Y1ofthePlebs

CoS 46.1 (intermission)

21 BBY

It was the height of Winter in Harnaiden, the largest city on the planet of Muunilinst. The average Muun was too wealthy to concern themselves with menial labour, the only souls on the streets were droids or unlucky alien servants. 

The Sith of old did not concern themselves with such small things. They were warrior cultures. Fierce, proud, and even with their own strange sense of honor. Some of them were adept at playing their political games, others were even brilliant researchers and scientists in their own right, but none of them could ever conceive of things like markets, chairmen, and quarterly reviews. The movements of servile people didn't concern them unless they were a spy, especially when all their focus was on their rivals and the hated jedi. They saw it as petty, beneath them, when in reality they had it completely backwards.

It was credits that made war possible, the great unseen tide rolling under the surface of the Galaxy, in and out, crushing what it willed and receding as it pleased. Ships, generals, and combat were all a product of power, not a source of it. He watched the moving tides, intervening where necessary, but mostly he would ride the wave rather than control it.

Today he was the tide.

His communicator buzzed with a simple message. First fish caught, second one got away.

It would have been disappointing, if it wasn’t for the report coming over Coruscant News Network. A corpulent Neimodian, seated at what looked like the end of a hotel bed on Zyggerria was giving an interview.

“-Complete destruction, that’s right. The entire Zyggerian Fleet has been captured, scuttled, or destroyed.”

It seemed that Tan’ya hadn’t learned the news yet, but no matter. Hego checked his short positions, and smirked to himself as they began to rise in value. The Trade Federation was the creation of a number of companies headquartered in the Corporate Sector. Those companies were publicly traded, and so by shorting those, Hego had already begun his attack on the Federation.

He sent a quick message to his broker, its contents short and to the point. “Short more Federation stocks.”

Many financial matters went over the heads of the public, as they should. The exact nature of shorting a stock wasn’t something the common being understood, and he didn’t need to. All he needed to know was that shorting a stock meant selling it, and once enough people began selling a stock, it led to a race to the bottom. More and more investors rushed to sell their stocks while it still had value, which reduced the value of those stocks, driving more people to sell while they still could. It was like an avalanche, a layer of snow perched at a precarious point, needing only a small push to dump thousands and thousands of tons of ice on those below. 

The Federation had been facing hard times for a while, but today it had received two crippling blows. The Battle at Zygerria was known about now, but it wouldn’t be too long until the whole Galaxy heard about the destruction of the Hypermatter Reserves. Already, Hego was setting a trend, as dozens of magisters in the Banking Clan followed his lead, shorting Federation companies. Hego watched in real time, as Federation stock prices continually declined throughout the day, but not at the rate that he had expected. It wasn’t an avalanche, it was a trickle, one that only picked up a small amount of speed as the day continued. Even when news of the Strategic Reserve broke, and the news channels were filled with howls of outrage, that decline in share prices continued to slow, until finally it stopped.

Hego stared, mind calculating, and realised that the Trade Federation wasn’t the only one under attack. Shorting a stock could be risky, as you had to actively spend money to maintain your short position. The longer the short lasted, the more costly it became. 

But Hego was already committed. He could pull out now and make a small profit, but he would lose the chance afterwards. 

He called his broker. “Someone’s buying the stocks.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement.

A human voice over the other end answered. “Yes. Right after we started shorting, a team of brokers came in and started buying as many as they could. They outright bullied the people who were trying to sell, surrounding and filling their ears with warnings they would lose everything if they kept at it. They tried it on me, but I stuck to my guns, sir.” He quickly corrected it. “Your guns.”

“And who were those brokers affiliated with?”

“Tahm Sipas.”

Ah, of course. Hego’s long time rival among the Core Five, and Sidious’s latest catspaw. 

Hego took a long drag on his pipe, staring out the window at the clouds of food delivery droids that went about their day, not seeing the war playing out in the offices all around them. 

“You want me to ditch these shorts, sir? Might not be the big return you were hoping for, but it will still be a tidy profit.”

“...No.” Hego answered. “Hold onto them for now.”

“Alrighty. Don’t worry sir, war’s still young yet. Plenty of time for things to ripen.” Then he hung up on his end.

Hego was under attack, and now he knew who held the dagger. “Oh, Sidious, my young friend. To imagine that I ever believed you could share anything.” 

----

Grib Siv was in an emergency board meeting, one that he called, but he kept checking his compad anyway. The stocks were stabilising. Slowly, but steadily, their value was beginning to recover. 

He breathed out, feeling his pulse slowly returning to normal. As he did, the other members of the board all glanced at each other, hanging with baited breath for his pronouncement. “Good news. Our stock prices are stabilised, my contact was able to pull through for us.”

The exhalation across the room was audible, as the various old toads all slumped in their seats, tension leaving their bodies. The whole room stank of exhaustion and old men.

“I thought the Senate wasn’t going to bail us out, anymore.” Neeg mumbled, rubbing at his tired eyes.

“It isn’t.” Grib grunted. “But my friend called in a favor.”

“What kind of hold do you have on him?” Himera demanded, one of the fattest neimoidians grib had ever met.

Grib grunted, rather than answering, rising to his feet. “Alright. Now that emergency has been addressed-”

“Oh, no.” Neeg groaned. “I forgot that wasn’t what this meeting was even about.”

Grib seethed, but he kept his temper reigned in for the moment. The emergency meeting had been called to deal with the fuel shortage crisis. He hadn’t even finished explaining the problem to the other board members, when word reached them about the disastrous battle at Zygerria, and Federation stocks began to plummet. After that they each spent hours, utilising any and every contact they could trying to plug holes in the leaky life support, buying every stock they could as soon as it appeared on the market, and twisting the arms of various contacts to do the same.

Somewhere in between all that, he had managed to consolidate every warship still inside the Corporate Sector at either Olsumpex, or Cadomai. The ships at Cadomai would prevent further attacks from the Hydian, and once the fleet at Olsumpex finished consolidating their fuel reserves, they would retake Zygerria. There had been five and a half thousand war ships in the Corporate Sector before the defeat at Zygerria, but now there were just four thousand, and he doubted he had enough fuel for all of those.

One and a half thousand ships had been lost at Zygerria. Not a single one had escaped, which was almost certainly due to those strange new support ships the Alliance fleets had gotten from who knows where. Grib highly doubted that the shipyards at Botajef had innovated the technology to produce those prototypes, its ports were centuries old and quite a bit behind the times generally. Wherever they came from, they could prevent every ship in an entire system from entering or leaving Hyper Space. Retreating and regrouping became impossible. The Serenno House Fleet had used one at Cadomai to ambush the Bonadon Patrol Fleet.

Whatever they were, they had permanently changed galactic warfare. Grib wasn’t a great military mind, but he recognised that much. Any hyperlane could become a death trap with those things, as any fleet could find itself ripped out of Hyperspace and surrounded by enemy ships.

Where the hell had they come from?

Ah, he had more important things to focus on. 

“How do we resolve our fuel problem, gentleman?” Grib queried the room. “We can’t import fuel from the rest of the Galaxy, and we can’t produce enough of our own to sustain our fleets. Do we need to start requisitioning civilian fuel supplies?”

Neeg swallowed audibly, trying to speak, but his throat was too parched and all that came out was a croak. He quickly poured himself some water and took a loud slurp past his thin, quivering lips, before finally he was able to speak. In a quivering, fearful voice. “Grib. We can’t requisition civilian fuel. From a legal perspective, it’s just not possible under our corporate code without a declaration of emergency.”

“Which we are not doing.” Grib said firmly. “But we can go outside the Corporate Code. We can send scalpers-”

Himera shook his head, terrified. “No, no. Grib, I understand we need the fuel, but we can’t even operate agriculture without our fuel. Imagine a famine inside the Corporate Sector, because we can’t move food from one planet in Bonadon to another? Imagine what that would do to our share prices if it got out?”

Vinwe nodded furiously, scattering skin flakes from his scalp everywhere. “Exactly. Grib, it’s just not possible.” 

Grib hated to agree with the council of fools, but on this one he suspected they were probably right. Besides, the last thing he needed was civilians trying to flee the Sector to escape his requisition teams. “Fine. So we consolidate our current fuel supplies into the fleets at Olsumpex and Cadomai. How many working ships does that leave us with?”

They all looked at each other, unsure. One of them, a younger board member named Sinjh, got out his compad and began typing. “Assuming that each ship still has somewhere between sixty and eighty percent of its fuel reserves in their hoppers, we’ll be able to operate somewhere between two thousand four hundred, and three thousand ships. The rest will have to be mothballed.”

Grib clenched his jaw so hard he worried his teeth might crack. “So, even in the best case scenario, today we’re being defended by less than three fifths of the ships we were at this same time yesterday?”

