Lucky Knight — Roleplayer Guild

"I want so much to be right, to do the right thing, that I don’t look to see if another answer would be a better answer. Judging yourself right is a destination. I’m just on a journey."

The Long Way Down
The Aundus-Valay, Above Zetrea
Outer Rim
Two Weeks Ago

Distant thunderclaps of shearing stress echoed through command deck, rushing up through the deck plates from collapsing sections of the once-proud jewel of the Zetrean foundries. Above and beneath that ominous, terrifying noise rang the eternal klaxons of alarm that still warned any who yet lived that the enemy marched upon them. At sporadic intervals the emergency lighting kicked back in and painted the bridge in shades of red, but it passed quickly into darkness and fluorescent ambiance, then back again.

The Security Force soldiers trained their weapons upon the door, their fingers on their firing pins, each measured breath an entreaty to whatever gods they believed in to keep them safe, to ward them against the fell and implacable enemy who had devoured the ship from the inside out.

Minutes passed. And more.

Until at last the waiting turned to violence. They were as prepared as they could have possibly been, but their mistake was watching the door.

Staccato fire swept the command deck the instant the wall beside it erupted outward, searing through the defenders without a moment's hesitation. Half of them were dead before they realized what'd happened and the others followed moments later as the Mandalorians advanced, their ragged band more than a match for the disarrayed soldiers who still struggled to reorient themselves. 

A pair of warriors in blue armor took up positions on either side of the breach as their crimson-clad commander took point. He tracked his rifle up and dropped three more with a single shot each, then neatly fixed the weapon to the mount on his back as his hands found the detonators on his belt. He tossed one to each of the Mandalorians that flanked him and tapped a pair of fingers out towards the bank of computers that lined the expansive bridge.

“Keep moving!” he barked, marching towards the causeway that linked the bridge's door to the captain's command center.

The rest of his squad fell in behind him, mirroring his confident stride as the final line of the Aundus-Valay's Security Force took firing positions and tried to rally, just in time to eat a wave of concussive force as the Mandalorians unleashed another salvo, ripping them apart. Only the captain remained, now – a man of advancing years and a hairline that preceded him, his close-cropped white mane flecked with the blood of his defenders – and as the enemy approached he did the only thing he could think of.

He raised his hands in surrender. 

“The ship is yours!” he said, trying in vain to keep his voice from shaking. “Do as you will with it. The vaults – the wealth of whole planets – are my gift to you, in exchange for my life. You need only let me go.”

Oleg Trankan removed his helmet for the third time that day and tucked it into the crook of his arm. His squad fanned out around him and moved to secure the weapons of the fallen Security Force troopers and to ensure – with single shots to the chest and head – that they were as dead as they seemed. It was of questionable honor, but extreme necessity. Only an idiot would trust the appearance of death without confirmation. As the old maxim said: Trust, but verify. Especially now.

As the last of the fallen were … verified … the Rally Master took a deep breath and enjoyed the moment of (relative) silence that followed, enjoying the peace while it lasted. Then, with deliberate care, he handed his helmet to the emerald-skinned warrior to his right and swept a hand across his brow, wiping the sweat from his eyes. His touch lingered a moment on the wicked scar that mottled his face and it brought a smile to his lips.

Then he laughed. “Where would you run to?”

The captain's groan was audible. He gestured toward a row of recessed portals near the bridge's main door. “Escape pods. There are escape pods…”

A knife – dark brown, shimmering red where the light touched it – buried itself in the captain's forehead.

Oleg lowered his hand and strode to the fallen official, stooping low to tug his blade from the dead man's skull. A few jerks loosened it enough to free it. He wiped the blade on one of the ribbons of cloth that dangled from his belt and tucked it back into the brace with the rest of his cortosis knives. Then, after considering the corpse for a moment longer, the Rally Master crouched down again and closed the captain's eyes.

As he straightened he turned to face his warriors.

“Will someone turn that damned alarm off?”

One of his soldiers made haste to the array of controls lining the command platform while the rest took up positions nearby. Oleg stepped clear of the dead captain at his feet and ascended to the massive chair which dominated the bridge, seating himself into its cushioned embrace with a heavy thump. As the crimson lights flickered and returned to the soft glow of proper florescence – and the endless cacophony died down to silence. 

True silence, at last.

He took a long breath, filling his lungs, exhaling slowly. And again. Then with deliberate care he tapped the datapad strapped to his gauntlet to wake it from its slumber, feeding it the proper code to drag out the meaning buried in the encrypted data within. A steady stream of updates told him all he needed to know of the battle beyond the Jewel of Zetrea and when he was done devouring the news he wore a smile that spread from ear to ear.

