Posted. Part II coming soon to a theatre near you!
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~ In Memory of the Dragoons ~
For valor, so long as it lasts.
For valor, so long as it lasts.
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”Questions are more true than answers. This is the beginning of wisdom.”
That Which Binds I
The Aundus-Valay, Above Zetrea
Outer Rim
Beads of perspiration swam across the young boy's dark brown skin, catching the light of the rising sun and glowing with a golden aura. His eyes were shut tight and his breathing heavy. In the distance – beyond the veranda upon which he sat with his legs folded beneath him – the treetops swayed and a chorus of alien avians chirped and whirred, greeting the coming of the day.
Despite his concentration he could not shut these things out. They rose around him and barraged his mind, pulling his thoughts to a thousand places each time he became aware of the world, unable to maintain his focus.
Finally, he let go and opened his eyes.
“Master,” he began, “What is the Force?”
Across the veranda his teacher opened her eyes – their dazzling sapphire catching his breath, as they always did – and smiled. “The Force is all around us, Jata. It is all life, all things.”
“But what is it made of? Can I touch it? Taste it?”
“You cannot touch what has no form,” Terzeh'halam laughed, raising her arms above her head in a luxurious stretch. She rose from where she'd sat and came over to her pupil, settling down beside him.
“But that doesn't make sense. You keep saying it's all life, and that it's all things, and that it guides us and has a will of its own. It has to have … I don't know. A body? A brain?”
Her hand, a paler shade of blue than her eyes but no less dazzling, ruffled the thick curls of his hair. “You must let go of these notions, Jata. It is not a sentient as we perceive sentients to be. It is not corporeal because a corporeal form would be of no use to it. It does not live, though it is made of life.”
The Padawan shook his head. “Still doesn't make sense. The Force can't have a will if it isn't sentient. You keep telling me that gods do not exist but you keep talking about the Force like it's a god.”
“No, Jata. Not a god. Not divine, not exactly. It is a presence, a connective energy that suffuses the galaxy. It has many sides and those sides have many sides, turning endlessly from one to the other. I have spoken to you of the Light and the Dark, of the balance that is struck between them. These are of the Force but not; they would not exist if we did not exist. Reflections of those who are connected to it.”
Her lips curled into a soft smile. “It is the spirit of the galaxy, and as it connects us, so too do we connect it, an infinite system of links, a grand and endless chain.”
Kujata sighed. His teacher removed her hand from his head and clasped it to her other, folding them in her lap. Around them the wind rose, catching their simple clothes and seeping through the coarse fabric to cool them against the burgeoning day.
“It surrounds us,” Terzeh said, gentle as the wind around them. “and penetrates us. It binds the galaxy together. It is born of all life, as we are born of it. We serve it and it guides us, and in its Light we-”
One of her eyes cracked open a hair, seeking out her young apprentice. The boy finally let out the snicker and snort he'd been holding in. Terzeh frowned at him.
“It … it penetrates us,” he explained, giggling.
That earned him a smack.
Zeti Trankan danced the swords, and she did it with a fury unrestrained. All before her was drenched in red and soaked in the splattering mist of those who dared stand in the way; she was a whirlwind of carnage that swept through the halls of the Aundus-Valay like some sort of divine retribution. Where once-rational thought had pulsed within her mind there was numbness, a moment caught in carbonite. Where once there had been intent, there was only instinct.
Behind her a salvo of blaster fire rained outwards towards those too distant for her blades to reach, precision shots that never once grazed her, for she and the squad were as one, all swept up in the battle lust and the flow of the galaxy's beating heart. Each step forward was as one unit, and though others around her fell to the enemy's scattered return fire she emerged each time unscathed, dancing through it and over the dead as if they simply weren't there.
In her mind she saw again and again the death of that nameless Zetrean soldier. A slip, and a fall, and the cruelness of life. She did not believe in destiny, nor any of the forces that the galaxy attributed to higher planes. She did not believe that all things happened for a reason or that all things followed a master plan. What happened, happened, and as much of one's life as possible should be lived wide awake, lived fully and under one's own power.
The Mandalorians knew better than most that life is what one makes of it. That each moment you fight, each battle you win, is one more accomplishment. One more badge of merit to wear on the march towards the grave. All beings die, but they can die with purpose. They can die with honor. There is no higher honor than combat. No finer display of the power one can wield over their own life than their actions and reflexes on the battlefield.
To have that taken away, wrenched completely from her grasp just as she joined the fray – it was worse than anything she'd ever imagined was possible. The coldness in her gut would not abate. There was no way to undo what had been done. No way to go back and fix what was broken. Her first kill was an accident, was the simple idiocy of another being. There was no honor. There was no glory in that. Only shame. Her first kill and she had failed her family completely.
She had failed herself, her father, and Mandalore all.
No matter how much she fought … no matter how many battles she won … that scar would never, ever heal. Galling. Embarrassing. Unfair. Horrifying. It tore at her like the dark heart of a black hole, devouring every ounce of light in her until there was nothing left. She could feel it all slipping away, could feel the impending doom that bore down upon her. As soon as the battle ended there would be a reckoning. She would have to face her brothers and sisters and she would know humiliation.
A humiliation that would live with her for the rest of her days.
So she danced the swords and kept ahead of the pack. She put aside her blaster and leapt into the melee because in doing so she could keep fighting, could prolong the inevitable. She could soak those green slashes on her armor in the blood of the Zetreans and bury them deep, hide them from the world, because she did not deserve even the mark of a recruit. One mistake and she was tainted. Her father – how could she face him now?
Somewhere behind her his overcharged blaster roared again and again, flashing out and blowing apart enemies and barricades alike, his daughter easily stepping past and slipping beneath each salvo, dreading the moment that the dance came to an end, because she could not bear it. She could not turn back to him. She had to keep fighting, keep moving forward.
Another of her fellow recruits fell beside her, a smoking hole in his armor where the plates had failed to ablate the energy of a blaster bolt. She had known him all her life, remembered much about him, had once harbored feelings for him in a fit of whimsy – and now he was dead, and she was jealous of him, for he had died with honor.
Heat soaked her cheeks and she dared not stop the dance to wipe those streaks of water away. She pressed onwards, hopping over a pair of white-clad Zetrean troopers to fall into a third, lancing her blades through his armor, the vibroswords practically laughing as they deftly seared through with almost no resistance. Ancient though they may have been, the relics in her hands had never once failed her. It was only she who had failed.
Zeti roared as she pulled her blades from the dying trooper and whipped them to either side to clean them, then pointed them towards the next batch of troopers who even now scrambled to take up positions at the far end of the alley they'd advanced into. Overhead the klaxons still raged and the emergency lights still bathed the ship in their nightmarish glow.
A halo of crimson fire thundered past her as she raced forward, twisting out of the way as one of the Zetreans sighted her through his scope and depressed the firing pin. Instinct drove her and she trusted it implicitly now, lost in the moment, caught up in the waves of combat that pushed her onward, side-stepping the blast with ease.
Ducking as she slipped beneath a collapsing bulkhead that shattered from the blast of an errant grenade, she slid the rest of the distance and rose from her crouch into a frenzy of sword strikes, laying waste to the trio of defenders who stood no chance against a Mandalorian in close combat, even one as green as she.
But it wasn't enough. Still it wasn't enough! She needed more victories, more honor; she had to try to bury the sin deeper, to push down that moment, to try to wash it away …
Zeti plunged her swords into one of the Zetreans at her feet, freeing her hands for just a moment. She tugged her helmet from its mounting and cast it aside, then unclasped the armor plates from her arms to leave only the black pressure suit sleeves as a defensive layer. A fan of tangled, sweat-soaked hair swept out behind her as she shook her head.
Honor is life, she thought, her mind still alight with static and that one single moment, over and over and over again. For with no honor one may as well be dead.
The swords fell once more into her hands, and she staggered onwards once again, plunging into the glory of war to push back the moment she'd lose everything that ever mattered.
The turbolift sealed behind them just as a salvo of blaster bolts raced across the hall, splattering viciously against the plasteel and sending up waves of smoke in their wake. Kujata slammed against the far side of the lift as his small companion lurched forward to do the same, dragging his massive blaster rifle behind him as he did so. The last sight they caught of the enemy was one of furious outrage – not that Kujata and his companion had survived, but that they had turned tail and fled.
Even now, as they rose up through the decks and put distance between themselves and the ones who had come for their blood, Kujata could feel their emotions in a brutal tangle, a web of primal joy and immense anger, that chemical flood of the hunter denied their prey. It was dizzying, nauseating … that they could kill so easily, so fervently, and be themselves horrified when others refused to do the same.
All around him he could feel the edges of that tangle spreading out, sinking deep into the ship. A darkness in it. A deep vertigo that came from brushing his mind against it, from reaching out through the Force to try to understand it. This was something strange, something on a scale he hadn't felt since … since the war. Since the coming of the Sith and the horrors they trailed in their wake.
But above that, above the mantle of shadows that gathered and the echoes of screams through the unifying Force that bound him to the fates of all those who lived and died around him, he sensed no true malice.
Nothing of those who bore claim to evil, to darkness incarnate. Of those who took to heart the lessons and values of an enlightened civilization and tore them apart, inverted them, and turned them to the service of annihilation. These people clad in their strange armor, who sang their battle songs in a language he had never before encountered … they did not feel to him to be 'evil' as he'd been taught it, as he had found and hunted it in decades past.
It was new in that respect, but achingly familiar in its execution.
Oh, but he knew full well the siren call that languished in the wake of so much death.
It pulled at him even as he rose above it, slithering deep into him, into the thoughts and dreams that dwelt beneath the surface of his mind. A taste familiar, but of a time long ago. Agony rode waves of the Force through the Aundus-Valay, voices crying out only to be silenced, cut short before their natural time, an affront to that which he believed to be the Light. This roared and gnashed and stank of the Dark, but without a hand to guide it, without intent.
Rather, it felt like a consequence. As if the echoes of their carnage were cast from a stone that was itself, somehow, an echo. An act that resounded forwards from a time long ago, flung from hands long since withered to dust. One more link in an infinite chain, the sigil of causality writ deep in its ceaseless motion.
What does that even mean? he mused, surprised at the thought that had come to him. What am I trying to say?
And, perhaps more dizzyingly: From whence did that image come? It hadn't felt like his own thought.
“I thought we were headed for the escape pods,” Kujata said at length, pushing the chaos of thoughts and memories from his mind.
The diminutive Jawa beside him shook his head, snickering. “Leej did not lie! Leej merely … desires bigger pod for making escape. Cannot find any craft fit for him in lower decks, kindly Jedi, and must set sights higher. Know perfect vessel.”
“So you felt the need to risk our lives by sprinting across a wide-open slaughterhouse?”
“Knew Jedi would protect!” he chittered, blinking his luminous eyes rapidly. “Jedi keeps word, does he not? Besides, would use grand mystic lightsaber to protect Leej, if worse becomes much worse!”
The weapon of a Jedi Knight. Easy to unveil when it's all fun and games, when the swinging of the blade bears no echoes of its own. It could be a tremendous plaything – though Terzeh would have vehemently disagreed – and made for an equally tremendous deterrent.
