is small business, but will expand!”

Their pace began to slow as they turned a corner, exiting the cramped hallways into a much larger thoroughfare. Not as wide as the ones up above, but a serious step up regardless. For roughly a quarter of a kilometer Kujata could see storefronts and cafes and cantinas, with actual merchant stalls set up beneath and between the power cables which ran like spiderwebs through the area. It practically hummed with life, though the sentients here were sparser.

“Oh? Hiring help?”

Another chortle. “Could say so!”

As they passed a few of the hawkers tried to get their attention, but the Jawa guide waved them off, snapping something in a language Kujata did not know. Each time the hawkers or their errand-runners would look away or flinch back, and cease their attempts to ensnare the travelers. The little being had a bite!

Towards the opposite end of the … well, street, for lack of a better term … Leej came to a halt. The area wasn't well-lit and it definitely smelled less clean that by all rights it should have, but it certainly had that hole-in-the-wall appeal that spoke of either immense hidden quality or a sharp vibroknife to the kidney. Not a place he could have found on his own, to say the least. 

Up above the small doorway was a sign in a clipped, angular script, and beside it either some sort of dancing Togruta or a gundark in extreme pain.

“We are here! Trag'tek Cantina!” Leej exclaimed, sweeping his arms out as if to reveal some grandiose secret or mystery. “Is special home of Leej's friends. Is best cantina on Aundus! House specialty-” he gestured to an ancient sign affixed to the door “- is martinii!”

“Lead the way, fearless leader,” he replied. Been a while since his last martini.

If Terzeh could see him now, she'd definitely be clucking her tongue in disapproval. A Jedi must be above the vices of others. Attachment to such things can be destructive, and so lead us down a path we do not wish to follow for want of the will to resist.

Of course she'd say the same about much that her former apprentice now did with his life. Such was the way of things.

Leej led him into the cantina and he was greeted at once by the impression that this was definitely a knife-in-the-kidney sort of establishment. 

A few round tables littered the floor and a holo jukebox that'd seen better days was pushed up against the far wall. Stepping towards the counter and the haggard Rodian 'tender that tended the bar, he caught the eye of two Gammoreans seated by the door. They watched him with barely concealed fixation, appearing to tense the massive muscles beneath all that porcine fat.

He didn't even have to be steeped in the mysteries of the Force to sense this was going to a bad place very quickly.

“Leej, I'm going to be honest,” Kujata said as he sat at the bar. “I was really starting to like you.”

The Jawa took a seat beside him, scrambling up onto the stool. “You no longer like Leej?” He sounded offended. “Are nearly friends!”

“Right. See, here's the problem.” Kujata gestured towards the Gamorreans. “Those guys … er, gals? They're already reaching for their blasters.” He nodded towards the 'tender. “This gentleman has some manner of really heavy-duty rifle beneath the counter, likely something that packs a serious punch. And he's looking at me like I killed his favorite pet. Do you want to know the truth?”

Leej swiveled to face him, those topaz eyes seeming to grow brighter. “Oh? What is truth, big time business man?”

“I'm pretty sure this is some sort of shakedown.”

The Jawa chortled once more as the blasters came out and one of the Gamorreans thundered over to block the door. Somewhere in the darkness of the little being's hood the Jedi could swear he felt a smirk.

Really should have dug deeper, Kujata thought, sighing.

****

Nothing in the world compared to the sound of a blaster rifle coming together in the hands of a master. 

More impressive if the master was wearing a blindfold, of course, but Oleg Trankan was not the sort of man who'd allow himself to be voluntarily blinded. Too many close calls in ports of safety had left him paranoid … and rightly so. His massive frame was a testament to a life lived in conflict and a hundred close calls, a story of war writ in scars and scorches all across his flesh.

His warriors watched him finish the assembly and listened for the final clack, and then watched him begin to break it all down again into its fundamental elements to begin again. An old soldier's trick, they knew, for calming nerves before a battle. But to each man and woman within the squad arrayed around Oleg not one of them could picture a bead of sweat on their commander, nor a single anxious breath from his lungs.

The Mandalorian Rally Master was as cold as ice and as focused as a Verpine shattergun. The only quirk any of them could ever possibly link to nerves was his habit of touching his fingertips to the massive scar that warped his face, but most old enough to remember how he got it would tell the rest that it wasn't nerves. It was a memory, a dear one at that. A gesture of comfort rather than trepidation.

There were nearly two dozen of them in the open space of the breach-craft's hangar, each watching their leader as he worked. Those who'd fought with him before were familiar with his rituals and what they represented, while the newer soldiers could only guess. Most of them had their own, and some of those warriors were already working on going through the motions, the mantras, or whatever else it was they needed to do.

Only a couple of them lacked this inclination entirely. All of them bore the blue armor and green slashes of the unblooded. 

As their Rally Master continued his work the unbloodied engaged one another in parring matches. They fought one another as they had for years, familiar with the ebb and flow of combat against those they'd grown up with. The dance didn't change much, and they learned little from the exercise that they didn't already know, but it served its purpose in ramping them up for the battle to come.