“The battle is won,” he told his troops. “Zetrea is ours.”

Cheers broke out amongst the ranks and he permitted it, basking in the sound. They deserved this moment.

But he saw, too, the look that still haunted his daughter. She stood at his side and her very presence seemed to darken the bridge, feeding on the delirious celebration around her. Was she so haunted by her first kill? Did she truly believe herself lessened by the vagaries of fate? He would need to disabuse her of these ideas, these twisted fears. 

On the field of battle there was life and there was death. She had lived.

And more, she had fought as a Mandalorian should fight. A storm of blades, a whirlwind of carnage that swelled his heart with pride. What lessons she had learned had served her well and more besides; on this day she was a recruit no longer. She was a soldier. One who had earned the azure armor and the rank, and so much more beside.

He touched his fingers to the scar that marred his face once more and his grin grew wider. She'd always been a fighter, that one. But now she'd proved it. Now she was one of the Mando'ade in more than just name. Now she was truly blood.

“Soldier Zeti,” he growled, careful to conceal his pride.

She stood straighter despite the fatigue which plagued her. Sweat shone on her and there was a deepness to her eyes that spoke of utter exhaustion, but still she stood, still she obeyed, and quickly at that. “Rally Master.”

“You know the code. Signal the Field Marshal.”

In moments the air snapped with the sound of the com hissing to life. At the sound of the voice that followed each and every soldier on the bridge stood even straighter, held themselves more tightly. Paragons of the battlefield. As well they should. It was a voice of serpentine shadows and coiled rage, the silent fire waiting to erupt; soft and tinged with cybernetics, but unmistakable in its power.

“Report, Rally Master.”

Oleg turned the captain's chair to face the wall of screen that showed him the starry void beyond the Aundus. “The ship is taken, Field Marshal Ransiir. I do not know if it will hold together indefinitely – it has sustained extreme damage in some of the upper sections of the hull – but it is yours to command until its last breath.”

A long pause followed, then: “Burn it. Scuttle the Aundus. Its use was as a symbol, one of many. Even now Mandalore strikes a resounding victory of his own across the stars and the Jewel of Zetrea pales in the glory of what he has done.”

“Field Marshal?”

“Feraxis has fallen at the hands of the main fleet. Hellfire Levalle himself is slain by Mandalore's own blade. We have taken a firm step into the Republic and now they will have no choice but to retaliate.” A hint of something approaching excitement filled that pallid, hissing voice. “Our war is upon us at last.”

Then what was all of this for? Oleg thought, but he let that moment go. “Your will, Field Marshal. We will reposition the Aundus-Valay and scuttle her-”

“No, Rally Master,” came the reply. “Mandalore has need of us as quickly as we can be rallied to his side. A blow was struck against his fleet and he requires strong warriors to replace them. You will burn the Aundus where she is and join us; a garrison will remain to secure the shipyards as you make your way back.”

“Field Marshal … there is a chance that the Aundus will be caught in Zetrea's orbit.”

“Then let her fall.” Again, the taste of wry amusement. “The shipyards lie deep beneath Zetrea's surface, after all. Our prize will not be harmed. You have your orders, Rally Master.”

And the line fell silent.

Oleg Trankan rose, his eyes still full of the stars that shone through the wreckage littering the darkness above their conquest. When he'd had his fill he tapped a sequence of keys on his datapad to signal to those who still roamed the guts of the Aundus that the time to leave was upon them. He would give them ample time to rally and retreat before executing his orders; no pressing need was dire enough to necessitate the unnecessary and dishonorable deaths of fellow Mandalorians.

“Alright, soldiers! You heard the Field Marshal,” he boomed, rounding the chair to face his soldiers once more. “Set the charges and let's get...”

His voice failed him. At the far end of the bridge, with his hands held up in a gesture of surrender and every single Mandalorian blaster trained on him, was the thrice-blasted Jedi Knight who'd slain Ducar and nearly taken his daughter's life as well. 

Red clouded his sight until he mastered himself, stepping down from the captain's dais and onto the platform that connected him to his uninvited guest.

The dark-clad Knight raised his eyebrows and assumed a look of commiserate humor. 

“Hey.”

****

A half-heartbeat passed, and then the bridge was alive with the light of blasters and the smell of burning ozone. Kujata's lightsaber leapt to his hand with the barest nudge of Force, a spinning whirlwind of crimson energy that drank deep of the torrent of blaster fire and returned it even as he darted forward, directly into the storm. Over the din he could hear the enemy commander shouting but could not see him, trusting only that the sound was true and that he was heading in the right direction.