It was a symbol of the Order and a symbol of what they stood for, a weapon of a civilized people in a civilized organization spouting civilized philosophies, in service to what they claimed to be a higher power. Not a god, but the next best thing.
But wasn't that utterly paradoxical? The symbol of an order of serenity and tranquility, whose very code decried the unveiling of anger … represented by a weapon used to kill.
And the lives these weapons of light had taken – across the decades, across centuries, from the time their progenitor was first called to life. A staggering body count. An impossible weight. How fickle the Force was, how hypocritical its mask of the Light, to demand of them peace but allow them to wield its power to kill. If he'd believed in any divine powers – or that the Force itself truly had a will of its own – he would have known them to have a sense of humor as dark and unrelenting as anything he'd ever dreamt of. And worse.
How close to the edge would he fall if he ignited that blade with an intent to kill again? How much more suffering could he bear to cause with it, should the time once again fall upon him? His hands – shaking now – were still stained with a coat of blood that would never come clean. Years could pass, and had passed, and the slickness of it faded, but he could still feel it there. Could still sense the wounds his own actions had opened in the flow of life around him.
Cruel was the Force. Cold. To gift its children with the ability to feel the connectedness of life around them – to be part of a greater whole and to drink deep of its power – but to be cursed with the task of defending it and taking lives from that very same whole.
Another wave of nausea shook him. A great many deaths sent another pulsing echo through the Force. Close by, very close. Not below, but above. Kujata and his errant companion rose from the nightmare of the lower decks into a fresher, cleaner, much more opulent sort of hell. Great.
“Leej,” he said, touching his fingers to the coldness of the hilt at his side. “Why did you have to pick me for your schemes? Would have been so much easier for me if you'd grabbed someone else.”
The Jawa – caught in the midst of checking the leads of his blaster rifle's energy cell for dust and grime – paused. He blinked his luminous topaz eyes upwards at the Jedi for a moment, then nodded. “Because was easy mark. Obvious outsider, big fancy coat, big time business connection. For hours looked for chump who Leej could fleece! Then voice in Leej's mind says 'Leej, this kindly sentient is sucker you are looking for!' and so stalked you to garden.”
A surprisingly large amount of good will radiated off the tiny being. Maybe a hint of smug self-satisfaction. Kujata didn't try to dig deeper. He was content with that, with knowing it was just blind chance. The galaxy liked to pull these surprises on him, on everyone. Just the luck of the draw.
Well, that luck had put him in a position where a life depended on him. Maybe not an innocent life – the Jawa had done the bare minimum to ensure his unconscious friend's safety when they'd departed the cantina, and would likely still try to sell Kujata back to the Temple once they were free of this mess – but an honest one. Mostly honest. Sort of.
At least the Jawa wasn't running around killing anyone.
Ah well. Time to choose.
How far would he go to save Leej's life? Or his own?
Surrounded by this much death, by this much hate … how far did he dare push himself? Would death be preferable to … to a fall? So much weight rested on that word. So much horror. A steep path it was, and one most could never claw their way back from. And in this sort of place, with lives on the line and the smell of blood in the air, and adrenaline pumping through the bloodstream, and that voice in the back of his mind urging him on, to just one more hunt, one more kill – it would be so easy to let go.
It was beyond difficult to maintain a Jedi calm when the whole world burned.
Would he kill again, would he draw his blade and risk everything to save the life of a being who probably had no real concern for Kujata?
We don't get to make that judgment call, Terzeh would have said. We are not the arbiters of justice, nor the final law of what is right and what is wrong. We are defenders. We protect. That is the lightest and the heaviest of our burdens, and it will always come at a tremendous cost. A sacrifice is not a sacrifice if there is no consequence to the choice.
In that moment he would have given anything to see her again. To hold her in his arms and hear her voice, to have her wisdom at his side.
But the dead live on only in memory.
“Get that blaster ready, my friend,” he said, reaching out through the Force to seek what lay in store for them. “I have a feeling you're going to need it here in a moment.”
He didn't have to touch the Jawa's mind nor peek within the hood to the see the feral grin the being flashed. “Oh, weapon is always ready, kindly Jedi. Kneecaps and groins of all enemies everywhere will rue arrogance of attacking fine upstanding Leej. Will learn that price is steep indeed.”
The Jedi Knight laughed despite himself.
As the turbolift slowed to a stop he swore he could almost hear the rattling of chains, but it was banished the moment the doors slid open. He drew the saber at his side and thumbed it on, bathing the chamber in its light.
Showtime.
Searing heat surged through molten durasteel as the final bulkhead door buckled and exploded outward, crashing into plaza's expansive marble tiles. They shattered with a tremendous crack, signaling the first salvo of blaster fire from the defenders across the way. They'd gathered to themselves a series of barricades hewn from toppled pillars and shattered cafe furniture in the vain hope that it would slow the advance of an enemy force they could not bring themselves to fight in an open arena.
Through the breach came a wall of white-clad Zetrean troopers, soaking up most of the opening blasts without so much as a twitch, their bloodless bodies discarded moments later as the Mandalorians stormed through in force. No demands for surrender. No pleas for the defenders to lay down their arms. This was not a war of conquest; it was simply a war. Conquest was incidental. This was not about dominance. This was about glory.
At the head of the defensive line that held the plaza – a plaza which had once entertained only the most important and affluent sentients aboard the luxury cruiser – was a being of extraordinary courage. A woman who under different circumstances might very well have come to appreciate the life offered by her enemy; a woman who had fought all her life and known little else.
When the Mandalorians unleashed hell upon the defenders she did not cower, nor duck low. Instead, she barked commands to her troops to return fire to buy her cover. She snatched up a plasteel tabletop and used it as a makeshift shield, rapidly crossing the plaza's splintered tiles, her arms torn to shreds where the shield did not hold.
But still she ran, until at last she had met the enemy in person.
She did not drop the shield. It slammed into the first of the Mandalorians who stepped close, and swung it about madly to keep them at a distance once the armored foe fell. No words were exchanged, not even when the shield fell apart and she took a bolt to the chest. No words needed to be exchanged. Instead, she let her deeds speak for her – at her waist flashed the lights of a half-dozen thermal detonators, activated just before her mad dash.
One of the Mandalorians closest to her leapt to her fallen body and struggled to unhook her belt. As he fumbled with the clasp the blades of the Mirialan in their midst slipped in and sliced the stretched leather clean apart, and moments later the belt was hurtling back towards the defenders. But they'd already begun to scatter to the turbolifts that lined the far side of the plaza, abandoning their post to take full advantage of the time their commander had bought them.
The belt of suicide bombs exploded with an immense buckling shockwave, ripping across the frescoed ceiling high above, tearing the overhead lights from their mountings and plunging most of the plaza into darkness. Only fires lit by blaster shots still cast their fearful light into the yawning chamber – a vast hollow that even now filled with the sound of grinding metal, twisting and bending where the detonators had warped their structural integrity.
A few more exchanges of rifle fire burnt lightning flashes of ruby and emerald into the growing darkness, but it was over quickly. Those who had not escaped into the turbolifts put up virtually no resistance; the fight had gone out of them. These were the children of a life of luxury, not of conflict. They did not have what it took to truly live.
Finally free of the heat of battle, Zeti Trankan came to a halt at the edge of the abyss, seeking someone, anyone, she could race to. Another life to take. Another chance to prove herself, to strip herself of the shame. But there was nothing. Nothing left. Just the hungry dark that spread out beyond her boots.
A hand fell on her shoulder and she reacted swiftly, twisting round and slashing savagely with her swords, but a strong strike numbed her arms and she lost control of the blades before they could meet flesh or armor. A guttural cry escaped her as she tried to break free of the gauntlets that snapped down over her wrists but she could not, could not get away, could not get free …
Until she heard at last the soothing words of the man who held her. Clad in crimson armor, soaked in blood, his bald head and long scar fading into focus. Oleg. Tears welled up in her eyes as she struggled to find the words to say, an explanation for the depth of her failure, for the immensity of the shame she had brought upon herself and the man before her …
But he simply nodded. He put a hand on her cheek and nodded, then pressed his forehead to hers for a moment before releasing her from his grasp.
“Rest a moment,” he said. “You've done well, Soldier.”
And it felt as if all the darkness fell away.
She was dizzy, and the world swam around her, but she kept her balance and held firm against the flood of exhaustion which now began to rise. As she gathered up her blades and began wiping them clean, her father turned to what remained of their company.
He tapped out a series of commands on the device strapped over the bracer on his right arm, calling up a miniscule holomap of the Aundus. A few more clicks at the keys on the device two main paths lit up in red, spinning outwards from their present location high in the upper decks of the ship.
“Two objectives, two teams,” the Rally Master began, drawing his soldiers in closer. “Ahead of us lie the diplomatic hangars, and to the left a turbolift to the command deck and the bridge. Soldier Ducar, I assume you still have the-”
The red mane of Soldier Ducar framed a big grin. The Mandalorian held up a melted chain, an identity tag dangling from its length. “Still fresh, Rally Master.”
Oleg Trankan nodded. “Ducar leads the hangar team. I'll take the command deck.”
His daughter looked up suddenly, unsure. It was if a sound … but there was nothing. Her mind was playing tricks on her. An aftershock of the adrenaline, the fading of combat chemicals.
She sheathed her blades and fell in with the rest of the team as her father pointed out roughly half the remaining squad to follow Ducar. He seemed to hesitate for a moment when he laid eyes on her, as if unsure what to do with her. The old fear returned, stronger than before, the falling of a curtain … but his expression lightened and he raised his fingers to gesture for her to join him.
At that moment she felt it again, that strange sensation. A far-off song, perhaps, like something once forgotten that wouldn't quite come into focus.
A single chime echoed in the empty plaza.
To a one, the Mandalorians raised their weapons in the direction of the sound, aiming toward the turbolift at the far end of the plaza as it slid into position. At that distance – and with the immense weight of darkness that filled the chamber – it was difficult to tell which of the doors was about to open.
Until the one in the middle unsealed and cast its pallid light into the plaza. A pallid light which moments later was punctured by a brilliant scarlet blaze and the unmistakable snap-hiss of a lightsaber coming to life.
The Mandalorians did not hesitate for even a second. They unleashed hell.
That Which Binds I
The Aundus-Valay, Above Zetrea
Outer Rim
Beads of perspiration swam across the young boy's dark brown skin, catching the light of the rising sun and glowing with a golden aura. His eyes were shut tight and his breathing heavy. In the distance – beyond the veranda upon which he sat with his legs folded beneath him – the treetops swayed and a chorus of alien avians chirped and whirred, greeting the coming of the day.
Despite his concentration he could not shut these things out. They rose around him and barraged his mind, pulling his thoughts to a thousand places each time he became aware of the world, unable to maintain his focus.
Finally, he let go and opened his eyes.
“Master,” he began, “What is the Force?”
Across the veranda his teacher opened her eyes – their dazzling sapphire catching his breath, as they always did – and smiled. “The Force is all around us, Jata. It is all life, all things.”