There was a long pause, broken by Neegs whimpering, “Andhlo was right.”

“What was that?!” Grib snarled at him, and the man flinched.

“But he was!” Neegs pleaded. “We weren’t ready for war! Our fleets weren’t in a state of readiness, and they’re not being led by the right man.”

There were nods of agreement around the table, that stopped as Grib stared them all down one by one. Still, none of them seemed to change their mind. After all, Andhlo had been proven correct. They weren’t prepared for war, and no amount of Grib bullying and cajoling them would change that. 

“Perhaps… Perhaps we should ask Andhlo to come back?” Neegs suggested.

“Too late for that, I’m afraid.” Grib grunted, falling back down into his chair. “He committed suicide. They found him overdosed in his home office just a few days ago.” 

They all stared at him.

“Was it suicide?” Vinwe asked. “Or… ‘Suicide’?” He repeated, but this time he made finger quotes.

“What kind of a savage do you think I am?” Grib growled at him. Rather than wait for the answer, he reached under his desk and took out a number of glasses, along with an expensive bottle of whiskey. He pretended to not notice the fearful way they all exchanged glances with each other. “Still, even if he isn’t with us anymore, we can re-examine his plan.” 

None of the others seemed eager to stick their necks out after learning about their friend’s fate, so Grib got started. “Before this war started, half our fleet was already outside the Corporate Sector. They’ll still be able to buy fuel on the market, and they can do so on credit under our name. The problem is they’re all scattered across the Galaxy. Easily picked off in isolation. We’ll need to gather them up somewhere, and then once we’ve got an armada large enough it can’t possibly be defeated, crush Botajef and Raxus.”

Finally following his directions, Himera glanced at his friends, before saying, “We’ll need to appoint an overall fleet commander.” Then he looked at Grib, “You can’t micromanage a fleet from the other side of the Galaxy, Siv.”

Grib froze at that, and glared at the fat neimodian. He took a long drink of his liquor, “You think I don’t already know that!” He snarled and slammed his cup down. “ After what happened at Zygerria it is clear that most of our field commanders are incompetent, and it is up to me to find the right sentient for the job.”

“Calm down, Grib. We all make mistakes.” Neeg consoled.

Grib grunted, bitterly, pouring himself another glass.

Neeg took a glass for himself, and poured his own shot when Grib didn’t do it for him. After swallowing a mouthful of the stuff, he coughed and wiped at his lips. “But listen, Grib, we’re actually in luck.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t you remember? Andhlo’s plan called for a new commander of the Reformed Fleet. Grievous? Remember?”

Grib did remember. After that incident he took the time to look Grievous up, and had mixed feelings about what he’d read.

The general’s real name was Qymaen jai Sheelal, Grievous was just some kind of cultural moniker. He was born a backworld savage, fighting with a primitive slug thrower. When his barbarian world was invaded by the more advanced Yam’rii, he united his people in bloody conquest, and drove the enemy out completely. Not even satisfied with that, he cobbled together a fleet of captured enemy ships and secondhand vessels purchased from the black market, and launched an invasion of the Yam’rii’s Home System. After utterly destroying every single Yam’rii colony, he then launched an invasion of the Yam’rii homeworld and damn near conquered it. A complete reversal, carried out by a technological primitive, a feat unheard of anywhere else in Galactic history. 

By the time Republic Judiciary Forces finally intervened to put an end to the conflict, Grievous was organising a campaign of complete genocide against his enemies, sparing neither nesting famales or larvae. Despite it being the Yam’ree who had started the conflict, Grievous and the Kaleesh were defeated by the Jedi, and forced to pay reparations to their foe. After decades of devastating war, and the creation of an incredibly expensive fleet, Kaleesh was utterly bankrupt and wracked with poverty and starvation. In desperation, Grievous joined up with a Trade Federation subsidiary to begin paying back his people’s crippling debts.

No doubt the man was a military genius, but he was also a complete maniac. Grib swirled the liquor in his glass, staring at his own reflection. The kind of frightening potential Grievous possessed left Grib feeling… concerned. Controlling the primitive was going to be hard enough, but his capacity to learn new technologies, new strategies, new methods of war… It was a kind of aptitude that was frightening to consider. What happened when Grievous decided he should be in charge of the Trade Federation? Would Grib have any chance of outmaneuvering him?

Giving Grievous control over the Reformed Fleet was a gamble. There was no doubt that if anyone was up to the task of breaking the Alliance, it was him, but what happened once that enemy was defeated?

“What do you think, Grib?” Himera pressed. “Do you think Grievous is our man?”

“The other commanders won’t like it.” Grib pointed out. “They won’t want to take commands from an alien.”

“We’re talking about saving the Federation, here.” Himera replied, folding his hammy arms on top of his bloated belly. “They’ll have to live with our decision, or we’ll relieve them of command. Besides, I can’t think of anyone better?”

Grib couldn’t. He looked up from his drink and surveyed the men in the room, weighing his choices. Would these fools try to promote an alien over him when the time came? Who was he kidding, of course they would. These corpulent toads would fold at a stiff breeze, let alone a barbarian warlord.

In the end, Grib’s only real assurance was his Master. He was in place because greater powers desired for him to be there, and those greater powers wouldn’t choose Grievous over him, not when he was a rank outsider. Perhaps his Master would seek to initiate the primitive, and if that ever happened, Grib would be in a lot of trouble. For now, as long as he kept a close watch on Grievous, just in case he made any unexpected trips to Sojourn, Grib should be okay. In the end, what the Master really wanted was results, and he wouldn’t care who Grib used to get them.

“Fine.” Grib glanced at his other chairmen. “Do we all agree to this? I don’t want anyone whining that they had objections three months from now if this turns out to be a disaster?”

There were nods and hums of agreement all around the room.

“Alright we’ll set up an interview- Actually, we’re all assembled anyway, and this is an emergency meeting, isn’t it? Then let’s just call him now and get this ship underway.” Feeling impatient, he sat up and grabbed his holocom. He quickly called his assistant, who then forwarded him to General Grievous after confirming that the General wasn’t currently on assignment.

The holocom rang dozens of times before it was picked up. When the Kaleesh finally answered it took Grib a moment to register what he was looking at. The alien reptile was completely naked, his misshapen sex organs shamelessly exposed, alongside the sagging skin that came with age. His only concession to modesty was a bone white mask that covered his face, his tusks jutting out from beneath it. In the General’s hand was a simple carving knife as he worked on a little ball of wood. He was flicking chips and flecks of sawdust into the embers of a campfire as he carved something. The holocom he was using must have been held by an assistant droid, perhaps an astro mech, because caught in the display was a handful of other kaleesh women, moving about at the edge of the scene and talking to each other softly in their jabbering tongue.

Grib clenched his jaw. “General, this is a business call. Get dressed.”

“I’m fine.” Grievous answered with a dismissive flick of his chin.

“...General, I understand this call was on short notice, but this complete disregard for common decency is a violation of the code of conduct in your contract and has no place before myself, along with  Director Neeg, head of our legal department, Director Himera, and Director Vinwe. I demand you put some clothes on.”

With a frustrated clucking sound from somewhere in the back of his throat, Grievous called out in his alien jabber, and after a few moments a female Kaleesh, with her head, face, and body covered by intricate robes, came over. For him she held out a robe made from animal fur, and Grievous slid his shoulders into the sleeves, and stood at his full two metres height while she cinched the belt at the waist with a simple knot. Then the general finally sat down and resumed his carving.

“You called me at my home.” Grievous rumbled, and pointed with his finger at the board of directors. “Was it the fat director who stood me down? Or the one who is still fatter? You look the same to me.”

Himera and Neeg exchanged shocked looks with each other.

Grib breathed out long and slow, through his nose. “General, we’re calling to interview about a new position that has opened up. I believe my former colleague Andhlo spoke to you about it?”

“Was that why you slew him?” The barbarian demanded. 

The stress sent coming from Neeg’s glands sharpened deeply, mixed with the slightly rotted smell of infection.

“Andhlo died of a drug overdose.” Grib growled.

“Yes, the needle forced into his neck was very large, I think.” The Kaleesh held his hands apart to demonstrate the size. “You do not speak to a child, you speak to Grievous. You will speak truth, or not speak. Andhlo was… honourable, for your kind. He worked for a kresh of liars and thieves. Now the King of Thieves offers me a great title.” He scoffed, and then turned back to his carving. “I wonder when will the Thief King try to dispose of me?”

“I’m the Viceroy of the Trade Federation.” Grib shouted, pounding his fist against the desk. “And I will not be spoken to like this by an alien barbarian!”

“Yes! Good!” Grievous let out a cackle. “Now you speak the truth.”