Once more the mantle of peace threatened to fall upon him, but this time he fought it. Fought the urge to release himself, to relinquish his waking mind and sink into the dark. There was no room for that, not with the rattling chains snaking round his bones to drag him forward, ever onwards. Each and every bolt he caught he returned, but he did it with precision, casting them above and to the side of the soldiers who sought his death.

There had been enough bloodshed. Enough for one day, perhaps enough for a lifetime.

His bones shook and his blood hammered, his muscles straining. Fatigue wore at him and he did not posses the healing capacity that many of his brethren did, so could not banish the weariness from his body. Meter by bloody meter he advanced and each step took a deadly toll on his reserves of strength. How many of these blasted bastards were there? How many of these faceless killing machines still infested the Aundus?

Then he let the thought go.

No room for that. Stay alive, wait for your moment.

Another meter. It felt like miles, and by the end of it he was nearly on the verge of collapse. To maintain this focus, this careful deflection, was something he'd almost never done before, and by the Force's bloody beating heart it really fucking hurt, and if he lived through this he'd regret his impulsive decision and curse himself raw. But he reached his distance – a length at which he could be heard – and stopped all motion save that of the saber in his right hand.

He raised his left with an open palm, then took a deep breath.

“Parley!” he roared.

Another salvo of fire.

Then silence and curling smoke.

“What arrogance,” the red-clad commander laughed, his voice threading in and out of the ringing in Kujata's ears. The expression on his scarred face was grim and utterly without mirth. “What utter disregard for your own life. Do you seek to stop us? We've already won, Jedi.”

“I caught the tail end of your conversation, yeah,” Kujata said, struggling to regain his breath. “But I'm not here to stop your fleet. I'm not even here to fight.”

The man clad in crimson armor waved his soldiers down with a sweeping arm. They did as they were bade, but remained standing at the ready. “I'm afraid that's a choice you've already made. You shouldn't have come back. Should have left well enough alone.”

Kujata felt a wistful smile play at his lips. “I tried. Believe me.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“Not unless you believe in destiny,” the Knight replied, shrugging. “And if you do, that makes one of us. Though I'm starting to feel like the only conscientious objector in the galaxy … and I'm having a bit of a lapse.”

The commander brushed this aside. As if Kujata had never even spoken. Instead he trained his eyes on the Jedi as a predator would eye its prey.

“Difficult to kill a Jedi with blasters,” he said. “Difficult to kill them with grenades, even if you know what you're doing.”

Oh. I don't like where this is going...

“Let me explain--”

“Have to do it the old-fashioned way. If you want results, you have to get in close. And get bloody. It's a lesson we learned in the war, burned into those of us who had cause to cross blades with your kind.”

Kujata frowned. The war? Exar Kun's war?

With care, the Rally Master began to unclasp the belts and buckles which sealed his armor in place. He set aside the red plates and the weapons which adorned him. He set aside the weight which bore him down, and in the threads of the Force which bound Kujata to this man he could feel the settling of an immense focus upon the venerable warrior. It chilled him despite the warmth of the bridge.

This was a man like few he'd ever faced. And the calm that he felt when he allowed himself to descend into the Force was echoed here, too, in the one he faced. It was like staring into a cold mirror, frosted with ice. Deeply unsettling. Deeply. But he did not yet rekindle the saber in his hand.

A familiar figure strode to the old warrior's side. The Mirialan, the one he'd come for. He could feel her presence in the Force now, more strongly than before. Could feel the resonance there. The siren call. That bright light which danced within him at the thought of the strength she bore, glimmering out from beneath the mass of shadows which shut themselves across her heart. It hurt to look upon her and to feel the weight of the chain of events which had dragged him here, to this moment, inch by bloody inch.

But it was far too late to turn back now.

“I will fight him,” she hissed to the older warrior. But her commander shook his head.

“My soldier demands your blood, Jedi,” he growled, eying Kujata. “She wishes to finish what she began. I'm of half a mind to allow it, but it is not a commander's task to ask of his soldiers what he is unwilling to do himself.”

Yet there was something in the way he said it, something in the voice – Kujata reached out, trying to unravel what it was he sensed. And found … concern? Why would he be so concerned?

She's as exhausted as I am. He knows it, and will not allow her to get herself killed. And it's more than duty. It's deeper than that. The Knight blinked. He actually cares for her.

Interesting. And it would make this either much easier or infinitely trickier.