“But what is it made of? Can I touch it? Taste it?”
“You cannot touch what has no form,” Terzeh'halam laughed, raising her arms above her head in a luxurious stretch. She rose from where she'd sat and came over to her pupil, settling down beside him.
“But that doesn't make sense. You keep saying it's all life, and that it's all things, and that it guides us and has a will of its own. It has to have … I don't know. A body? A brain?”
Her hand, a paler shade of blue than her eyes but no less dazzling, ruffled the thick curls of his hair. “You must let go of these notions, Jata. It is not a sentient as we perceive sentients to be. It is not corporeal because a corporeal form would be of no use to it. It does not live, though it is made of life.”
The Padawan shook his head. “Still doesn't make sense. The Force can't have a will if it isn't sentient. You keep telling me that gods do not exist but you keep talking about the Force like it's a god.”
“No, Jata. Not a god. Not divine, not exactly. It is a presence, a connective energy that suffuses the galaxy. It has many sides and those sides have many sides, turning endlessly from one to the other. I have spoken to you of the Light and the Dark, of the balance that is struck between them. These are of the Force but not; they would not exist if we did not exist. Reflections of those who are connected to it.”
Her lips curled into a soft smile. “It is the spirit of the galaxy, and as it connects us, so too do we connect it, an infinite system of links, a grand and endless chain.”
Kujata sighed. His teacher removed her hand from his head and clasped it to her other, folding them in her lap. Around them the wind rose, catching their simple clothes and seeping through the coarse fabric to cool them against the burgeoning day.
“It surrounds us,” Terzeh said, gentle as the wind around them. “and penetrates us. It binds the galaxy together. It is born of all life, as we are born of it. We serve it and it guides us, and in its Light we-”
One of her eyes cracked open a hair, seeking out her young apprentice. The boy finally let out the snicker and snort he'd been holding in. Terzeh frowned at him.
“It … it penetrates us,” he explained, giggling.
That earned him a smack.
****
Zeti Trankan danced the swords, and she did it with a fury unrestrained. All before her was drenched in red and soaked in the splattering mist of those who dared stand in the way; she was a whirlwind of carnage that swept through the halls of the Aundus-Valay like some sort of divine retribution. Where once-rational thought had pulsed within her mind there was numbness, a moment caught in carbonite. Where once there had been intent, there was only instinct.
Behind her a salvo of blaster fire rained outwards towards those too distant for her blades to reach, precision shots that never once grazed her, for she and the squad were as one, all swept up in the battle lust and the flow of the galaxy's beating heart. Each step forward was as one unit, and though others around her fell to the enemy's scattered return fire she emerged each time unscathed, dancing through it and over the dead as if they simply weren't there.
In her mind she saw again and again the death of that nameless Zetrean soldier. A slip, and a fall, and the cruelness of life. She did not believe in destiny, nor any of the forces that the galaxy attributed to higher planes. She did not believe that all things happened for a reason or that all things followed a master plan. What happened, happened, and as much of one's life as possible should be lived wide awake, lived fully and under one's own power.
The Mandalorians knew better than most that life is what one makes of it. That each moment you fight, each battle you win, is one more accomplishment. One more badge of merit to wear on the march towards the grave. All beings die, but they can die with purpose. They can die with honor. There is no higher honor than combat. No finer display of the power one can wield over their own life than their actions and reflexes on the battlefield.
To have that taken away, wrenched completely from her grasp just as she joined the fray – it was worse than anything she'd ever imagined was possible. The coldness in her gut would not abate. There was no way to undo what had been done. No way to go back and fix what was broken. Her first kill was an accident, was the simple idiocy of another being. There was no honor. There was no glory in that. Only shame. Her first kill and she had failed her family completely.
She had failed herself, her father, and Mandalore all.
No matter how much she fought … no matter how many battles she won … that scar would never, ever heal. Galling. Embarrassing. Unfair. Horrifying. It tore at her like the dark heart of a black hole, devouring every ounce of light in her until there was nothing left. She could feel it all slipping away, could feel the impending doom that bore down upon her. As soon as the battle ended there would be a reckoning. She would have to face her brothers and sisters and she would know humiliation.
A humiliation that would live with her for the rest of her days.
So she danced the swords and kept ahead of the pack. She put aside her blaster and leapt into the melee because in doing so she could keep fighting, could prolong the inevitable. She could soak those green slashes on her armor in the blood of the Zetreans and bury them deep, hide them from the world, because she did not deserve even the mark of a recruit. One mistake and she was tainted. Her father – how could she face him now?
Somewhere behind her his overcharged blaster roared again and again, flashing out and blowing apart enemies and barricades alike, his daughter easily stepping past and slipping beneath each salvo, dreading the moment that the dance came to an end, because she could not bear it. She could not turn back to him. She had to keep fighting, keep moving forward.
Another of her fellow recruits fell beside her, a smoking hole in his armor where the plates had failed to ablate the energy of a blaster bolt. She had known him all her life, remembered much about him, had once harbored feelings for him in a fit of whimsy – and now he was dead, and she was jealous of him, for he had died with honor.
Heat soaked her cheeks and she dared not stop the dance to wipe those streaks of water away. She pressed onwards, hopping over a pair of white-clad Zetrean troopers to fall into a third, lancing her blades through his armor, the vibroswords practically laughing as they deftly seared through with almost no resistance. Ancient though they may have been, the relics in her hands had never once failed her. It was only she who had failed.
Zeti roared as she pulled her blades from the dying trooper and whipped them to either side to clean them, then pointed them towards the next batch of troopers who even now scrambled to take up positions at the far end of the alley they'd advanced into. Overhead the klaxons still raged and the emergency lights still bathed the ship in their nightmarish glow.
A halo of crimson fire thundered past her as she raced forward, twisting out of the way as one of the Zetreans sighted her through his scope and depressed the firing pin. Instinct drove her and she trusted it implicitly now, lost in the moment, caught up in the waves of combat that pushed her onward, side-stepping the blast with ease.
Ducking as she slipped beneath a collapsing bulkhead that shattered from the blast of an errant grenade, she slid the rest of the distance and rose from her crouch into a frenzy of sword strikes, laying waste to the trio of defenders who stood no chance against a Mandalorian in close combat, even one as green as she.
But it wasn't enough. Still it wasn't enough! She needed more victories, more honor; she had to try to bury the sin deeper, to push down that moment, to try to wash it away …
Zeti plunged her swords into one of the Zetreans at her feet, freeing her hands for just a moment. She tugged her helmet from its mounting and cast it aside, then unclasped the armor plates from her arms to leave only the black pressure suit sleeves as a defensive layer. A fan of tangled, sweat-soaked hair swept out behind her as she shook her head.
Honor is life, she thought, her mind still alight with static and that one single moment, over and over and over again. For with no honor one may as well be dead.
The swords fell once more into her hands, and she staggered onwards once again, plunging into the glory of war to push back the moment she'd lose everything that ever mattered.
****
The turbolift sealed behind them just as a salvo of blaster bolts raced across the hall, splattering viciously against the plasteel and sending up waves of smoke in their wake. Kujata slammed against the far side of the lift as his small companion lurched forward to do the same, dragging his massive blaster rifle behind him as he did so. The last sight they caught of the enemy was one of furious outrage – not that Kujata and his companion had survived, but that they had turned tail and fled.
Even now, as they rose up through the decks and put distance between themselves and the ones who had come for their blood, Kujata could feel their emotions in a brutal tangle, a web of primal joy and immense anger, that chemical flood of the hunter denied their prey. It was dizzying, nauseating … that they could kill so easily, so fervently, and be themselves horrified when others refused to do the same.
All around him he could feel the edges of that tangle spreading out, sinking deep into the ship. A darkness in it. A deep vertigo that came from brushing his mind against it, from reaching out through the Force to try to understand it. This was something strange, something on a scale he hadn't felt since … since the war. Since the coming of the Sith and the horrors they trailed in their wake.
But above that, above the mantle of shadows that gathered and the echoes of screams through the unifying Force that bound him to the fates of all those who lived and died around him, he sensed no true malice.
Nothing of those who bore claim to evil, to darkness incarnate. Of those who took to heart the lessons and values of an enlightened civilization and tore them apart, inverted them, and turned them to the service of annihilation. These people clad in their strange armor, who sang their battle songs in a language he had never before encountered … they did not feel to him to be 'evil' as he'd been taught it, as he had found and hunted it in decades past.
It was new in that respect, but achingly familiar in its execution.
Oh, but he knew full well the siren call that languished in the wake of so much death.
It pulled at him even as he rose above it, slithering deep into him, into the thoughts and dreams that dwelt beneath the surface of his mind. A taste familiar, but of a time long ago. Agony rode waves of the Force through the Aundus-Valay, voices crying out only to be silenced, cut short before their natural time, an affront to that which he believed to be the Light. This roared and gnashed and stank of the Dark, but without a hand to guide it, without intent.
Rather, it felt like a consequence. As if the echoes of their carnage were cast from a stone that was itself, somehow, an echo. An act that resounded forwards from a time long ago, flung from hands long since withered to dust. One more link in an infinite chain, the sigil of causality writ deep in its ceaseless motion.
What does that even mean? he mused, surprised at the thought that had come to him. What am I trying to say?
And, perhaps more dizzyingly: From whence did that image come? It hadn't felt like his own thought.
“I thought we were headed for the escape pods,” Kujata said at length, pushing the chaos of thoughts and memories from his mind.
The diminutive Jawa beside him shook his head, snickering. “Leej did not lie! Leej merely … desires bigger pod for making escape. Cannot find any craft fit for him in lower decks, kindly Jedi, and must set sights higher. Know perfect vessel.”
“So you felt the need to risk our lives by sprinting across a wide-open slaughterhouse?”
“Knew Jedi would protect!” he chittered, blinking his luminous eyes rapidly. “Jedi keeps word, does he not? Besides, would use grand mystic lightsaber to protect Leej, if worse becomes much worse!”
The weapon of a Jedi Knight. Easy to unveil when it's all fun and games, when the swinging of the blade bears no echoes of its own. It could be a tremendous plaything – though Terzeh would have vehemently disagreed – and made for an equally tremendous deterrent.
It was a symbol of the Order and a symbol of what they stood for, a weapon of a civilized people in a civilized organization spouting civilized philosophies, in service to what they claimed to be a higher power. Not a god, but the next best thing.
But wasn't that utterly paradoxical? The symbol of an order of serenity and tranquility, whose very code decried the unveiling of anger … represented by a weapon used to kill.
And the lives these weapons of light had taken – across the decades, across centuries, from the time their progenitor was first called to life. A staggering body count. An impossible weight. How fickle the Force was, how hypocritical its mask of the Light, to demand of them peace but allow them to wield its power to kill. If he'd believed in any divine powers – or that the Force itself truly had a will of its own – he would have known them to have a sense of humor as dark and unrelenting as anything he'd ever dreamt of. And worse.
How close to the edge would he fall if he ignited that blade with an intent to kill again? How much more suffering could he bear to cause with it, should the time once again fall upon him? His hands – shaking now – were still stained with a coat of blood that would never come clean. Years could pass, and had passed, and the slickness of it faded, but he could still feel it there. Could still sense the wounds his own actions had opened in the flow of life around him.