Grib launched himself to his feet, knocking his chair over backwards he stood up so fast. He knew he was being manipulated and provoked, but how dare this upjumped savage talk to him like this?! “You want me to treat you as you deserve to be treated? Fine. I was going to offer you a position worth so much it’ll pay back the entire debt of your worthless little mudball in a single campaign! I was going to offer you a command of a fleet of five thousand warships! You could have had more power than a mud soaked barbarian like you could have ever dreamed of, if you just showed me a fraction of the respect I deserve! Instead, you will die regretting that an entire generation of your people lived and died in poverty because of your unearned pride!”

Grievous’s cackle stopped, and the only sound for the next minute was the wood crackling in the firepit. The women in the background of the call had stopped speaking, disturbed by the sound of Grib’s rant. Finally, the Kaleesh primitive spoke in a low, soft tone. “You do not have five thousand ships. Inside the Corporate Sector, you have four thousand ships, but only enough fuel for, oh, two thousand.” He hummed. “Maybe another two hundred. Outside, you have five thousand ships, but half are crippled. Parts missing. Gas gone. Hoppers dry. Andhlo and I knew your fleets best, Thief King. I know your commanders, your captains, your admirals. None of them can win your war.”

The general leaned forward, and took up a stick with one hand, using it to turn the log in the fire. “Your enemy has been watching you. Planning. Dooku chose when to declare war. First strike crippled you. Second strike destroyed your confidence. You no longer threaten his castle. He threatens yours. You are like a wounded beast that he stalks, waiting for a chance to lay the finishing blow. One more mistake, Grib. One more mistake, and your Thief Kingdom will burn.” It was then that he raised up the block of wood that he’d been carving, and held it up for the holocom to see.

At first it looked like nothing but a simple wooden ball, but then Grib recognised it was a planet. He didn’t know which one, though it looked vaguely familiar. What he had thought were merely embers in the fire were the smouldering remains of other such effigies. 

“Your enemy… very ruthless. Determined. Clever. Prepared.” Grievous let out a soft cackle. “He doesn’t even hate you. He doesn’t think of your suffering, to cause it or to avoid it. He simply wishes to destroy you. To be defeated by such an enemy… terrible. Terrible.”

“...Can you win the war?” Grib demanded. 

“Yes.” Grievous answered with complete confidence. He looked up at the holocom, but made no attempt to elaborate further.

Grib glanced over at the other board members. They all gave nods, looking thoroughly impressed. The truth was that Grib already hated the damned alien, and he knew that trying to control him was a doomed endeavor. The thing was, he didn’t need a general who responded perfectly to commands, what he needed was Raxus and Botajef burned to the ground. Whatever threat Grievous would pose down the line was a threat he would have to deal with when the time came.

“General, we’re prepared to offer you the position.”

“I refuse.”

“Oh, get blasted!” Grib snarled. “Why not?!”

“We haven’t discussed my payment.” Grievous replied.

“I promise you, you will receive so many credits your stupid little cesspit will be struggling with inflation, instead of debt.”

“Yes, of course.” Grievous said. “But the treasure is not enough.”

“What do you want?” Grib groaned out, exasperated.

“To exterminate the huks.” 

“The who?”

“Your kind call them Yam’rii.” Grievous looked directly up at Grib’s projected face, his eyes gleaming with the rising fire of the burning orb. “I want them all dead. Every adult. Every child. Every sample of their DNA in a sperm bank or egg creche. Every city razed. Every last bunker dug up. No brick laid by the Huks will ever rest upon another again.”

The other board members looked at each other when they heard the demand. A clear declaration of genocidal intentions, demanded as a price for mercenary services. Force help them, this primitive really was an absolute madman.

Grib sat there, seething. “...Fine. but you’ll have to hunt down the other Yam’rii, scattered across the Galaxy down yourself.”

“Grib?” Neegs cautioned, looking nervous. “Remember that somebody may one day end up listening to this call. We can’t agree to this, not if it ends up in a court room.”

“Shut up.”

“But this is gen-”

“Shuuuut uuup!” Grib howled at him, the exhalation so intense it flung spittle from his throat. “You worthless fat old man! Just be quiet! Just close your gaping mouth! That’s all you need to do! Just sit there, and let me fix this mess, or take your reeking flesh and go! Get out! Maybe then you can die of an excess of pus in your disgusting glands and I’ll never have to smell your rotten stink again!”

Neeg sat in his chair, unmoving. He glanced between Grib and the holocom, before finally he settled back, swallowing. “We need to make sure this call is not recorded.”

Chest heaving, Grib turned back to the holocom, and swallowed down a mouthful of foaming spittle. “You hear that, savage? The Yam’rii homeworld, their colonies, their homesystem, that will be yours to do as you please, with. But the rest? That will be up to you.”

“...Deal.” Grievous finally answered.

“You understand that we can’t keep an agreement like this in writing?” Neegs added.

“Pah.” Grievous dismissed. “I will control your armies. If you try to betray me, I will raze the Corporate Sector myself.”

Grib’s eye twitched. “So be it.” Then he hung up.

As the fire and the demon disappeared back into the holocom they were summoned from, Grib suddenly felt a strange sense of exhaustion overcome him. He looked at the rest of the directors, to find them staring at him, stunned.

It was Vinwe who broke the silence. “What have we agreed to?”

Rather than answer, Grib left the room, glad to be away from the smell of their pathetic cowardice. Whatever Grievous’s petty grudges, in the end Grib had no real choice. He wasn’t stupid enough to believe his Master would tolerate failure. Whatever became of the Trade Federation, or the Alliance, or the blasted huk, Grib wouldn’t be around to see any of it he didn’t get results.

Now wasn’t the time to be having second thoughts. Now was the time to double down. What choice was even left anymore but to win or die? 

Steppe Sage 09

Gathering up the herds from Bitter Springs was one thing, but actually moving them to Red Rock was going to be a challenge in its own right. The big problem was that we were trying to control almost a hundred and fifty animals, with only five of us. It was just barely doable, particularly thanks to Briggs and Holler, who were both experienced herdsmen and excellent riders, but it meant we had to plot our route out to Red Rock carefully. Taking the bighorners and slippies through Vegas’ outer ruins was just asking for disaster, as the animals could get lost among the turns and corners of the city streets, or be killed and eaten by vagrants long before we found them again.

In the end there was simply no choice but to lead the beasts on a long, circuitous route North around Vegas, then West until we arrived at the helpfully named Red Rock Canyon Road, which would lead us straight to our destination. The journey was about a hundred miles, and our horses could do about forty miles a day without hurting them, but we would also be directing the herds as we rode, which would slow us down. All in all, if things went well, we would be there near the end of the fourth day.

Despite the work of keeping such a large herd together and moving, we were all in fairly good spirits. The Khans who had waited for me at the Clinic were mostly younger, in their early twenties or late teens, and were all Maggie’s friends before she died and I took possession of her body. None of them lost spouses or children in the Bitter Springs Massacre, though Tan had lost his mother and seemed just about ready to challenge any NCR soldier we saw to a fist fight. Perhaps the main reason that spirits were so high was because the young Khans seemed convinced we would receive a hero’s welcome when we rejoined the tribe. I’m sure they were exaggerating, but I had no doubt the others would be happy to have even a portion of their herds back. 

Holler had apparently received some training as a vet when the Followers had been on friendlier terms with the tribe, and he seemed to love any animal he put his hands on. We even found a small raven hatchling that had fallen out of its nest on the way through the city, and Holler had insisted that we pause long enough for him to save it. Using a pair of cooking tongs to avoid getting his scent on the chick, he picked it up, scaled the old telegraph post one handed, and gently returned the chick to the nest before climbing back down. It was among the most foolish things I had ever seen, but it gave me confidence that he was the one best suited to help me care for Soldier.

“I swear to god, Maggie, ain’t ever seen a tougher beast in my life.” Holler proclaimed, admiringly, as he checked Soldier’s health one morning. “No wonder them NCR rats love these things.” Then he looked up at me, his expression guilty. “Not that I think they’re better than our slippies.”

Soldier himself remained quiet and admirably stoic, not being bothered much by the flies or the heat, or the extra weight he had to carry from me. I rode alongside Ezekiel, who had been given a particularly friendly slippie mare to ride, named Sweet Pear. He was clearly struggling after a few days in the saddle, hobbling painfully when he got off the horse in the evening, and wincing when he had to climb back up to the saddle in the morning.

“Tell me about yourself, Ezekiel.” 

“Hm? Me?”

“Yeah.” I wiggled a bit in the saddle to make myself comfortable, and he winced and looked away, so I stopped. “Maybe a little chat will help take your mind off things?”

He shrugged after a moment. “Well, I was born north of here. In a place called New Canaan.”

“New Canaan?” I couldn’t keep the grin from my voice. “Well, what do you know? I was just hearing about New Canaan the other day from a fellow at Happy Trails. You guys really ranch geckos up there?”