The Mirialan frowned. “Father...”

“You will use my title on the battlefield, Soldier Zeti,” the old warrior snapped. “I will not tell you again.”

The girl – Zeti – kept her mask in place but in the echoes of the Force Kujata could feel her recoil. It was as if he'd applied pressure to an already weeping wound, drawing out a sharp spike of pain. It drew the shadows closer about her, a darkening of her presence amidst the glaring light of the bridge. Oh, he could feel the way she drew on her anger. Could feel the way she'd begun to cling to it as a balm, as a way of covering over the hurt. Pushing it away.

She kept her silence and the warrior – her father? – finished removing his armor. He stood now in only the black pressure suit that underlay the distinctive armor of his people, a skintight rubbery material that Kujata could only guess at the purpose of. Was it meant to act as a suit to safeguard them against the void beyond the ship's hull? Did their helmets seal them into a self-contained life support system? A pilot's suit, perhaps? But why would each soldier wear one?

Unless every single one of them was meant to be as an army unto themselves. The only reason he could think of to equip each warrior with every aspect of protection for every sort of battlefield was if one expected each of them to fight everywhere, against everyone. 

That was … sobering.

And it sparked a memory somewhere in the back of his mind, one he couldn't quite place.

But he had no time to dwell on it. The commander reached down to his pile of discarded armor and weaponry and retrieved from it a brace of knives which he buckled around his waist. The unease that tingled in the back of Kujata's mind grew even deeper. Was it time to gamble? Maybe it was time to gamble.

“Your, uh, daughter. Zeti?”

The old warrior snapped his eyes up to the Knight who very nearly flinched at the malevolence he saw there. But there wasn't any sense in stopping now that the ball was rolling very quickly downhill.

“She is strong in the Force. I have been called to train her.”

And for an impossibly long second the warrior hesitated. Every single soldier in the room seemed to hesitate alongside him, baiting their breath. The Mirialan girl beside her father, too, seemed to freeze.

A grunt broke the moment. Followed by a dry chuckle. 

“Of all the things you could have said to try to save your life, you pick the most ludicrous.”

“Would have said the same this morning,” the Knight conceded. “But it's true. Ask her. Ask her if she's felt it, felt the way the galaxy seems to ebb and flow around her. How she can sometimes sense things just before they happen. How when she's exhausted and on the verge of collapse, she hears something out there, something that echoes the feelings in her heart...”

“Very poetic.”

But even as he spoke, he sought out the eyes of the warrior's daughter and saw in here a flicker of … something. Something she did not express. Or could not express. Something that spoke right to the core of her. 

And he knew in that instant that it was impossible to deny that everything really had led to this. That for once in his blood-soaked life he'd been called to something more than himself, more than the taking of life and the hunt which once drove him. It was terrifying, and it opened a deep pit in his stomach he hadn't even known was there, but he did not bother to deny the truth of it.

That the Force had spoken to him. And that he'd had the ability to listen.

Ice flooded him a moment later as the old warrior gripped two of the wicked daggers at his waist and drew them. Kujata knew the distinctive glimmer of that metal. Cortosis. In sufficient quantities it could sever a lightsaber's feedback loop in an instant; in smaller amounts – the quantities at which a weapon would still be serviceable – they would allow one to meet a saber's edge without shearing.

Which were these? And how had he accrued so many?

Unease flared into outright concern.

Then the old warrior bared his fangs.

****

They moved faster than Zeti had ever seen anyone move in her life, nearly impossible to follow. 

The Knight's single-saber style fell back against the knifeplay of her father, who kept closing the distance to cut off the Jedi's reach, slashing and tearing with an animal ferocity. She'd never seem him fight like this. Not once had she seen the venerable Rally Master truly show his claws and now she understood why those old enough to remember his scarring could hold him in such lofty regard.

They were a hurricane of red lightning and flashing metal, quick slashes and kicks followed by eyes in the storm as they pulled back, only to clash more fiercely when pulled back together. Her heart was beating out of her chest and she ached to launch into the fray, to prove herself once more to her father, to show him that she was a warrior and not a failure, not bound by a fatal flaw … but she knew, knew with every fiber of her being, that to step into their battleground was to court instant death. No ounce of hesitation existed in their duel, not a single slip of focus. She'd only be in the way.

But, slowly, the tide of the battle shifted to her father's favor. The knives drew blood. Wounds bled across the Jedi's body and a full blade bit deep into his thigh, drawing a scream from the wounded Knight. The Force is not all-powerful, she thought, mind aflame. This man – this Knight of the Republic – who had bested Ducar, who had shown her what it is to be truly helpless, found himself in a losing fight with a real warrior at last.