Cruel was the Force. Cold. To gift its children with the ability to feel the connectedness of life around them – to be part of a greater whole and to drink deep of its power – but to be cursed with the task of defending it and taking lives from that very same whole.
Another wave of nausea shook him. A great many deaths sent another pulsing echo through the Force. Close by, very close. Not below, but above. Kujata and his errant companion rose from the nightmare of the lower decks into a fresher, cleaner, much more opulent sort of hell. Great.
“Leej,” he said, touching his fingers to the coldness of the hilt at his side. “Why did you have to pick me for your schemes? Would have been so much easier for me if you'd grabbed someone else.”
The Jawa – caught in the midst of checking the leads of his blaster rifle's energy cell for dust and grime – paused. He blinked his luminous topaz eyes upwards at the Jedi for a moment, then nodded. “Because was easy mark. Obvious outsider, big fancy coat, big time business connection. For hours looked for chump who Leej could fleece! Then voice in Leej's mind says 'Leej, this kindly sentient is sucker you are looking for!' and so stalked you to garden.”
A surprisingly large amount of good will radiated off the tiny being. Maybe a hint of smug self-satisfaction. Kujata didn't try to dig deeper. He was content with that, with knowing it was just blind chance. The galaxy liked to pull these surprises on him, on everyone. Just the luck of the draw.
Well, that luck had put him in a position where a life depended on him. Maybe not an innocent life – the Jawa had done the bare minimum to ensure his unconscious friend's safety when they'd departed the cantina, and would likely still try to sell Kujata back to the Temple once they were free of this mess – but an honest one. Mostly honest. Sort of.
At least the Jawa wasn't running around killing anyone.
Ah well. Time to choose.
How far would he go to save Leej's life? Or his own?
Surrounded by this much death, by this much hate … how far did he dare push himself? Would death be preferable to … to a fall? So much weight rested on that word. So much horror. A steep path it was, and one most could never claw their way back from. And in this sort of place, with lives on the line and the smell of blood in the air, and adrenaline pumping through the bloodstream, and that voice in the back of his mind urging him on, to just one more hunt, one more kill – it would be so easy to let go.
It was beyond difficult to maintain a Jedi calm when the whole world burned.
Would he kill again, would he draw his blade and risk everything to save the life of a being who probably had no real concern for Kujata?
We don't get to make that judgment call, Terzeh would have said. We are not the arbiters of justice, nor the final law of what is right and what is wrong. We are defenders. We protect. That is the lightest and the heaviest of our burdens, and it will always come at a tremendous cost. A sacrifice is not a sacrifice if there is no consequence to the choice.
In that moment he would have given anything to see her again. To hold her in his arms and hear her voice, to have her wisdom at his side.
But the dead live on only in memory.
“Get that blaster ready, my friend,” he said, reaching out through the Force to seek what lay in store for them. “I have a feeling you're going to need it here in a moment.”
He didn't have to touch the Jawa's mind nor peek within the hood to the see the feral grin the being flashed. “Oh, weapon is always ready, kindly Jedi. Kneecaps and groins of all enemies everywhere will rue arrogance of attacking fine upstanding Leej. Will learn that price is steep indeed.”
The Jedi Knight laughed despite himself.
As the turbolift slowed to a stop he swore he could almost hear the rattling of chains, but it was banished the moment the doors slid open. He drew the saber at his side and thumbed it on, bathing the chamber in its light.
Showtime.
****
Searing heat surged through molten durasteel as the final bulkhead door buckled and exploded outward, crashing into plaza's expansive marble tiles. They shattered with a tremendous crack, signaling the first salvo of blaster fire from the defenders across the way. They'd gathered to themselves a series of barricades hewn from toppled pillars and shattered cafe furniture in the vain hope that it would slow the advance of an enemy force they could not bring themselves to fight in an open arena.
Through the breach came a wall of white-clad Zetrean troopers, soaking up most of the opening blasts without so much as a twitch, their bloodless bodies discarded moments later as the Mandalorians stormed through in force. No demands for surrender. No pleas for the defenders to lay down their arms. This was not a war of conquest; it was simply a war. Conquest was incidental. This was not about dominance. This was about glory.
At the head of the defensive line that held the plaza – a plaza which had once entertained only the most important and affluent sentients aboard the luxury cruiser – was a being of extraordinary courage. A woman who under different circumstances might very well have come to appreciate the life offered by her enemy; a woman who had fought all her life and known little else.
When the Mandalorians unleashed hell upon the defenders she did not cower, nor duck low. Instead, she barked commands to her troops to return fire to buy her cover. She snatched up a plasteel tabletop and used it as a makeshift shield, rapidly crossing the plaza's splintered tiles, her arms torn to shreds where the shield did not hold.
But still she ran, until at last she had met the enemy in person.
She did not drop the shield. It slammed into the first of the Mandalorians who stepped close, and swung it about madly to keep them at a distance once the armored foe fell. No words were exchanged, not even when the shield fell apart and she took a bolt to the chest. No words needed to be exchanged. Instead, she let her deeds speak for her – at her waist flashed the lights of a half-dozen thermal detonators, activated just before her mad dash.
One of the Mandalorians closest to her leapt to her fallen body and struggled to unhook her belt. As he fumbled with the clasp the blades of the Mirialan in their midst slipped in and sliced the stretched leather clean apart, and moments later the belt was hurtling back towards the defenders. But they'd already begun to scatter to the turbolifts that lined the far side of the plaza, abandoning their post to take full advantage of the time their commander had bought them.
The belt of suicide bombs exploded with an immense buckling shockwave, ripping across the frescoed ceiling high above, tearing the overhead lights from their mountings and plunging most of the plaza into darkness. Only fires lit by blaster shots still cast their fearful light into the yawning chamber – a vast hollow that even now filled with the sound of grinding metal, twisting and bending where the detonators had warped their structural integrity.
A few more exchanges of rifle fire burnt lightning flashes of ruby and emerald into the growing darkness, but it was over quickly. Those who had not escaped into the turbolifts put up virtually no resistance; the fight had gone out of them. These were the children of a life of luxury, not of conflict. They did not have what it took to truly live.
Finally free of the heat of battle, Zeti Trankan came to a halt at the edge of the abyss, seeking someone, anyone, she could race to. Another life to take. Another chance to prove herself, to strip herself of the shame. But there was nothing. Nothing left. Just the hungry dark that spread out beyond her boots.
A hand fell on her shoulder and she reacted swiftly, twisting round and slashing savagely with her swords, but a strong strike numbed her arms and she lost control of the blades before they could meet flesh or armor. A guttural cry escaped her as she tried to break free of the gauntlets that snapped down over her wrists but she could not, could not get away, could not get free …
Until she heard at last the soothing words of the man who held her. Clad in crimson armor, soaked in blood, his bald head and long scar fading into focus. Oleg. Tears welled up in her eyes as she struggled to find the words to say, an explanation for the depth of her failure, for the immensity of the shame she had brought upon herself and the man before her …
But he simply nodded. He put a hand on her cheek and nodded, then pressed his forehead to hers for a moment before releasing her from his grasp.
“Rest a moment,” he said. “You've done well, Soldier.”
And it felt as if all the darkness fell away.
She was dizzy, and the world swam around her, but she kept her balance and held firm against the flood of exhaustion which now began to rise. As she gathered up her blades and began wiping them clean, her father turned to what remained of their company.
He tapped out a series of commands on the device strapped over the bracer on his right arm, calling up a miniscule holomap of the Aundus. A few more clicks at the keys on the device two main paths lit up in red, spinning outwards from their present location high in the upper decks of the ship.
“Two objectives, two teams,” the Rally Master began, drawing his soldiers in closer. “Ahead of us lie the diplomatic hangars, and to the left a turbolift to the command deck and the bridge. Soldier Ducar, I assume you still have the-”
The red mane of Soldier Ducar framed a big grin. The Mandalorian held up a melted chain, an identity tag dangling from its length. “Still fresh, Rally Master.”
Oleg Trankan nodded. “Ducar leads the hangar team. I'll take the command deck.”
His daughter looked up suddenly, unsure. It was if a sound … but there was nothing. Her mind was playing tricks on her. An aftershock of the adrenaline, the fading of combat chemicals.
She sheathed her blades and fell in with the rest of the team as her father pointed out roughly half the remaining squad to follow Ducar. He seemed to hesitate for a moment when he laid eyes on her, as if unsure what to do with her. The old fear returned, stronger than before, the falling of a curtain … but his expression lightened and he raised his fingers to gesture for her to join him.
At that moment she felt it again, that strange sensation. A far-off song, perhaps, like something once forgotten that wouldn't quite come into focus.
A single chime echoed in the empty plaza.
To a one, the Mandalorians raised their weapons in the direction of the sound, aiming toward the turbolift at the far end of the plaza as it slid into position. At that distance – and with the immense weight of darkness that filled the chamber – it was difficult to tell which of the doors was about to open.
Until the one in the middle unsealed and cast its pallid light into the plaza. A pallid light which moments later was punctured by a brilliant scarlet blaze and the unmistakable snap-hiss of a lightsaber coming to life.
The Mandalorians did not hesitate for even a second. They unleashed hell.
I'm training up my trunks online but took a break since I was grinding for hours today already.
Is that why he's roaring in sadness? Is it an abandonment issue thing? :O
More progress! Still not done. Getting absolutely slaughtered at work this week and it's playing happy havoc with my ability to write. But it'll get done tomorrow, maybe Friday at the latest.
Made a little bit of progress on my next post. Took like an hour of staring at a blank page before the words started flowing; I think it's going to be one of those weeks. Haha.
We will join you soon in the battle against the Mandalorian menace!
Those pesky Mandalorians. It's like they're trying to start a war or something. The nerve!
Alek could not get out of the way and he groaned at the hit to his leg, falling to his knees.
Ken breathed out deeply as his saber hovered inches from the neck of Alek. He looked at Master Zhar his face neutral but his feelings were all too clear. Disappointment.
Boom! Down goes Frazier! Down goes Frazier!
“Boring conversation anyway."
The Aundus-Valay, Above Zetrea
Outer Rim
There is beauty in the ending of things. In the death of what is and the decay of what remains. This was never more evident than in the wake of a battle on the scale of worlds, where the fate of a civilization hung in the balance.
In the darkness of the void that encircles the forge-world of Zetrea come the heralds of a war without end. They come in numbers unimaginable to those who dwell within the safety net of Zetrea's outposts, in numbers that would overwhelm lesser worlds without even a moment of resistance. It is in many ways like something out of a waking dream for most; a spear thrown by the uncaring gods into the heart of a world which has grown past suffering, past the struggle that defines lesser cultures.
A world that has grown fat and soft. Secure behind the walls of credits and the shield of their own creations, warships piloted by those unfit for command but whose mere presence served to deter would-be assailants and suppress would-be rivals. In the days to come it would be said of Zetrea that this is why the Mandalorians had chosen their planet. This was why the gods had seen fit to punish them – their indolence, their weakness, festered within an armor they believed to be impenetrable, and it was this weakness which had drawn those to whom the very idea of weakness was abhorrent.