Ezekiel gave a startled laugh. “Is that all he told you? Of all the things people hear about New Canaan, I thought the geckos would be the least interesting.”

“Well, what’s more interesting about the Canaanites?”

He shrugged. “Well, let’s see. We’re all shooters. Learning to use a Colt 45 is a right of passage. We’ve got good relations with the NCR and the Followers. Because of our beliefs, well, their beliefs, they’re out to evangelise to all the tribes around them. They’re probably the best linguists in the wasteland, they make a habit of carefully studying and understanding every language they encounter, so they can translate the bible for everyone to study. Followers and NCR both tend to hire them out as translators. Last I heard, they just finished translating and making copies of the bible for the Shi, out on the West Coast.” 

Ah, the pious types, though they at least seemed friendly enough. I had to keep the grimace from my face. It seemed that if Being X were to suddenly appear and send one of these barbarian wastelanders to form a crusade to kill me, New Canaan would be a fertile recruiting ground. 

“Is that why you left them to join the Followers? Your beliefs changed?”

Ezekiel fell silent. I glanced over to see him looking away wistfully. He sighed once before shrugging. “I… miss the church. I don’t believe in it, but I miss it.”

Ah, a personal story then. “Well, I was thinking of hiring someone from Happy Trails to go out that way, actually. Pick up some domesticated gecko eggs.”

He looked at me. “Gecko ranching isn’t easy, Maggie. Even the domesticated ones are little monsters. What do you want with them?”

“Golden geckos.” I replied, and he looked surprised by my answer. “Golden Gecko hides sell for two hundred and fifty caps, each. If we can get some radiation into a domesticated gecko, and mutate it into a golden gecko, we could corner the market on a radiation resistant, energy resistant, and stylish material. Imagine the proffits!”

“That’s… potentially a really good idea.” He admitted, like he was stunned that I could be clever. “I can see the caps in it, but won’t handling the radioactive materials hurt the ranchers?”

I nodded. “I was thinking maybe we could use robots for that? Put some distance between the farmers and the sludge.”

“You’re going to have to replace the robots fairly often then, or they’ll become radioactive too.” Ezekiel said, consideringly. “Probably a better option would be in two parts. One, you use some of the golden gecko hide to make a radiation resistant suit for the farmer, so he can handle the materials with some safety, and two, keep him on a steady diet of cave fungus, to help flush the radiation out.”

“Cave fungus?”

“Yup. A lot of people around here don’t seem to realise it, but there’s a variety of fungus that produces enzymes which bind with radioactive particles naturally, and render them inert. So you just excrete out a small amount of radiation with each meal. The Tribals up in the calico basin noticed it first when the people who ate the fungus seemed to stay healthier, then the Canaanites learned about it from them. Eventually the Followers did studies on the subject, and were able to prove its effects. The Followers have even been able to synthesize rad away from it, though they’ve never been able to find a reliable supplier of the stuff.”

“That’s fantastic.” I muttered, mind racing. “There’s gotta be some old caves and mineshafts around Red Rock Valley, somewhere. I’m not an expert on the subject, but I know of a few mushroom farming techniques that we could figure out with a little trial and error.”

Ezekiel turned to look at me, at first smiling but then pausing, and looking confused. “Who told you about Mushroom farming?”

I didn’t have a good answer. My mind raced to find an excuse, when a sharp whistle from up ahead dragged both our attention to Melbourne.

“Alright, break it up, lovebirds.” The darker skinned woman said, riding over towards us. “We’ve got trouble up ahead.” Then she turned her horse around, and it cantered forward when she dug her heels into its sides. 

“We’ll talk later.” I told Ezekiel, before touching my spurs to Soldier, and hurrying after her. At the front of the herd I found Tan already there, staring grimly into the distance through a rifle scope, though it wasn’t currently attached to any rifle. “What’s the problem?”

“Fiends.” Tan answered. “Look, by that old caravan park over there.” He tossed me the scope.

I looked through it, and was greeted by what at first looked like a tangled mess of collapsed buildings, with concrete bricks and rebar strewn everywhere amidst the skeletal remains of old ruins, but when I looked past that I saw what looked like a dead body on the road just next to a caravan park. The park sat right on the corner of the Red Rock Valley Road that we intended to take. There was a pair of dogs feasting on it, tearing apart the old body between them. The remains were nothing but a bloody mess at this point, to the point neither age or sex were distinguishable, at least from this distance.

As I looked at the caravan park, I realised that there was a scoped rifle pointed right back at me. Instinctively I ducked away, but Tan said, “Relax. Violet’s crazy, but she answers to Motor Runner.”

“She’s not going to shoot at us?”

“I didn’t say that.” Tan muttered. “She’d be crazy to kill a Khan, but Fiends are fucking crazy.”

“And Violet’s crazier than most.” Melbourne muttered. 

“Alright, so… If we just try to ride straight past, our ally and trading partner might start taking pot shots at us?”

“That’s right.” Tan said. “And Violet ain’t a bad shot, either.”

“And if we start shooting back at her, more Fiends might come around to see what the noise is about.” Melbourne added, her nose wrinkling. “And the Fiends have a lot of firepower.” 

I looked back through the scope, watching the young fiend woman as her lips moved in what I had to assume was a compulsive mutter. No one was near her, she was up on that caravan by herself. She had a dog’s skull stuck to the top of her helmet, and strips of drying meat hung out on a string behind her. If she was representative of the Fiends, I had to wonder where they were getting their weapons from? She certainly didn’t look like the sort of person who knew how to build and maintain a firearm.

“What kind of firepower do they have?”

Melbourne answered. “Laser rifles, plasma rifles, RCWs, and grenades. Not all of them have the good shit, and none of them are well maintained, but they can pack a hell of a punch.”

“Where do they get it all from?”

No one answered, and eventually Melbourne shrugged. “Dunno. They just have ‘em.”

I considered it for a moment. “We could just pay her off.” They all looked at me, and I continued. “She let the other Khans pass, so she hopefully won’t be completely unreasonable. Probably thought they were a bit too tough of a target to risk firing on. If we give her a case of jet she’ll just drug herself into a stupor and we can ride past.” I glanced at the others. “Right?”

The pair looked uneasy at my suggestion. “I wouldn’t want to get closer to South Vegas.” Melbourne answered. “Some of our runners never come back from Fiend territory. Killed and robbed on the way to the drop off.” 

“...And these are supposed to be our allies?” I asked the others. Once again I was met with silence from the group. “Great.” I muttered. “Look, if someone carries a case of jet, and a bunch of Fiends show up to try and take it from you, just dump it and run. I’m sure they’ll be so distracted you can get away.”

“That’s a good idea.” Tan nodded, considering, then he looked at me, smirking. “You wanna make the hand off, then?”

Obviously, I didn’t want to be the one to do it, but Tan and Melbourne weren’t willing, and I couldn’t order them around like I could soldiers under my command or employees back in Japan. Holler and Briggs were our two best herdsman, and I wasn’t sure we could get the beasts to Red Rock without them. That just left me and Ezekiel, and the Follower was hardly a skilled enough rider to make a speedy get away.

Shit. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

I absolutely didn’t want to get into a protracted fight with a large number of fiends, especially if some of them were carrying energy weapons. Our homemade firearms were better than nothing, and I doubt the Fiends were great shots, but there were only five of us, and I wasn’t sure how many of the damned druggies could be hanging out nearby. Looking at that mess of ruined buildings, I could easily see what looked like a dozen places that would make for a comfortable shooting nest.

Violet certainly didn’t seem like the reasonable sort. That dead body in the road was almost certainly her handiwork. If she fired on us, and the animals panicked, we might never get them back.

It really seemed like my idea to give her enough Jet to sate her was the best option for now. With a sigh, I turned around and rode to the back of our herd where Briggs was riding back and forth to keep any stragglers with the group. He was in charge of our pharmaceuticals for now, if only because he was using some of them to treat the illnesses of a few of our animals. 

“Something going on?”

“Yeah, give me the jet. Put it in a bag.”

He hesitated to give it over until I finished explaining the situation to him. After a while he shrugged, before he started taking out all the inhalers and shoving them into a little sack. “Just the jet?”

“Yeah, it should be enough to pay off the Fiends.”

He didn’t look pleased as he passed them to me. “You gonna be the one to make the trade off?”

I nodded.

He pursed his lips. “Wait a sec. Keep an eye on them.” He gestured to the bighorners, before turning his slippie around and riding back over to Holler. They exchanged a few words I couldn’t hear, before Holler tossed what looked like a pole to Briggs, who nimbly caught it and rode back over to me. “You better take this.”