Even now the breach-craft – and a hundred like it – hurtled through hyperspace, a bolt fired with deadly accuracy across the galaxy towards an enemy who would soon be forced into a fight unlike it had ever known. Around the sparring initiates were arrayed the company's contingent of bes'uliik, the Basilisk droids that served them more loyally than any living creature could be capable of doing. They slumbered now, but would soon be called into action. Would soon taste the blood of Mandalore's foes.

Silence ruled the hangar for a time – just the sound of weapons clacking and the Rally Master's ceaseless task – until gradually the sound grew into something fiercer. Murmurs at first, then firmer voices. Conversations to break the anxiousness. Words of what deeds would be won, what honors they hoped to find. The glory of the Crusade that dominated their thoughts and guided their hands. A glorious war, a war that would bring joy to those who had come before, to those who had yet to come at all.

From silence, sound. From calm, chaos. From nothing, life.

They were a company of warriors. They were Mando'ade.

Across the hangar a door slid open, hissing and creaking as the old hydraulics kicked into motion. First to enter was a human Mandalorian warrior of thick build with a head of shock-red hair and an eye shut permanently by an ancient scar. Behind him was the wispy form of a Mirialan woman, young but cut from durasteel, her every step confident and sure. She was swift but held herself in check, keeping just behind the man who led her – she bore the green slashes, after all, and it would not be seemly for her to overstep her bounds.

The Rally Master finished assembling his rifle once more, then set it down, apparently satisfied. He glanced up at the newcomers and gestured for both of them to approach. The man in the lead swept a hand through his red mane and grinned as he reached his commander. “Nailed it, Oleg. Girl was swinging those swords of hers around like she was possessed. Was half afraid she wouldn't even hear me knocking.”

Oleg grunted, then switched his gaze over to the young woman as she joined them. She clipped her first to her armor, a warrior's salute. “Apologies, father. I'd lost track of time.”

He took a few moments to study the young woman before him. “Punctuality is crucial in war,” he said, finally. “Timing can be the difference between victory and defeat.”

She knew this. She'd heard it a thousand times, maybe more. But she nodded as if it were the first time those words had ever been spoken. “Yes, father.”

The Rally Master looked back at the other warrior. “Ducar, how long have we been in transit?”

“Sixteen hours, twenty seven minutes since departure.”

“And how much longer before we reach Zetrea?”

“Twelve minutes.”

Oleg met his daughter's eyes. “A soldier must never let the details slip. A soldier must be ready. To remember less, to pay attention to less, is to be less.”

To which Zeti Trankan saluted a second time. “I understand, father.”

“I am not your father, not now. Soon the war with be joined, and you will address me by the role I play in service to Mandalore. Speak it.”

Zeti blushed a darker shade of green against the emerald hue of her skin. “Your will, Rally Master.”

Oleg thought he could detect a faint air of amusement from Ducar, out of place for an otherwise professional soldier.

But then, the relationship between Zeti and Oleg never seemed to have made much sense to Ducar in the first place; a human father and a Mirialan daughter spoke of strange times to most of the Mandalorians who served the Rally Master, but none save Ducar ever questioned it aloud (if never in Oleg's presence). He'd likely be enjoying this coldness between them. It made more sense to him.

In a sweep of motion the Rally Master stood. He already wore the black pressure suit of their company, but he lacked the red armor of his station. It lay at his feet, neatly organized, prepared for this moment. It took only a moment for both Zeti and Ducar to set themselves in motion, and as one they began attaching their commander's armor to him. A position of honor, this, and something Zeti probably didn't deserve. Not yet.

When the task was complete he hefted the huge blaster rifle he'd been toying with and clipped it to himself, ensuring it would reach his hands in a moment's notice should it need to. A brace of vibroknives found his belt – forged of cortosis, a rare metal of infinite usefulness, taken from a man he'd slain on the battlefield decades ago – and then followed the rest of his weaponry.

This done, he directed the weight of his attention back onto his daughter. For a moment he nearly broke the stoic mask he wore, but it held firm in the end. 

“Recruit Zeti, are your weapons in order?”

She assented, placing her hands upon the hilts of the swords at her waist.

“Soldier Ducar, are your weapons in order?”

The red-maned warrior nodded, grinning.

The Rally Master stepped past them and they saluted as he did so. The rest of the warriors in the hangar ceased all activity and turned to face their commander, each assuming a salute as well.

“Warriors of the Mando'ade!”

Hie voice thundered through the hangar, cleanly cutting through the hum of the hyperspace engines and the dull drone of the air scrubbers. It could have stopped a rampaging bantha in its tracks.

“Today we ride into battle. Today, we join ourselves fully to the Crusade and take our place as true soldiers of Mandalore! We are not the first to do so. Others have joined before us, and others shall join after. But this is not their moment. This is not their day. It is ours!”

The whole of the ship breathed deeply …

“Take no prisoners, waste no shots, and show honor to those who show honor themselves! For glory! For Mandalore!”

… and exhaled as they cheered, their thunder matching that of their commander. As one, they saluted and raised fists in the air, their battle lust rising, building …

… and in the starry expanse above the world of Zetrea, into the safety of the treaties which protected all those who sought the goods and services of the Aundus-Valay and beyond, a hundred Mandalorian vessels fell out of hyperspace …

… and opened fire.
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