Even now the quiet darkness that surrounds the forge-world and embraces the glorious jewel of the Aundus-Valay is webbed with blazing lines of light that explode against shields and slice through those vessels whose defenses cannot hold. Shrapnel fills the galaxy around them, a geyser of escaping air and corpses into the void following soon after where the shattered ships cannot keep them in.
At the head of the Mandalorian fleet rides their flagship, a grand vessel that dwarfs its fellows and bears the mark of the Field Marshal who rides it all across the hull. It is the sigil of Aliit Ransiir, the clan whose might has unified the forces arrayed before Zetrea now; a half dozen aliits who apart had been weak, but together had been made strong. Forged into a sword for the hand of Mandalore, a warrior band that sang his praises as they fell into the vanguard to prove themselves worthy of his regard.
All around this flagship flows the ion-wake of the Kandosii dreadnoughts which serve as its honor guard, even now swarming with the fighters they've unleashed upon the battlefield. From their bows and the bristling weapon mounts all along their flanks comes a storm of turbolaser fire, a silent rain of searing heat to rip apart those who stand before them.
In and amongst this tide of crimson light soar the smaller vessels, the Retan breach-craft and the Jehavey'ir assault cruisers that comprise the bulk of the fleet. The former lead a charge that most would consider that of a sentient possessed – a suicide charge into the front lines of the defenders with nearly no weaponry to defend themselves, save the wicked laser battery that lines the front maw of each.
But they are not a weapon meant for the clash; they are a precision instrument, a craft alike to the Basilisks that the mad Mandalorians will soon ride down to the surface of the world. Now, as they draw near the shining star that is the Aundus-Valay, they whip forth with greater speed and unveil the cables and grappling clamps they'll use to burrow deep, the cutters of their prows already charging for the first and final bite to break through the hull that awaits them.
Astride their course ride the Jehavey'ir, their dull bronze-hued plating a shield for the brave warriors who would soon flood into the sanctity of Zetrea's jewel and tear it asunder. They unleash dazzling displays of covering fire and take each hit from the defenders' scattered emerald blasts with ease, shrugging off all but the hardest of the Aundus' turbolaser barrage. As fighters scramble from Zetrea itself the Mandalorian assault ships turn their attention towards them, ravaging the swarms before they can reach the breach-craft.
Across the distance between the Ransiir flagship and the Palace of White Fire far below flies a short, curt exchange of communications. Their contents are unimportant; the only matter of importance is the erosion of confidence and the mounting fear from those who had felt themselves secure. Who had turned away offers of alliance in their arrogance, and who had now come face to face with the price of hubris.
More ships – heavy Zetrean cruisers now – rise from the surface of the world, but to those who watch the conflict unfold behind the viewports of the ships within it, and from the HoloNet broadcasting it live to those on the ground, the outcome seems certain.
Barring any sort of miracle, it is only a matter of time. And few are those who still believe in miracles...
The flick of a blaster rifle's muzzle forced Kujata to sit up straight in his seat. He spread his hands wide and far from the folds of his coat – there was really no sense in antagonizing those who held the power here. Well, one sort of power anyway. The immediate kind. The important kind.
If there was one lesson any Jedi who'd ever left the Temple had to learn – and learn fast – it was that no amount of attunement to the living Force or deep understanding of the philosophies of ancient Tython could undo a blaster bolt to the brain, and though a Jedi's reflexes are usually far superior to those of any opponent they faced, there was always a chance that things could go horribly wrong.
He'd seen it too many times to recount. Danger thrummed in this moment and he'd be a complete idiot to ignore the overwhelming risks. And sure, Kujata could be dumb sometimes, but he wasn't a complete idiot. Usually.
“Let's not be hasty here, Leej, my … amiable acquaintance?”
A few curt gestures told Kujata exactly how close to amiable they were. Despite the situation, the Jedi Knight had to fight down a grin. Somehow he'd never really pictured his life being threatened by a being that barely came up to his waist. That was probably very speciest of him. Something he'd have to correct.
Instead of speaking to his new captive, Leej waved to the Gamorreans. “Stand outside cantina, make sure no uninvited guests. Will make more credits off unwilling guest than random customer!”
The grunts did as they were bade, stepping out through the doorway and leaving only Leej and his heavily-armed Rodian companion to cut a deal with their new captive.
“Listen, you've made a pretty thoroughly incorrect assumption or two about my wealth,” the Knight said, meeting the even stare of the Jawa beside him. “I'm not sure why you think I'm burdened with credits, but I can assure you-”
“No lies,” Leej warned. He pointed to his muscle, who in turn aimed the heavy blaster rifle in his hands directly at the Jedi Knight's forehead. “Leej saw kindly one leaving Britu headquarters. Does business with giants of industry! Admitted to Leej is big time business man!”
I did, didn't I? Well that wasn't smart.
Around this point in the conversation Terzeh would have reprimanded him for not thinking things through, not trying to get a better read of the situation before he walked blindly into it. But … why should he? This wasn't war. This wasn't the hunt. There shouldn't have been a need for that sort of careful planning or paranoia. The galaxy was at peace – give or take – and he was a sworn servant of the Light Side of the Force.
Which … hang on. He set his sights on the 'tender as Leej continued to explain all the reasons that Kujata could afford the outrageous ransom he was about to propose. Maybe there's an easy way out of this.
Kujata focused himself, allowing the tenuous threads of the Force to gather around him, to tighten, to churn with power. He pictured the breath as it flowed into and away from him, siphoning away the heat, stealing away all but the calm within. Leaving him quiet. Centered. For some this came easily, this grasping for the power that all Jedi commanded. But for him – well, few things in life were easy.
He raised a hand towards the Rodian who bore the heavy blaster rifle. A slow gesture, careful and calm. Don't antagonize. Sympathize. Reach out, seek out the mind, touch the mind …
“Isn't that blaster heavy?” he asked, filling his voice with kindness, with compassion. With a kiss of the Force. “We're all friends here. You can set it down.”
Leej trailed off as the Rodian blinked, then looked down to the weapon in his hands. “I … can set it down. We are all friends here.”
The weapon's barrel lowered. A micrometer at a time, agonizing in its slowness …
A chittering cry erupted from the Jawa, his gloved hand waving frantically at his partner in crime as he turned his attention from Kujata. “What? Leej did not command! Weapon up, or friend Vachlek does not make big credit pile!”
“Yes …” the 'tender replied, shaking his head. “Yeah, gotta keep that weapon trained. I don't know why I'd …”
Kujata threw more into his voice, concentrating. Pushing himself, drawing in ever more of the living energy around him. “No, no need for the blaster. Money can't be all there is to life, and it certainly can't be worth the danger you're putting your friends in by waving that weapon about.”
“I … do not … want to endanger my friends,” the Rodian – Vachlek – conceded, and again the weapon slipped downward. “Credits … are not worth … the risk?”
Only a handful of words in the native tongue of Jawa culture found any sort of translation in Kujata's head, but a few choice phrases from the string of utter vileness that Leej unleashed upon his ally stuck out and made the Jedi Knight suddenly glad he didn't understand the rest. There was a surprising depth to the young Jawa's creative linguistic arts, and an he could sense an immense imagination at play.
Surely the Rodian understood at least as much as Kujata, for the weapon wavered and stopped. “Yes … point … blaster …up.”
“It's getting heavy, isn't it? Might as well set it down.”
“Yes … down … for … friend …”
“Up! Leej demand up! Do you not speak Basic good? Are you damaged? Up, or you will not be paid!”
“ … get paid … good … raise weapon … ”
“Why would you raise that weapon? You don't want to do that, do you? To risk the lives of all your friends?”
And again it fell.
The furious Jawa reached into the folds of his emblazoned cloak and retrieved a heavy metal object from the belt within. A gloved finger depressed a switch on the device and a length of shimmering metal emerged. From such a close range Kujata could almost taste the electric charge on it.
“Leej will maim if no comply!” he roared. “Maim!”
Beads of sweat erupted across the Jedi Knight's forehead as he tried to summon another wave of compulsion. Vachlek's bulbous eyes flickered back and forth between the two, nearly crossing from the strain, but the weapon crept up once more, wavering like mad.
In the deepness of his eyes he seemed to be begging Kujata to stay silent. To allow him a measure of mercy.
“Down.”
Heavy silence fell. Kujata put the full energy of the Force into his single imperative as Leej leaned forward, the tip of his stun baton creeping closer. Somewhere above and behind them the cantina's air filtration system kicked on and filled the room with a low grumble – a sound accompanied by the nearly audible tension in the Rodian's arms as he fought between the gentle thunder of the Force unleashed … and the palpable rage of his employer.
A centimeter. Another. Leej hissed and the weapon held still for just a moment – a moment that hung and splayed out across what felt like forever – and then, with a deep melancholic sigh of one embracing their doom, the blaster rifle clanked against the bar as he dropped it.
“Do you have death wish!?”
The stun baton slammed into Vachlek's chest and threw him back into the glass bottles and sloshing jugs behind him.
Ragged breaths echoed out from the hood of the Jawa's cloak, the charge slowly creeping back into the silvery metal of the weapon in his hands. Piercing topaz eyes rolled back to Kujata and the stool swiveled to follow.
“Kindly one has chanlon tongue! Must teach to Leej, after pays own ransom. And recovers from savage beating!”
Grunting from the effort of once again trying to draw the full font of the Force into himself, Kujata reached out and raised a few fingers towards his Jawa aggressor.
“You don't want to hurt me. You'd rather let me go, and wish me a safe-”
The partially charged stun baton cut him off as it whipped against the side of his face. Electricity crackled through his skin and arced for a moment through the coarse hairs of his scraggly beard, sending a couple of surges of immense pain coursing through his jaw.
“No make clever words!” he roared. “Leej makes big time mess of kindly one's face if kindly one tries again! Do not test patience of Leej!”
Well. So much for that.
Zeti Trankan thought:
Ba’jur bal beskar’gam,
ara’nov, alit,
Mando’a bal
Mand’alor—
an vencuyan mhi...
She could not see the conflict as it raged beyond the shuddering hull, but she could feel it. A dizzying array of light lancing through the pitch black of the space that sought to devour it, slamming into deflector shields and erupting into novas of heat, bleeding out into the cold of the void. Flowers of hate, of carnage, blossoming for but a brief moment, lost forever after. A fleeting thing, a beautiful thing …
Another quake rocked the ship. The cargo webbing she clung to kept her steady, kept her on her feet, even as the pilot twisted and bent his path through the battery fire that lit up the Mandalorian fleet. Her hands burned from the strain of holding so tightly but to let go would have meant injury, or death – they were too close to the monstrous silver-white luxury cruiser now, and had begun to feel its gravity as they barreled down towards it.
No, it wasn't just that.
If she let go now the others would see the way her hands shook. Would see the betrayal of her body against her mind, the waves of anxiousness, of fear, and of excitement – that heady brew of mad chemicals which flooded the whole of her being. They were close now, very close. She could practically feel the weight of those green strikes on her armor, could feel the burden of bearing them, and the hope that soon they'd be burnt away.