I recognised it as one of the old fibreglass oars Briggs and I had taken from the boat shed, but the paddle had been taken off the end and replaced with a sharpened steel tip. It was brown in colour, except for where a whetstone had been used to peel back the layer of rust to leave a gleaming edge and a pointed tip. A lawnmower blade, I realised, fixed to the shaft with screws. They had also wrapped leather at the balance point of the shaft, so that someone could hold it without getting fibreglass splinters. “What do I need a spear for?”

Briggs looked at me like I’d said the stupidest thing he’d heard all day. “It’s a lance. You know? So if Violett’s dogs come for Soldier’s ankle, you can stab them without having to get out of the saddle? You just said you shouldn’t fire a gun, right? Might bring other Fiends in. So stab ‘em with this instead.”

I finally understood the logic, and it made sense. I didn’t get the impression that Violet had a lot of control over her pack, so turning around to ride back to the group might provoke the dogs to chase me. With Briggs help, I was able to use a belt to make a leather loop on the side of the saddle that I could rest my new lance in. 

Once again, primitive tools had their uses in a barbarian era. It occurred to me that my 21st century biases might have predisposed me against tools that seemed primitive or backwards by modern standards, when it could be that they were the simplest and easiest solution to apply in a world without reliable access to electricity and running motors. I’m certain I possessed a wealth of knowledge and skills that could benefit myself and the tribe, but by that same token it wouldn’t be wise of me to dismiss the hard earned wasteland wisdom of the Khans. 

With my preparations made, I turned and rode towards Violet, one hand on Soldier’s reins, and another holding a jet inhaler aloft over my head for the sniper to see. 

I saw the sun gleam off the madwoman’s scope as she tracked me, coming closer and closer. As I passed the corpse in the road, the emaciated dogs growled at me, but didn’t move away from their prize. I could see enough of the body up close that I could make out a shaved head and a feminine face.

 When I got close enough to her little perch, I saw her lower the rifle so it wasn’t pointed directly at me, and I finally got a clear look at the woman. She was absolutely filthy, rank like a rat that crawled straight out of a sewage pipe. Her eyes were bloodshot, and sunken, with thick black bags around her eyes. There were spatters of dried gore on her boots and hands, and she kept rocking up and down on the spot, moving her body weight with her knee. Her dogs barked and yapped, rushing out to encircle me and Solider, and my horse gave a nervous wicker beneath me, its tail swishing back and forth.

“Whatchu doing here, Khan?” She spat out at me, voice shrill. “Is that Jet? Is that for me?”

“Thought you might like some.” I called back with a smile. “You want me to bring it to you, or do you want to come get it?”

She looked around, left and right, licking her lips. Possibly afraid that other fiends might see, and she might be forced to share. “What are you giving me this for?” She started scratching at her scalp rapidly. “I didn’t ask for this!”

“I was thinking if you liked my jet, you wouldn’t need to shoot at us.”

Her scratching and jittering came to a sudden stop as if a rational thought had paralysed her. “Yeah. Yeah. Yeah!” She burst out in a shrill laugh. “Yeah! Give it to me!” She beckoned me closer.

I tapped one spur against Soldier’s side, and he began to trot forward, nervously. When we were only a few metres away from her, I was close enough to see over the little scrap wall she had around the caravan park, and I noticed a small, pale, bruised child laying naked on a mattress. He couldn’t even have been more than ten years old, his hands bound to a post so tightly they were obviously cutting off blood flow to his discoloured fingers. The poor boy had been beaten, whipped, and burned all over every corner of his body. Shivering uncontrollably, he slowly raised his gaze to look at me, his light brown eyes meeting mine for a brief moment, before Violet shrieked.

“What are you looking at, Khan?!” She screamed. “Don’t look at him! He’s not yours!” 

This was a Fiend. This was the tribe that my tribe was doing business with.

…What a disgusting waste of human resources. Being such a worthless addict that you’d murder for your next high was despicable, utterly antisocial in every way, but to capture and mutilate children for your own private amusement? In all my years of service to the Kaiser, never have I felt such an intense hatred for anyone before except Being X.

I dropped the jet canister in my hand and it fell to the ground where it burst open with a hiss of foul smelling gas. Violet’s eyes widened in horror, and she dashed forward to the edge of the railing in a panic. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” She screeched.

“It’s okay, I’ve got more.” I said to her, and hefted the bag. She looked up, and there was a long pause before she recognised the value of the sack.

“Give them to me!” She snapped. “Now! Now!”

“Yeah, catch.” I tossed it to her, and she reached to catch it, but I’d thrown it so that its arc fell short of her perch. Eyes fearfully wide, Violet lurched forward, throwing herself bodily against the fence to stretch her arm out and save the jet. The rifle she was carrying dropped to the caravan roof so she could hold onto the fence, with all her weight resting on only her hip, pressed against the rail. Her arm was raised and what little armour Violet wore didn’t cover her neck or upper chest, revealing bear cleavage and a thin neck. She was helpless to do anything, as I ripped the lance from the loop and rammed it straight into her chest. Blood sprayed free and she gasped as the air was forced from her lungs, before she went limp, falling to the ground in a dead heap. 

There was a pregnant pause, before one of violet’s dogs let out a piercing growl and lunged. Unbidden by me, Soldier spun on the spot and lashed out with his hoothes, and the dog’s neck broke with a wet crack. Soldier pranced about on the spot, whinnying and kicking, throwing hooves as the entire pack rushed about us, looking to lay gnashing teeth on hoof or ankle. I was a better rider than I realised, reflexively moving my hips with Soldier to keep myself from being thrown free. When there was a chance and I saw one of the dogs coming too close, I stabbed out with the lance, splitting its snout open. With its master and two of its members dead, the dog ran away, whimpering. The rest of the pack gave up, and turned to follow his example. No doubt the wild mongrels would threaten someone else in the future, but I was happy to let them go.

Once they were gone it didn’t take long for Soldier to calm down, nostrils flaring and eyes rolling as it searched around for any more of them. “Good work, Soldier. Good work.” I petted him on the neck, before climbing down out of the saddle.

I kicked Violet’s body over with my boot, and found her face slack and eyes glassy and unfocussed. Definitely dead. I scooped down long enough to recover the jet, her rifle, and whatever rounds she had for it, before returning the lance to its loop, then I climbed my way up the ramp Violet had set up to find the young boy sitting up and staring at me with a mix of fear and hope.

“I’m gonna cut your rope, okay?”

He nodded once, wiping at his eyes, though he flinched when I took out the knife I got from the dead cowboy, and used it to cut his bindings. Rubbing at his wrists, the boy attempted to stand up, but his legs were too weak and he fell down. In the end I had to carry him down from the caravan roof, and sit him upright in Soldier’s saddle. 

The poor boy was completely naked, so I poked around and found a discarded set of rags, sized for a child. They were sliced open, Violet must have cut them from him, and now they were ruined. The only other bit of cloth I could find around that could have protected his dignity was Violet’s flea ridden blanket, and I wasn’t going to let that anywhere near myself or Soldier. In the end all I could give him was my old shirt, which was so large that it draped over him and down to his knees like a dress.

The boy had never ridden a horse before, so I had him in the saddle in front of me, while I gripped the reins with my elbows resting on his shoulders. As we passed the dead woman on the ground, the boy broke into sobs. I don’t know if that woman was his mother or his sister, if she was just a stranger. 

In the end I decided not to ask. 

The rest of the Khans saw me approaching with the nearly naked boy and a bloodied lance, and were obviously curious about what happened. After I explained to them, most of them looked accepting except for Tan, who gave the kid a suspicious eye.

“Who’s the president?” He demanded.

The boy didn’t respond at first.

“Hey.” Tan snapped his fingers. “Tell me, who’s the president?” 

It took a while for the boy to reply, “Eden?”

Tan harumphed, then shrugged at me. “At least this brat’s not NCR.” 

“Who’s President Eden?”

Tan shrugged. “I don’t know. But the NCR president is Kimbal.” 

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “We can figure it out later. For now let’s get clear of Fiend territory.”

Tan frowned, obviously wanting to say more, but then decided better. He spun in the saddle, before putting his thumb and middle finger between his lips and letting out a long piercing whistle. Off in the distance Briggs waved back, before he started driving the herd forward again. Soon we were riding away, New Vegas fading into the distance.

-----

Red Rock Valley was well named. The entrance sat between two roughly parallel ridges of red sandstone, between which small amounts of wild grass and other hardy shrubs sheltered from the harsh Mojave sun. Marking the entrance was a large boulder that had clearly been there since the prewar. In fact, as I looked at it more closely, I realised it wasn’t actually stone, but concrete that had been so worn down by the centuries that it had begun to resemble the rocks around here. On its surface I could see the words, ‘RED ROCK CANYON, Southwest Commonwealth Conservation Area.’