A warrior who strode the galaxy like a conqueror. Who had torn down every enemy he'd ever faced. Who had soaked his hands in the blood of her own colony and cut down the deadliest of the blademasters they'd offered, taking only a single wound.

More blood blossomed across the Knight's tattered coat, and in a single moment of reprieve he threw it off him and drew from his belt another of the sabers that hung there. A topaz beam ignited alongside the crimson, an alternating lightning flare of whirling blades to crash down against her father and push him back. A swift kick threw Oleg back a faltering step and in that instant the blood-red saber spun out in a vicious arc, parried only at the last instant as her father regained his poise.

The blade slammed into one of the consoles at the head of the bridge and at once the chamber was bathed in red light, the warning klaxons crackling to life once again. Even as the whole of the Aundus shuddered the last of the Knight's blades erupted in his hand, a pale magenta that warred with the lights around it, seeming to grow darker for the contrast as it hummed and sang in the Jedi's hand.

Somewhere below their feet another explosion rocked the ship. An answering call to the damage done to the console?

All thoughts scattered as her father fell back again, and again, wounds burning their way up and down his arms as he twisted and bent to avoid them, failing to parry now, failing to step quick enough … 

Another explosion. Something had gone wrong. Something bad.

But the warriors paid it no mind. They could not. There wasn't any room between them for the galaxy beyond their opponent, no room for anything but the fight. Fear gripped her tightly then, choking her, even as her father took saber to the shoulder and howled in rage. She should fight. She should help him! She shouldn't stand here, helpless, lost … 

Two more muted booms and the viewport began to swim drunkenly, the stars drifting up and to the right as the ship's engines kicked in, driving it now towards the planet below. Fear turned to terror. But a soldier does not fear. A soldier does not panic. She remains calm and in control. Nevermind that dark weight in the heart, that growing, gnawing, aching impotent fury, that shaking horror …

“Soldiers!” she shouted, voice like a stroke of thunder. Loud. Too loud. “Evacuate! Get back to the-”

A deep quake rocked the deck, and she lost her balance. A handful of the remaining Mandalorian soldiers didn't bother to question her orders nor did they wait for her to finish; they were gone in the blink of an eye. Only two remained. They stood witness to the battle, as she did. True Mando'ade.

A concussive wave of force threw her father from his feet and a cold look came upon the Knight, both sabers flipping in his hands to a downward position even as he readied himself, then leapt …

… and she saw in her mind's eye what would come, the blood and the agony, and the death of her father … 

… and she refused. She refused! This monster would not have him! Would not take from her the only thing that would bring her out from her failure, the only man who could redeem her, who could offer up his hand and guide her back … 

… and she pushed, screaming without words, unchaining all that weight in her, all those fears, those failures, that darkness which festered in her heart, and it flowed out in a tidal wave of force … 

… and the Jedi was thrown to the side just before he buried his blades in his foe, crashing into one of the banks of panels lining the bridge. A sharp crack sounded over the din of the klaxons and the Jedi did not move from where he lay upon the deck.

Her hands still outstretched, Zeti found herself trembling, shaking, as if every single moment of every single act of the siege of the Aundus was flooding into her all at once. Tears lined her eyes and she lowered her arms, sinking to her knees.

One of the Mandalorian soldiers who'd remained strode to the fallen Rally Master. Zeti's heart ceased all motion, waiting, watching, hoping … and her father staggered to his feet, gripping the soldier's arm. Gashes littered his pressure suit and blood ran slick across half his body, but he drew breath after ragged breath. He lived.

The other soldier crossed to the fallen Jedi, blaster rifle at the ready.

Oleg heaved a mouthful of blood onto the deck at his feet, then turned to stare at the planet expanding with alarming rapidity in the viewport. But he did not doubt. It was not in him to doubt, or to worry. He remained like a mountain. Calmly and with immense gravity, he turned to what remained of his squad. Then he gestured to the escape pods at the far end of the bridge.

“No choice,” he gasped. “No time.”

But the soldier who stood guard over the Jedi remained where he was. “He's still breathing,” he said.

Oleg Trankan, supported now with his arm across his subordinate's shoulders, looked to the Knight and then to his daughter, the wheels in his mind turning rapidly. Zeti did not know what passed through him then and did not much care. She hadn't the strength to move but even that did not matter. He lived. That was what mattered. 

Wasn't it? 

Then finally, with a snarl: “We take him with us. Alive.”
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