She would stand with the others. She would wield her blades, would wield her blasters, side by side with those who had taken her in. Who had raised her. With those she sought to emulate and who she loved, and who loved her in return. There would be no more doubts, no more fear, no more worry in the dead of night that they would never accept her, never laugh alongside her nor share in her triumphs.
Don't get overwhelmed, she chanted, shutting her eyes to picture the war raging beyond the ship. Don't get overwhelmed. Focus on a single point, let everything else rush past. Let everything else go.
And the chant continued. Around her the others did not blink, did not flinch when the whole of the world was turned and shifted around them. Each thunderous crack against the deflectors rolled off of them as oil across water. Only the unbloodied were as she was – only the unbloodied were trying hard to achieve what the others did without effort. Did they feel as she did, the other recruits?
Did they, too, need this war as she did?
Would the blood of an honorable foe mean more to them than anything else in the whole of the galaxy?
Ba’jur bal beskar’gam…
… an ear-splitting shriek sounded through the ship, echoing and drawing all eyes towards the front of the hangar. An explosion followed by the hiss of the hangar doors unsealing, and the white-heat of slagged metal, and the acrid bite of molten plasteel …
… ara’nov, alit …
… the thunk of clamps and the unbearable whirring of servos and they rolled in the cables which now bound the Mandalorians to their prey. Humming shields as they extended out to ensnare the searing red and glowing orange of the wounded hull before them …
… Mando’a bal …
… tension erupting in chaos as blasterfire rained into the hangar, a swarm of white-clad warriors of Zetrea rushing forward to try to unlatch the enemy, to cast their hellish assault back into the darkness from which it came, and already the veterans were unhooked from the webbing and on their feet, pressing towards the breach and unleashing their fury, and all of them roaring as one …
… an vencuyan mhi.
She would take her kill.
She would do it with honor, with pride.
She would show her father that he was right to take her, that he was right to train her.
That everything he did – everything he put her through – made her stronger. Had made her into a Mandalorian that would make him proud. She would fight this day for the glory of Mandalore. She would press down her weaknesses, her fears, her doubts. She would be one with the aliit that adopted her, one with the father who had taken her as his own, one with the horde of warriors who even now sung praises of Mandalore with the sound of their blaster fire and the distant pounding sound of detonators as they tore apart those who would stand against them.
Zeti leapt from the webbing and flew into the mass of warriors who fought their way down towards the Aundus, taking her place amongst the blue-clad warriors and beside those who wore the green slashes of the rankless recruit. They followed in the wake of the giant who led them, their Rally Master clad in resplendent crimson armor, his blaster ceaseless in their storm of shots raining hell down against the fools who thought themselves the equals of the Mandalorian Crusaders.
One step at a time, one moment at a time, one breath at a time. They advanced.
She stepped past and over the fallen, and advanced beyond the sizzling edge of the world she knew and into the unknown, the world of war, the battlefield. Around her were screams of laser fire and of the dead and dying, but still she advanced, and began to see through the soldiers around her. At last the wall of bodies parted and she was free of them, exposed to the battle, to the enemy.
In one swift movement she swept up the blaster rifle which hung from its clip on her armor and tucked it into firing position, and sought the white-clad Zetreans against whom the beast within her could be unleashed. One shot was all it would take, one shot to end the child's lot in life and advance to her place amongst the servants of Mandalore.
She found one of their soldiers, a man clad in shining white armor that would not save him. He fumbled with the energy cell of his own rifle at the far end of the corridor they'd stormed into, trying to fix what was broken, trying to put his weapon back together to save his life. She waited. She waited a heartbeat, then another, until at last he had socketed the cell and was once again part of the fight.
He, too, pulled the rifle in close, and he too searched the field for an enemy to blood himself upon.
Their eyes met for just a moment. Electricity surged between them.
Her finger tightened, as she'd been taught. As she'd done a million times before.
But … the shot never came. She could not pull it for its full measure. Something inside her squirmed. Some distant voice, some dull device buried deep within her, some far-away whisper that slithered into her heart in that moment … and he was gone, cut down by one of Zeti's fellow recruits, and then another wave was upon them. The Mandalorians roared out their song of battle, the chant of their clans, the voice of war with many tones and only one word.
Mandalore.
White-clad Zetreans fell upon them from seemingly nowhere, blasters cast aside and blades out, stabbing and cutting in a suicide rush, a desperate attempt to take the Mandalorians down before they'd advanced too far. To buy time for the rest of the defenders to get into position, for the ship to react to the blitz that had sunk its teeth deep into them. One of them slammed into Zeti and threw her aside, and as she fell she drew one of her blades, the other catching – the angle was all wrong, and it did not clear before she hit the ground.
She kicked to right herself and used her empty hand to push free of the ground, but even as she did so a Zetrean soldier, too, was thrown down, slipping in a pool of blood to fall onto Zeti's half-raised sword.
Ice filled her veins and a horrible sinkhole opened wide within her. Not like this, she begged. Please … not like this...
And a screaming opened wide in the back of her mind and it rose and billowed and it swept out to consume her.
She watched as the dying child of Zetrea stared into the whole of her being and the light left his eyes, and the strength left his body, and the weight of him dragged her to the ground.
If Terzeh were here she'd have found a way to diffuse this situation already. Kujata could try using whatever diplomacy was left to him to salvage what was left of the conversation, but that would risk Leej's electric ire again. No, it was time to do something he never really felt comfortable doing – it was time to show off like some sort of grand stinking hero. He hated that stuff.
“Very well, Leej. You've backed me into a corner.” He stared fully into the eyes of the Jawa before him, drawing once more on the power of the Force as he tried to clear his emotions and center himself. “I think it's time you knew who you're dealing with.”
“You think idle threats strike fear into Leej? Have seen much! Have lived life of danger! Have – do not move! Will not warn again!”
In one immense burst of energy the Jedi Knight swept himself from the bar stool and flipped backwards, landing into a crouch, throwing back the sides of his long cloak to reveal the lightsabers that dangled from his belt. The gleam of the cantina's muted light caught the pair on his right, and the hilt on his left seemed to drink it in and leave none behind. A wry grin spread across his lips as he drew forth the latter and ignited the crimson fire within.
But Leej was already in motion the second that his captive fled the bar, slipping down and rolling towards Kujata, brandishing his stun baton, the charge light flickering from red to green as he brought it to bear against the lightsaber-wielding foe he faced. There was not an ounce of fear in the diminutive being; not a hint of doubt. Only steely resolve and … irritation.
Agile little schutta, Kujata thought, eying his enemy and once again having to fight down his mirth.
“Kindly one is Jedi?” Leej snapped. “You think Jedi scare Leej? Jedi is fool! All Leej needs to do to win is touch Jedi! One touch, and Leej will have ransom kidnapping of lifetime! Jedi Temple will pay millions of credits to Leej for safe return of their own!”
Kujata rose from his crouch and slipped into a dueling stance, nearly touching the point of his humming blade to Leej's crackling weapon. “I think you overestimate how badly they'd want me back, my friend. Though perhaps they'd pay you to keep me as far away from Coruscant as you can.”
“Take or not take, Leej gets paid. Win win.”
And so they stood, framed by the cantina's doorway: A Jedi Knight and a Jawa scoundrel, weapons at the ready and a sense of impending conflict brewing between them like a storm. The shadows and the light swirled around them as they fed on the blood-red light and dazzling blue arcs of the readied weapons, each testing the other, each opponent stepping with small motions, neither giving ground, hearts beating faster, eyes narrowed, nerves alight …
The Trag'tek's door slid open with a hiss and in through the threshold peered a pair of wide-eyed Camaasi women dressed so richly in so many layers of pearl shimmersilk that they could only be hopelessly lost tourists.
Everything held still. An instant frozen in time as the women took in the scene. An instant broken as the one in the lead turned to her friend. “Maybe we should go somewhere else?”
“Graaahhhh! Where are Gamorreans?” the Jawa roared, throwing his stun baton at the women in the doorway. They fled in the face of his rage, the door closing behind them. “Leej cannot buy good help on Aundus!”
Kujata let the blade of his lightsaber die out, its volcanic fire receding into the midnight hilt in his palm. He cleared his throat to draw the enraged Jawa's attention back to the matter at hand, gesturing towards the stun baton that had discharged itself into the wall beside the doorway, a deep char marking off the point of impact.
“So … this is a little awkward now,” the Jedi Knight began. “If you want I can wait for you to rearm … ?”
Exasperation flooded every last vibration of the Force around them as the Jawa exhaled. “This not Leej's day.”
“Well, it could always get better, right? Go and pick up the baton. We can pick up from where we left off if you want, and who knows? You might be able to get that one good hit in before I can disable your weapon.”
The Jawa looked from Kujata to the stun baton, and back, and again. Finally he strode to his weapon and stood above it, hesitant to reach down. A glance back towards the bar, then to the door. It felt as if he'd say something then, but whatever it was he bit it back. One final questioning flash of those brilliant yellow eyes on Kujata … and he reached down for the baton.
Every light in the cantina flickered, shut down, and lit back up with a bright red hue. The entire ship seemed to flood with the sound of warning klaxons that nearly deafened both of the conscious sentients in the cantina. They churned on for almost a full minute before dying down to a low screech, allowing the sound of the Aundus' internal com system to snap to life and a voice to fill the gap:
“This is the Aundus-Valay Security Force,” it said, radiating the sort of calm it took Jedi Masters the whole of their lives to achieve.
“The Aundus is now on lockdown. Hostile forces have begun an attack on our vessel. Be advised that all inbound and outbound travel is temporarily suspended. At this time we advise all passengers to make their way to designated safe zones for their own protection. ASF troopers will guide you to safe zone nearest you. Please proceed in a calm and orderly fashion and we will update you with further news as the situation develops.”
The klaxons resumed their howl, but the Jawa's voice was clear enough and shrill enough to cut through the noise with near-perfect clarity.
“So,” Leej said, sighing. “How does kindly Jedi feel on subject of bodyguarding innocent Jawas for handsome fees?”
The Aundus-Valay, Above Zetrea
Outer Rim
There is beauty in the ending of things. In the death of what is and the decay of what remains. This was never more evident than in the wake of a battle on the scale of worlds, where the fate of a civilization hung in the balance.
In the darkness of the void that encircles the forge-world of Zetrea come the heralds of a war without end. They come in numbers unimaginable to those who dwell within the safety net of Zetrea's outposts, in numbers that would overwhelm lesser worlds without even a moment of resistance. It is in many ways like something out of a waking dream for most; a spear thrown by the uncaring gods into the heart of a world which has grown past suffering, past the struggle that defines lesser cultures.
A world that has grown fat and soft. Secure behind the walls of credits and the shield of their own creations, warships piloted by those unfit for command but whose mere presence served to deter would-be assailants and suppress would-be rivals. In the days to come it would be said of Zetrea that this is why the Mandalorians had chosen their planet. This was why the gods had seen fit to punish them – their indolence, their weakness, festered within an armor they believed to be impenetrable, and it was this weakness which had drawn those to whom the very idea of weakness was abhorrent.