Ahead of us was what remained of a toll booth, and beyond that a carpark and a handful of ruined buildings. So far we hadn’t encountered any of the Khan’s Scouts, but it was only a matter of time. We were seeing plenty of evidence of their passage ahead of us, including the remnants of a freshly dug well right next to the pre-war ruins, old bricks repurposed to hastily build a wall. 

We were all seated around a campfire, made from wood scavenged from the ruins, and Holler was stirring at a stew pot. He was cooking a ‘white stew’, made from water drawn from the well, a pigeon he caught when we passed Outer Vegas, some prickly pads, pepper, pinyon nuts, and bighorner milk. It was almost the same thing we had last night, but that was cooked with pinto beans instead of meat. It wasn’t exactly delicious, but it was filling and nutritious. 

The water well had me curious, though.

“How did they know to dig here?” I asked the camp. 

Ezekiel shrugged. “A lot of pre-war structures were built right above some kind of water source. They could pump it in from a distance, but it was usually just cheaper to build where it was already. The other Khans probably know that, so they tried digging it up and got lucky.”

It was a good thing they did. It gave us a chance to fill our water bottles and clean up the boy I rescued. At the moment he had the boy stripped down to the waste, his back exposed. Though he claimed medicine wasn’t his specialty, Ezekiel was the closest thing we had to a qualified doctor. It certainly looked like he knew what he was doing, as he cleaned the boy’s wounds and sewed the nastier cuts shut. Currently, the youngling was sipping a healing powder tea, not a word of complaint despite the terrible taste or the prick of Ezekiel’s needle. He didn’t speak unless spoken to, and was obviously underfed even before his captivity.

The sun was setting, and we decided to stop here on the evening of the third night, just because there was water. Tomorrow we would follow the Khan’s tracks deeper into the valley, and finally get a look at our new home with some luck.

Curiosity was itching at me as I looked around at the collection of buildings. There was a little one by the old road that was probably all that was left of an old toll booth, and another structure over at the carpark that was half buried in tumbleweeds, which I think was a former public toilet. There were others, some kind of sleeping quarters, a visitors centre, etc, but what really caught my eye was one pile of ruins sitting on a set of raised foundations. Though it was collapsed, I could see rusted bars that once would have sat over the windows, and the collapsed doors had a layer of steel plating on front and back, as well as heavy bolts so they could be sealed from the inside.

“You think that was a bank?” I asked Ezekiel, pointing to it. 

He glanced at it then shook his head, returning his attention to his work. “That was probably headquarters for the National Park Rangers.”

“Why’s it built like a fortress?”

“If I had to guess, that was where they kept the money they collected from the Toll Booth. Might be an armoury in there, too.”

Melbourne’s head jerked up, suddenly interested. “Armoury?”

Ezekiel shrugged. “Maybe.”

“You interested in the armoury?” I asked her.

Melbourne nodded. “There are some parts I can’t make that I need for our guns.” She patted the little SMG at her side. “Most of it’s just sheet metal, and I can hammer ‘em out if I’ve got a work bench and my tools, but I can’t make the barrel, bolt, and most of the firing mechanism.”

“You make these?” I asked her, surprised. I took out my own crude little submachine gun, and examined it more closely. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

Melbourne shrugged. “It was in some old book. Guns and Bullets.”

“In the Pre-War, the United States was afraid there would be an attempt at invasion.” Ezekiel explained. “So a number of older, more rugged designs found their way back into print. The kind of guns that a man with a shed could make, back then.”

“Impressive.” I considered her for a moment. “What if you had better tools? Could you make more guns?”

“I mean, I’m not some master craftsman over here.” Melbourne grunted. “I know how to fix up what we have and hammer out something simple, but I ain’t a Gun Runner.”

Even I knew who the Gun Runners were, their booth was just a few streets over from the Crimson Caravan. They were a large family business operating from California that had somehow preserved manufacturing knowledge from the Pre-War. They operated a couple of factories, and even had a workshop set up here in New Vegas. They held the contract for the NCR Army, and supplied them with all the semi-automatic rifles they used, among other things.

“Well, would you like to learn more if you got the chance?”

“Yeah, sure, I’d love to.” Melbourne replied. “But the Gun Runners weren’t exactly willing to take on a former Khan as an apprentice.” She got a frustrated look on her face. “They laughed at my work.” 

Ah. Another young Khan who made an attempt at life outside the tribe, only to be forcefully rebuffed by the world. 

“Well…” Ezekiel began, then he trailed off.

We all looked at him, but he kept his mouth shut, pretending not to notice us. Tan and Melbourne both exchanged annoyed looks, but I held a hand up to make them back off. I’m pretty sure I’d have better luck speaking to Ezekiel by himself later.

Ezekiel continued to work in silence until he handed the shirt back to the boy. The clothes we got for him weren’t much to look at. We had access to fabric, and some needles for stitching, so we had thrown together something for him to wear. He was still going barefoot for now, but at least he now had pants with suspenders and a white shirt.

“Whatever.” Tan grunted, standing up. “Come on Melbourne, we’ll see if we can find something.”

They both headed off to poke about the wreckage in the dying light, and I decided to join them. The roof had collapsed completely, and the ground floor was buried by a mess of concrete and scattered bricks. We threw aside some of the old doors that we could drag free, and tossed the bricks away from the foundation for an hour, until at last the sun set and we still hadn’t made much progress.

“We’ll try again in the morning.” I said, dusting my hands. “Maybe with some horses we can pull some of the larger pieces of rubble off the foundation.”

I turned to start walking back to the camp, but Melbourne stopped me with a hand on the shoulder. “Tan, give us a sec, eh?”

Tan shrugged and wandered away.

“What’s the problem?” I asked her.

Melbourne nodded, and scuffed her boot against the ground, before looking up to meet my gaze. “Look, you.. changed. You changed a lot.” She scoffed. “Fuck, if I didn’t know your face so well, I wouldn’t think you were the same person. Sometimes you sound the same, but other times it’s like you have an accent. Like one of them northern tribals, almost.”

“Is that a problem?”

She rubbed at her hair, uncomfortable, but breathed out a long exhalation. “You know what’s going to happen when we get back, right? You’re going to have to join the tribe as an adult, now. Which means the beatdown.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” She looked me in the eye. “Can you handle it?”

To be completely honest, this body was a lot tougher than my second life. Not only was Maggie fully grown, but as best as I can tell she had spent a lifetime riding, shooting, and practicing hand to hand combat on an all natural, high protein diet. In my second life I was raised in a state orphanage, where the food and conditions were hardly great, and enrolled for the front lines of a major industrial war before I’d even hit puberty. I couldn’t remember the exact manner of my second death, but I don’t remember ever growing a hair above five feet. Maggie was statuesque by comparison, though I had yet to find out her exact height, she was taller than every other woman I’d met, and eye-to-eye with most Khans who were taller than most NCR I’d met. If I could handle the front lines of a war and getting into a fight with that super powered maniac Mary, then I’m pretty sure I could last through whatever the Khans could dish out, especially in a body like this.

“I can handle it.” I promised her.

She stared at me for a long moment, before patting me on the shoulder and turning away. “Alright, just checking you knew what you were getting into.”

We arrived back at the campfire to find the food had already been served, and there were two bowls of hot stew waiting for us. The Khans didn’t waste time with things like spoons or forks, sipping straight from the bowls directly. We sat around the fire, eating in silence. Surprisingly, it was the boy who finished first, woofing down his serving in what looked like seconds, and then staring hungrily at the pot like he wanted more.

“Here, get some seconds, boy. God knows you damn well need it.” Ezekiel waved the lad over, and filled his bowl a second time. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Marcus.” The boy answered, eyes on the stew. “Granite.” Then he tried to take a sip, but it was too hot for him. He blew on it a few more times, before trying again.

“Two names?” Ezekiel hummed, curiously. “So you’re not a tribal, then? And Marcus is definitely not a Canaanite name. And you’re sure you’re not NCR?”

Marcus shook his head, mouth full. “Mughm shays-” He swallowed loudly. “-Mum says my dad was a hero. He fought the NCR.”

Ezekiel blinked, then frowned. “Where’s your father now?”

Marcus shrugged. “I don’t know.”

We exchanged looks. “Does the tribe take in orphans?” I asked.

“Course we do!” Tan scoffed. “Papa even raises them himself. He loves kids.” 

I nodded, then I realised, “Wait, is that why everyone calls him-?”

I was interrupted when from out of the darkness, there was a long, piercing whistle broken up in two intervals. Immediately, Brigs rushed to his feet, and gave the same whistle back, but in three intervals. There was a long pause, then in the distance we heard murmuring voices beyond the light of our campfire. Out of the darkness to the north of us, large silhouettes emerged, eventually revealing about twenty or so Khans. Leading the group was Papa, who had a wide smile on his face.