Even now the quiet darkness that surrounds the forge-world and embraces the glorious jewel of the Aundus-Valay is webbed with blazing lines of light that explode against shields and slice through those vessels whose defenses cannot hold. Shrapnel fills the galaxy around them, a geyser of escaping air and corpses into the void following soon after where the shattered ships cannot keep them in.
At the head of the Mandalorian fleet rides their flagship, a grand vessel that dwarfs its fellows and bears the mark of the Field Marshal who rides it all across the hull. It is the sigil of Aliit Ransiir, the clan whose might has unified the forces arrayed before Zetrea now; a half dozen aliits who apart had been weak, but together had been made strong. Forged into a sword for the hand of Mandalore, a warrior band that sang his praises as they fell into the vanguard to prove themselves worthy of his regard.
All around this flagship flows the ion-wake of the Kandosii dreadnoughts which serve as its honor guard, even now swarming with the fighters they've unleashed upon the battlefield. From their bows and the bristling weapon mounts all along their flanks comes a storm of turbolaser fire, a silent rain of searing heat to rip apart those who stand before them.
In and amongst this tide of crimson light soar the smaller vessels, the Retan breach-craft and the Jehavey'ir assault cruisers that comprise the bulk of the fleet. The former lead a charge that most would consider that of a sentient possessed – a suicide charge into the front lines of the defenders with nearly no weaponry to defend themselves, save the wicked laser battery that lines the front maw of each.
But they are not a weapon meant for the clash; they are a precision instrument, a craft alike to the Basilisks that the mad Mandalorians will soon ride down to the surface of the world. Now, as they draw near the shining star that is the Aundus-Valay, they whip forth with greater speed and unveil the cables and grappling clamps they'll use to burrow deep, the cutters of their prows already charging for the first and final bite to break through the hull that awaits them.
Astride their course ride the Jehavey'ir, their dull bronze-hued plating a shield for the brave warriors who would soon flood into the sanctity of Zetrea's jewel and tear it asunder. They unleash dazzling displays of covering fire and take each hit from the defenders' scattered emerald blasts with ease, shrugging off all but the hardest of the Aundus' turbolaser barrage. As fighters scramble from Zetrea itself the Mandalorian assault ships turn their attention towards them, ravaging the swarms before they can reach the breach-craft.
Across the distance between the Ransiir flagship and the Palace of White Fire far below flies a short, curt exchange of communications. Their contents are unimportant; the only matter of importance is the erosion of confidence and the mounting fear from those who had felt themselves secure. Who had turned away offers of alliance in their arrogance, and who had now come face to face with the price of hubris.
More ships – heavy Zetrean cruisers now – rise from the surface of the world, but to those who watch the conflict unfold behind the viewports of the ships within it, and from the HoloNet broadcasting it live to those on the ground, the outcome seems certain.
Barring any sort of miracle, it is only a matter of time. And few are those who still believe in miracles...
****
The flick of a blaster rifle's muzzle forced Kujata to sit up straight in his seat. He spread his hands wide and far from the folds of his coat – there was really no sense in antagonizing those who held the power here. Well, one sort of power anyway. The immediate kind. The important kind.
If there was one lesson any Jedi who'd ever left the Temple had to learn – and learn fast – it was that no amount of attunement to the living Force or deep understanding of the philosophies of ancient Tython could undo a blaster bolt to the brain, and though a Jedi's reflexes are usually far superior to those of any opponent they faced, there was always a chance that things could go horribly wrong.
He'd seen it too many times to recount. Danger thrummed in this moment and he'd be a complete idiot to ignore the overwhelming risks. And sure, Kujata could be dumb sometimes, but he wasn't a complete idiot. Usually.
“Let's not be hasty here, Leej, my … amiable acquaintance?”
A few curt gestures told Kujata exactly how close to amiable they were. Despite the situation, the Jedi Knight had to fight down a grin. Somehow he'd never really pictured his life being threatened by a being that barely came up to his waist. That was probably very speciest of him. Something he'd have to correct.
Instead of speaking to his new captive, Leej waved to the Gamorreans. “Stand outside cantina, make sure no uninvited guests. Will make more credits off unwilling guest than random customer!”
The grunts did as they were bade, stepping out through the doorway and leaving only Leej and his heavily-armed Rodian companion to cut a deal with their new captive.
“Listen, you've made a pretty thoroughly incorrect assumption or two about my wealth,” the Knight said, meeting the even stare of the Jawa beside him. “I'm not sure why you think I'm burdened with credits, but I can assure you-”
“No lies,” Leej warned. He pointed to his muscle, who in turn aimed the heavy blaster rifle in his hands directly at the Jedi Knight's forehead. “Leej saw kindly one leaving Britu headquarters. Does business with giants of industry! Admitted to Leej is big time business man!”
I did, didn't I? Well that wasn't smart.
Around this point in the conversation Terzeh would have reprimanded him for not thinking things through, not trying to get a better read of the situation before he walked blindly into it. But … why should he? This wasn't war. This wasn't the hunt. There shouldn't have been a need for that sort of careful planning or paranoia. The galaxy was at peace – give or take – and he was a sworn servant of the Light Side of the Force.
Which … hang on. He set his sights on the 'tender as Leej continued to explain all the reasons that Kujata could afford the outrageous ransom he was about to propose. Maybe there's an easy way out of this.
Kujata focused himself, allowing the tenuous threads of the Force to gather around him, to tighten, to churn with power. He pictured the breath as it flowed into and away from him, siphoning away the heat, stealing away all but the calm within. Leaving him quiet. Centered. For some this came easily, this grasping for the power that all Jedi commanded. But for him – well, few things in life were easy.
He raised a hand towards the Rodian who bore the heavy blaster rifle. A slow gesture, careful and calm. Don't antagonize. Sympathize. Reach out, seek out the mind, touch the mind …
“Isn't that blaster heavy?” he asked, filling his voice with kindness, with compassion. With a kiss of the Force. “We're all friends here. You can set it down.”
Leej trailed off as the Rodian blinked, then looked down to the weapon in his hands. “I … can set it down. We are all friends here.”
The weapon's barrel lowered. A micrometer at a time, agonizing in its slowness …
A chittering cry erupted from the Jawa, his gloved hand waving frantically at his partner in crime as he turned his attention from Kujata. “What? Leej did not command! Weapon up, or friend Vachlek does not make big credit pile!”
“Yes …” the 'tender replied, shaking his head. “Yeah, gotta keep that weapon trained. I don't know why I'd …”
Kujata threw more into his voice, concentrating. Pushing himself, drawing in ever more of the living energy around him. “No, no need for the blaster. Money can't be all there is to life, and it certainly can't be worth the danger you're putting your friends in by waving that weapon about.”
“I … do not … want to endanger my friends,” the Rodian – Vachlek – conceded, and again the weapon slipped downward. “Credits … are not worth … the risk?”
Only a handful of words in the native tongue of Jawa culture found any sort of translation in Kujata's head, but a few choice phrases from the string of utter vileness that Leej unleashed upon his ally stuck out and made the Jedi Knight suddenly glad he didn't understand the rest. There was a surprising depth to the young Jawa's creative linguistic arts, and an he could sense an immense imagination at play.
Surely the Rodian understood at least as much as Kujata, for the weapon wavered and stopped. “Yes … point … blaster …up.”
“It's getting heavy, isn't it? Might as well set it down.”
“Yes … down … for … friend …”
“Up! Leej demand up! Do you not speak Basic good? Are you damaged? Up, or you will not be paid!”
“ … get paid … good … raise weapon … ”
“Why would you raise that weapon? You don't want to do that, do you? To risk the lives of all your friends?”
And again it fell.
The furious Jawa reached into the folds of his emblazoned cloak and retrieved a heavy metal object from the belt within. A gloved finger depressed a switch on the device and a length of shimmering metal emerged. From such a close range Kujata could almost taste the electric charge on it.
“Leej will maim if no comply!” he roared. “Maim!”
Beads of sweat erupted across the Jedi Knight's forehead as he tried to summon another wave of compulsion. Vachlek's bulbous eyes flickered back and forth between the two, nearly crossing from the strain, but the weapon crept up once more, wavering like mad.
In the deepness of his eyes he seemed to be begging Kujata to stay silent. To allow him a measure of mercy.
“Down.”
Heavy silence fell. Kujata put the full energy of the Force into his single imperative as Leej leaned forward, the tip of his stun baton creeping closer. Somewhere above and behind them the cantina's air filtration system kicked on and filled the room with a low grumble – a sound accompanied by the nearly audible tension in the Rodian's arms as he fought between the gentle thunder of the Force unleashed … and the palpable rage of his employer.
A centimeter. Another. Leej hissed and the weapon held still for just a moment – a moment that hung and splayed out across what felt like forever – and then, with a deep melancholic sigh of one embracing their doom, the blaster rifle clanked against the bar as he dropped it.
“Do you have death wish!?”
The stun baton slammed into Vachlek's chest and threw him back into the glass bottles and sloshing jugs behind him.
Ragged breaths echoed out from the hood of the Jawa's cloak, the charge slowly creeping back into the silvery metal of the weapon in his hands. Piercing topaz eyes rolled back to Kujata and the stool swiveled to follow.
“Kindly one has chanlon tongue! Must teach to Leej, after pays own ransom. And recovers from savage beating!”
Grunting from the effort of once again trying to draw the full font of the Force into himself, Kujata reached out and raised a few fingers towards his Jawa aggressor.
“You don't want to hurt me. You'd rather let me go, and wish me a safe-”
The partially charged stun baton cut him off as it whipped against the side of his face. Electricity crackled through his skin and arced for a moment through the coarse hairs of his scraggly beard, sending a couple of surges of immense pain coursing through his jaw.
“No make clever words!” he roared. “Leej makes big time mess of kindly one's face if kindly one tries again! Do not test patience of Leej!”
Well. So much for that.
****
Zeti Trankan thought:
Ba’jur bal beskar’gam,
ara’nov, alit,
Mando’a bal
Mand’alor—
an vencuyan mhi...
She could not see the conflict as it raged beyond the shuddering hull, but she could feel it. A dizzying array of light lancing through the pitch black of the space that sought to devour it, slamming into deflector shields and erupting into novas of heat, bleeding out into the cold of the void. Flowers of hate, of carnage, blossoming for but a brief moment, lost forever after. A fleeting thing, a beautiful thing …
Another quake rocked the ship. The cargo webbing she clung to kept her steady, kept her on her feet, even as the pilot twisted and bent his path through the battery fire that lit up the Mandalorian fleet. Her hands burned from the strain of holding so tightly but to let go would have meant injury, or death – they were too close to the monstrous silver-white luxury cruiser now, and had begun to feel its gravity as they barreled down towards it.
No, it wasn't just that.
If she let go now the others would see the way her hands shook. Would see the betrayal of her body against her mind, the waves of anxiousness, of fear, and of excitement – that heady brew of mad chemicals which flooded the whole of her being. They were close now, very close. She could practically feel the weight of those green strikes on her armor, could feel the burden of bearing them, and the hope that soon they'd be burnt away.
She would stand with the others. She would wield her blades, would wield her blasters, side by side with those who had taken her in. Who had raised her. With those she sought to emulate and who she loved, and who loved her in return. There would be no more doubts, no more fear, no more worry in the dead of night that they would never accept her, never laugh alongside her nor share in her triumphs.
Don't get overwhelmed, she chanted, shutting her eyes to picture the war raging beyond the ship. Don't get overwhelmed. Focus on a single point, let everything else rush past. Let everything else go.
And the chant continued. Around her the others did not blink, did not flinch when the whole of the world was turned and shifted around them. Each thunderous crack against the deflectors rolled off of them as oil across water. Only the unbloodied were as she was – only the unbloodied were trying hard to achieve what the others did without effort. Did they feel as she did, the other recruits?
Did they, too, need this war as she did?
Would the blood of an honorable foe mean more to them than anything else in the whole of the galaxy?
Ba’jur bal beskar’gam…
… an ear-splitting shriek sounded through the ship, echoing and drawing all eyes towards the front of the hangar. An explosion followed by the hiss of the hangar doors unsealing, and the white-heat of slagged metal, and the acrid bite of molten plasteel …
… ara’nov, alit …
… the thunk of clamps and the unbearable whirring of servos and they rolled in the cables which now bound the Mandalorians to their prey. Humming shields as they extended out to ensnare the searing red and glowing orange of the wounded hull before them …
… Mando’a bal …
… tension erupting in chaos as blasterfire rained into the hangar, a swarm of white-clad warriors of Zetrea rushing forward to try to unlatch the enemy, to cast their hellish assault back into the darkness from which it came, and already the veterans were unhooked from the webbing and on their feet, pressing towards the breach and unleashing their fury, and all of them roaring as one …
… an vencuyan mhi.
She would take her kill.
She would do it with honor, with pride.
She would show her father that he was right to take her, that he was right to train her.
That everything he did – everything he put her through – made her stronger. Had made her into a Mandalorian that would make him proud. She would fight this day for the glory of Mandalore. She would press down her weaknesses, her fears, her doubts. She would be one with the aliit that adopted her, one with the father who had taken her as his own, one with the horde of warriors who even now sung praises of Mandalore with the sound of their blaster fire and the distant pounding sound of detonators as they tore apart those who would stand against them.
Zeti leapt from the webbing and flew into the mass of warriors who fought their way down towards the Aundus, taking her place amongst the blue-clad warriors and beside those who wore the green slashes of the rankless recruit. They followed in the wake of the giant who led them, their Rally Master clad in resplendent crimson armor, his blaster ceaseless in their storm of shots raining hell down against the fools who thought themselves the equals of the Mandalorian Crusaders.
One step at a time, one moment at a time, one breath at a time. They advanced.
She stepped past and over the fallen, and advanced beyond the sizzling edge of the world she knew and into the unknown, the world of war, the battlefield. Around her were screams of laser fire and of the dead and dying, but still she advanced, and began to see through the soldiers around her. At last the wall of bodies parted and she was free of them, exposed to the battle, to the enemy.
In one swift movement she swept up the blaster rifle which hung from its clip on her armor and tucked it into firing position, and sought the white-clad Zetreans against whom the beast within her could be unleashed. One shot was all it would take, one shot to end the child's lot in life and advance to her place amongst the servants of Mandalore.
She found one of their soldiers, a man clad in shining white armor that would not save him. He fumbled with the energy cell of his own rifle at the far end of the corridor they'd stormed into, trying to fix what was broken, trying to put his weapon back together to save his life. She waited. She waited a heartbeat, then another, until at last he had socketed the cell and was once again part of the fight.
He, too, pulled the rifle in close, and he too searched the field for an enemy to blood himself upon.
Their eyes met for just a moment. Electricity surged between them.
Her finger tightened, as she'd been taught. As she'd done a million times before.
But … the shot never came. She could not pull it for its full measure. Something inside her squirmed. Some distant voice, some dull device buried deep within her, some far-away whisper that slithered into her heart in that moment … and he was gone, cut down by one of Zeti's fellow recruits, and then another wave was upon them. The Mandalorians roared out their song of battle, the chant of their clans, the voice of war with many tones and only one word.
Mandalore.
White-clad Zetreans fell upon them from seemingly nowhere, blasters cast aside and blades out, stabbing and cutting in a suicide rush, a desperate attempt to take the Mandalorians down before they'd advanced too far. To buy time for the rest of the defenders to get into position, for the ship to react to the blitz that had sunk its teeth deep into them. One of them slammed into Zeti and threw her aside, and as she fell she drew one of her blades, the other catching – the angle was all wrong, and it did not clear before she hit the ground.
She kicked to right herself and used her empty hand to push free of the ground, but even as she did so a Zetrean soldier, too, was thrown down, slipping in a pool of blood to fall onto Zeti's half-raised sword.
Ice filled her veins and a horrible sinkhole opened wide within her. Not like this, she begged. Please … not like this...
And a screaming opened wide in the back of her mind and it rose and billowed and it swept out to consume her.
She watched as the dying child of Zetrea stared into the whole of her being and the light left his eyes, and the strength left his body, and the weight of him dragged her to the ground.
****
If Terzeh were here she'd have found a way to diffuse this situation already. Kujata could try using whatever diplomacy was left to him to salvage what was left of the conversation, but that would risk Leej's electric ire again. No, it was time to do something he never really felt comfortable doing – it was time to show off like some sort of grand stinking hero. He hated that stuff.
“Very well, Leej. You've backed me into a corner.” He stared fully into the eyes of the Jawa before him, drawing once more on the power of the Force as he tried to clear his emotions and center himself. “I think it's time you knew who you're dealing with.”
“You think idle threats strike fear into Leej? Have seen much! Have lived life of danger! Have – do not move! Will not warn again!”
In one immense burst of energy the Jedi Knight swept himself from the bar stool and flipped backwards, landing into a crouch, throwing back the sides of his long cloak to reveal the lightsabers that dangled from his belt. The gleam of the cantina's muted light caught the pair on his right, and the hilt on his left seemed to drink it in and leave none behind. A wry grin spread across his lips as he drew forth the latter and ignited the crimson fire within.
But Leej was already in motion the second that his captive fled the bar, slipping down and rolling towards Kujata, brandishing his stun baton, the charge light flickering from red to green as he brought it to bear against the lightsaber-wielding foe he faced. There was not an ounce of fear in the diminutive being; not a hint of doubt. Only steely resolve and … irritation.
Agile little schutta, Kujata thought, eying his enemy and once again having to fight down his mirth.
“Kindly one is Jedi?” Leej snapped. “You think Jedi scare Leej? Jedi is fool! All Leej needs to do to win is touch Jedi! One touch, and Leej will have ransom kidnapping of lifetime! Jedi Temple will pay millions of credits to Leej for safe return of their own!”
Kujata rose from his crouch and slipped into a dueling stance, nearly touching the point of his humming blade to Leej's crackling weapon. “I think you overestimate how badly they'd want me back, my friend. Though perhaps they'd pay you to keep me as far away from Coruscant as you can.”
“Take or not take, Leej gets paid. Win win.”
And so they stood, framed by the cantina's doorway: A Jedi Knight and a Jawa scoundrel, weapons at the ready and a sense of impending conflict brewing between them like a storm. The shadows and the light swirled around them as they fed on the blood-red light and dazzling blue arcs of the readied weapons, each testing the other, each opponent stepping with small motions, neither giving ground, hearts beating faster, eyes narrowed, nerves alight …
The Trag'tek's door slid open with a hiss and in through the threshold peered a pair of wide-eyed Camaasi women dressed so richly in so many layers of pearl shimmersilk that they could only be hopelessly lost tourists.
Everything held still. An instant frozen in time as the women took in the scene. An instant broken as the one in the lead turned to her friend. “Maybe we should go somewhere else?”
“Graaahhhh! Where are Gamorreans?” the Jawa roared, throwing his stun baton at the women in the doorway. They fled in the face of his rage, the door closing behind them. “Leej cannot buy good help on Aundus!”
Kujata let the blade of his lightsaber die out, its volcanic fire receding into the midnight hilt in his palm. He cleared his throat to draw the enraged Jawa's attention back to the matter at hand, gesturing towards the stun baton that had discharged itself into the wall beside the doorway, a deep char marking off the point of impact.
“So … this is a little awkward now,” the Jedi Knight began. “If you want I can wait for you to rearm … ?”
Exasperation flooded every last vibration of the Force around them as the Jawa exhaled. “This not Leej's day.”
“Well, it could always get better, right? Go and pick up the baton. We can pick up from where we left off if you want, and who knows? You might be able to get that one good hit in before I can disable your weapon.”
The Jawa looked from Kujata to the stun baton, and back, and again. Finally he strode to his weapon and stood above it, hesitant to reach down. A glance back towards the bar, then to the door. It felt as if he'd say something then, but whatever it was he bit it back. One final questioning flash of those brilliant yellow eyes on Kujata … and he reached down for the baton.
Every light in the cantina flickered, shut down, and lit back up with a bright red hue. The entire ship seemed to flood with the sound of warning klaxons that nearly deafened both of the conscious sentients in the cantina. They churned on for almost a full minute before dying down to a low screech, allowing the sound of the Aundus' internal com system to snap to life and a voice to fill the gap:
“This is the Aundus-Valay Security Force,” it said, radiating the sort of calm it took Jedi Masters the whole of their lives to achieve.
“The Aundus is now on lockdown. Hostile forces have begun an attack on our vessel. Be advised that all inbound and outbound travel is temporarily suspended. At this time we advise all passengers to make their way to designated safe zones for their own protection. ASF troopers will guide you to safe zone nearest you. Please proceed in a calm and orderly fashion and we will update you with further news as the situation develops.”
The klaxons resumed their howl, but the Jawa's voice was clear enough and shrill enough to cut through the noise with near-perfect clarity.
“So,” Leej said, sighing. “How does kindly Jedi feel on subject of bodyguarding innocent Jawas for handsome fees?”
I just now noticed that my word processor recognizes 'Jedi' as a real noun. Haha. Better than MS Word at work today, which tried to correct (
) my utterly righteous use of the possessive "its" into "it's" like a complete moron. Stupid Word can't even grammar good. No wonder Clippy abandoned ship.
) my utterly righteous use of the possessive "its" into "it's" like a complete moron. Stupid Word can't even grammar good. No wonder Clippy abandoned ship. Throwing on "I'm Han Solo" would probably make that infinitely more entertaining.
You know, I think Cloud City's always looking for new talent. I wonder if I have what it takes ... ?
I've actually been looking up a few more of these on YouTube. The comments in this one are especially awesome: youtube.com/watch?v=84YXPw4htnQ.
"Anakin, did you ever hear the tragedy of Darth Plagueis the Sick? It's not a story the Jedi would tell you. Darth Plagueis was a Dark Lord of the Dance, so funkalicious and so fresh, he could use the beat and the DJ-chlorians to create....life. He had such a knowledge of the funk side that he could even keep those he loved from being served."
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