“Too bold, young pups.” His deep voice had mirth in it, and a tone of warning. “We didn’t recognise you in the dark. We were about to rustle your herd. Would’ve killed all of you before you even realised what was happening, fireblinded like you are.”

“Ah, come off it.” Tan answered. “That’s what the signal’s for, right?”

“There’s other Tribals in these hills, boy. It might not have been us who crept up on you.” He surveyed all of us, before his eyes settled on me. For just a moment, I think there was a glimmer of sadness in his eyes. “Come over here and give your grandpa a hug.” 

It felt a little odd, but I stood up and walked around the fire to embrace him. 

“So. You decided to stay, eh?” He let go of me, and looked down at me with a fond, sad smile. “And you brought gifts? Who’d you rustle these from?”

“No one. These are ours.” I answered. “This is a portion of the herd from Bitter Springs.”

Papa’s eyebrows shut up in disbelief, and he glanced over to see the rest of them nodding in agreement. “...You’re going to have to explain to me how you managed to sneak this many bighorners past the NCR.” I would have told him that we didn’t have to, but he continued, pointing a finger at Ezekiel and Marcus. “And you two. I still recognise you, Ezekiel, but who’s the boy?”

“Marcus is just a straggler that we picked up.” I answered. “You know Ezekiel?”

“Of course. It was just a few years ago, he came to join us on the Strip with other Followers. He and I talked extensively about the history of our tribe.” Papa walked over to where Ezekiel sat, who rose to meet him and offered a hand for a shake, but instead was pulled into a powerful hug. “It’s been years, but I would be honoured if you were to join us as a guest for a time.”

“The honour’s all mine.” Ezekiel assured him.

Papa then knelt down in front of Marcus so they were at eye level, and offered the lad his hand. “Marcus, was it? Do you need help getting back to your parents?”

The boy swallowed and shook his head. “I never knew my daddy. And mum…” His lip wobbled. “Mum… we tried to run away, but the Fiend-”

Without a word, Papa pulled the boy into his arms, patting him on the back. “Don’t need to say anything else, son. Not if you don’t want to.” Wordlessly, Marcus started to sob into Papa’s shoulder, who let him do it.

From among the ring of the waiting Khans, the single largest man I had ever seen in person in any of my lives stepped forward. He was maybe just a few inches taller than Papa, but his arms were as big as my thighs, and corded with thick muscles. His neck wouldn’t have looked out of place on a bull, and his hair was kept in a large mohawk. When he spoke, it was with a surprisingly collected, almost civilised tone.

“Great to see you guys made it back in one piece. Our main camp’s not far from here, and we can show you the track. Even in the dark we should be able to move the whole herd there.” The giant man then stepped over to where Papa was finished helping the young boy. “Papa, spirits about the camp are low right now. I know the herd isn’t very large, but we can slaughter some of the young rams and make a feast out of it.”

Papa considered his proposal for a moment. “Feasts are for celebration, Regis. What are we celebrating?”

Seeing an opportunity, I interjected myself. “My initiation into the tribe.” Both men looked at me. “Papa, I would like to join this tribe as a warrior.” Having this celebration to celebrate my initiation would associate the feast with me, and it could only help make me more popular among the tribe. I didn’t want to live as nothing but a raider; to turn this tribe into something more than a band of petty criminals, I needed to be in a position of power and influence.

“A warrior, eh?” Papa looked over the group. Then he smirked, and rather than speaking to me he addressed the rest of the young Khans. “Even after she tried to leave the tribe that raised her? Tell me, do you believe this girl is worthy of joining us as a warrior? What does she have to offer the tribe?”

My friends all glanced at each other, and Briggs rose to his feet. “I wouldn’t be alive without her. At Bitter Springs, a cazador stung me and dragged me into its nest. She found me there and killed it with her bare hands, before burning the rest of them alive with turps. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, Papa. She’s a worthy warrior.”

Holler stood up. “We didn’t just find the bighorners, Papa. We got sixty four slippies back. It was her plan that got us into Bitter Springs, and her plan that got us out.”

After a moment, Tan stood up, shrugging. “She distracted the NCR so we could recover the stashes in the caves, Papa. We got thousands of caps, not to mention the jet and a good chunk of our armoury back.”

Finally, Melbourne stood up. “Papa, Maggie ain’t just a little smart.” She scratched her head and shrugged. “A little unlucky, I guess, but she’s just constantly coming up with plans. Plans that work. I swear, she’s only gotten smarter since half her brains were blown out.”

Smiling, Papa opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated when he felt a tug on his coat. We all looked down to see Marcus, looking up at Papa shyly. “She saved me from the Fiends.’

“Alright, alright.” Papa waved them off with a chuckle. “The point has been made. Are you satisfied with that, Regis?” 

“The point has been made.” Regis agreed. He looked at me, then back to the group. “Papa and I are both present, and we have more than enough worthy warriors to make a full ten, I see no reason we can’t hold the initiation right here.”

“Very good. Go ahead.”

Regis looked at me, then at the crowd. He pointed out ten warriors, six women, and three men, and called them all forward by name. Then he joined them, and I found myself suddenly feeling weary. Even in my first life as a man, I doubt I could have taken a serious punch from Regis to the head and not passed out.

From his pocket, Regis took out a battered miniature sand timer that I was pretty sure was claimed from a board game at some time in the past. “You must last until all the sands drain from the top to the bottom. No fainting. No crying out. No throwing any back. No falling. You understand?”

I nodded once.

“Alright then. Warriors, ready?” At their signal, he crouched down and upended the timer, placing it down. “Start.”

CoS 46

22 BBY

A dust storm howled outside the facility, one that would drive people indoors even if it wasn’t already deep into the planet’s night cycle. Tan’ya timed their attack to coincide with the late hour, so that the only people in the facility should be the night shift, and the weather only made things easier. No one was likely to be out on the streets of the worker’s village, reducing the chance of a good samaritan reporting what they saw to the planetary authorities. 

Spreading her consciousness over the entire facility, penetrating all the domes and walk ways, she found just a handful of personnel still at work. Someone was in the office upstairs, working on some kind of report at this late hour, and another was sitting in the security room, feeling very very bored. Tan’ya had a vague impression that he was playing around with the planetary map, rather than keeping an eye on his security monitors. There were a few others around the place, carrying out various tasks with bored indifference. The rest of the facility was patrolled by security droids, who had no presence in the Force at all.

Despite the importance of the Federation’s Strategic Hypermatter Reserve, this facility hadn’t been threatened since it was first created. There was a legion of droids on standby, but as long as no blaster shots were fired, the facility’s sensors shouldn’t go off automatically. 

The temporary storage room they were in was locked from the outside and password protected, but the staff of this facility weren’t above selling information for credits. One of the House Guard used a simple drill to bore through the storage room door, then he fed a cable with a computer jack on the end of it through. Using the Force, Tan’ya guided the cable to the digital lock’s terminal and plugged it into the port. The slicer spent a few moments working his machine, before it buzzed and the door unlocked. 

Next, Tan’ya reached out with her mind and connected to the bored security guard sitting in his office. She used the light side to wash away any feelings of irritation, boredom or discomfort, and allowed herself to be filled with peace, before carefully, slowly sharing those feelings with him. It took a while, but slowly as she meditated, she felt ease and comfort spread through his body, before finally his consciousness wavered and he fell asleep. 

Tan’ya separated her consciousness from his and shook herself awake. “Let’s go.” She ordered.

As one, the team of royal guards moved through the massive facility, all the droid patrols and sensor areas known well in advance thanks to their informants on the inside. Without anyone the wiser or a shot fired, Tan’ya and her crew entered the security center, and found their lonely neimoidian security guard asleep in his chair.

Perhaps it was just a result of the lingering feelings she shared with the poor man, but she couldn’t bear to watch as three of her House Guards moved in sync, one wrapped a strangle cord around his throat, and the other two to hold his arms in place. Awoken suddenly, the poor security guard struggled and fought, but to no avail. His bulbous eyes almost seemed to pop out of their sockets as they became more and more bloodshot, before finally all his kicking and struggling ceased, and his mind faded out. None of Tan’ya’s House Guard felt even a moment of sympathy for the hated alien. Without a word said, they bundled the dead man into the break room, and hid him in a cabinet. 

The one office drone working late hours was given no chance to alert anyone or raise an alarm. Tan’ya felt the last moment of his life as he panicked when six black armoured figures appeared, and shared in the sensation of the lukewarm caff stim that spilled over his lap in the rush to stand up. His death was quick; shot several times in the chest, frying and bursting his heart in moments. One by one, her men efficiently hunted down all the remaining workers, until at last no life signs remained inside other than her own men. With access to the facility’s security systems, it wasn’t long before they had control of the entire building.

The last thing to check before they proceeded with the next phase of the operation was their smuggler on the landing pad. He was still there, as ordered by his boss in the Ring, apparently sleeping the night away. He didn’t need to die, but they did need his ship. Tan’ya took out her compad, and sent him a message, instructing the man to meet their representative at the landing pad door.

Of course he was surprised when he was greeted by a pair of fully armoured House Guards, but his instructions were to let the men aboard, and he didn’t dare resist. With his two new supervisors in the pilot’s cabin with him, there was no risk that he would attempt to do something foolish or heroic.

With all the preparations in place, Tan’ya began to do what she really came here for. It took her and her slicer about twenty minutes to upload a new routine to the system’s droid control computer, and only ten seconds to dismiss all the warnings that immediately popped up.

Awakening from low power mode, all the droids in the largely automated facility got to work following their new instructions. They went through, and began opening every single seal on every single individual vial of hyper matter in the facility, exposing them to the evening air.

Often overlooked, but never unimportant was the role of resources in a war. From the ancient days of bickering city states, through the medieval period and the invention of gunpowder, the ability to wage war depended on the gathering and maintaining of certain materials. From simple food that fed soldiers, to fodder for horses, to black powder for guns, and eventually diesel for machinery. All of these things were the fuel of war, and when considered in their own eras, victory would be impossible without them.

In the Galaxy’s current era, true power came from starships. Obviously, infantry forces played an important role in taking and holding worlds, but fundamentally, victory at a Galactic scale was only possible with the ships needed to move men and materials between the stars. The Federation had more ships, and so they had an advantage over the Alliance that could not be easily overcome with things as common as clever tactics or heroic bravery. Victory against the Federation would only be possible if they no longer had the advantage in starships, and those starships were dependent on hypermatter.

Hypermatter was a synthetic material that could only be made on high gravity worlds whose surface was carefully cut away to expose its core to the radiation of particular stars. These blasting pits existed all over the Galaxy, as the conditions necessary to make them were not rare, but building and maintaining them was extremely expensive. In addition, the effect that hypermatter blasting pits had on a natural environment were absolutely devastating. The Corporate Sector had several blasting pits, but not nearly enough to cover the needs of the heavily industrialised sector. Most of their hypermatter had to be imported. 

Which was why Tan’ya was now here, in the heart of the Sector, where the strategic hyper matter reserve was kept. Hypermatter was an extremely potent material, the same properties that allowed it to propel ships at faster than light speeds made it horrifically dangerous. Many times throughout history, poorly maintained ships had been lost when their fuel vaporised in a chain reaction. An uncontrolled hypermatter destabilisation was an event of incredible power, fully capable of destroying a full sized battleship with just a hundred thousand tons of the stuff. 

This facility contained enough hypermatter to keep the entire Trade Federation fleet fueled for the next three months, almost a trillion tons of it. Now all of that power was just awaiting a spark. 

Tan’ya checked her chronometer, confirming they had about an hour until the staff of the facility were due to start arriving at work.

Reaching up to her com-beed, Tan’ya pressed it three times, letting her men know it was now time to move to phase three of the plan. 

As they converged on the landing pad, Tan’ya and her six House Guards. They climbed up the steps into the smuggler’s nondescript cargo freighter, as he watched nervously.

“I, uh… I-”

“Be quiet.” Tan’ya told him, as she slid into the pilot’s chair. She quickly ran the ship through its start up procedures, and without hesitating or waiting took off. The planet’s flight authorities immediately picked up on her ascent without a flight path, and shot her several warning messages.

“We’ll get boarded!” The smuggler moaned, fearfully.

The freighter was just leaving the planet’s atmosphere when two of the port’s patrol vessels began to tail them. They repeatedly broadcasted demands and warnings that Tan’ya allow herself to be boarded, or they would ionize her ship. Ion weapons were a real threat, frying a ship’s electronics, and crippling it, but not harming anyone inside. Even if they weren’t to be blasted out of the sky, Tan’ya had no intention of falling into enemy hands. 

She quickly typed up and sent a message from her holocom, then Phase 4 of the plan began.

A Lucrehulk waiting just beyond the edge of the Nonadon System was propelled into hyperspace, and left it almost immediately after as it raced towards the planet. The communications channel of the freighter was suddenly flooded with panicked calls, demanding the crew of the Lucrehulk respond, but no answer was received. As it passed, the two patrol ships fired on it, desperate to stop its descent, but lacking the firepower to do so in time. 

Without waiting to see the results of her actions, Tan’ya accelerated towards the edge of the Star System, running hyperspace calculations as she did. Behind her, the descending Lucrehulk crashed into the hypermatter depot, and suddenly there was a blinding flash of white. Tan’ya and her men wore helmets, with light shielding, they winced slightly at the surge but were fine, but the Zabrak pilot cried out in pain, and fell to the floor in panic, covering his eyes with reflex. 

He wasn’t the only one. Tan’ya had to close herself off from the Force to drown out the waves of fear and pain rolling off the planet below. Bonadon wasn’t a densely populated world, but the strategic reserve was planted right next to a company town that held tens of thousands. Even miners working thousands of kilometers away from the source of the explosion would have felt the ground shake and seen the blinding flash.

The men she was with felt nothing but elation at victory, and had no remorse even for the alien in their midst, even as he was crying out in pain and begging for help. They were chosen for that reason. They were the most loyal to Serenno in all the House Guard, the ones whose hatred of the alien was strongest. When they thought of a million alien lives on Bonadon, suffering and dying from radiation poisoning, they only considered it a punishment well earned.

Tan’ya swallowed, ignoring the sick feeling in her stomach. Now was not the time to be overcome by princessly squeamishness, they still had to make good their escape. No matter what else could be said, their actions today made victory against the Trade Federation possible.

No fuel, no fleet. It was that simple. With the Alliance controlling the Hydian and the Salzin Corridor, the Trade Federation wouldn’t be able to import nearly enough starship fuel. With their strategic reserves destroyed, all Federation fleets now operated on borrowed time.

It was a great and necessary victory, but before her ship accelerated to hyperspace, Tan’ya couldn’t help one glance back at the planet as it shrunk in the nav display, and the great black dust cloud that now rolled across its surface in a radioactive sand storm. People not caught directly in the blast could still survive. She had to remind herself that there were treatments for radiation in this Galaxy.

But we’ll be blockading those, too.

Her transponder lit up with dozens of Federation patrol vessels, mostly light freighters, but also a pair of Lucrehulks, demanding she slow down and return for questioning. Rather than reply, she accelerated to hyperspace. 

It was obvious where she was going, straight down the Hydian, and she did it that way for a reason. “Everybody buckle up!” She ordered. “Interdictor will be coming up in ten minutes!”

All her men sat down and strapped in, but the smuggler was still blinded and confused. “Who are you people?! Why are you doing this?!”

“We’re part of the Alliance, and we’ve commandeered your ship.” Tan’ya answered, then used the Force to direct him to one of the seats with. “Can you buckle yourself in?”

The poor zabrak whimpered, but did as instructed. He fumbled with the belts, but managed to get himself tied down after a few false starts.

“Sound off, anyone else injured?”

None of the House Guard replied. 

“Alright. You, civilian.”

“Me?” The smuggler said.

“That’s right. We’re going to be entering into combat soon, and potentially taking evasive action. Remain in your seat, the last thing we want is an unsecured body bouncing about the cabin.”

“Combat?!” The smuggler moaned, and pressed his head into his hands. 

The drop from Hyperspace to real space was a sudden lurch that pitched Tan’ya’s stomach forward, much more harshly than a normal hyperspace deceleration would. Behind her the zabrak puked, and Tan’ya had to grit her teeth in frustration as the smell hit her nose.

In front of her, the Serenno House Fleet was arrayed, along with five Lucrehulks. Of the six that had been captured, one of them had been used at Bonadon, leaving just these five. It wasn’t possible to really crew or maintain the battleships without access to Federation factories and the particular variety of parts they produced exclusively, but it was still possible to pilot and direct them due to their extremely automated nature. To keep crew salaries low, Federation ships had an incredibly small bridge crew, with the vast majority of the ship’s systems being automated by droids. That made it possible for the Alliance to put them to good use, after the droids were reprogrammed. 

The Fleet was arrayed just beyond the edge of Federation space, at the furthest edge of the Cadomai Sector from the planet itself. It was only a thirty minute jump down the Hydian from Bonadon, and it was mere moments after Tan’ya arrived that Asajj reached out to her.

In her mind’s eye, Tan’ya pictured two Lucrehulks giving chase. That was what had been in the system above Bonadon, and that was what was chasing her now.

Soon enough, the two Federation Patrol Fleet Lucrehulks ran into the interdiction field, and were dragged back to real space just in time to realise their own doomed fate. Accelerating to their top speeds, two of the Serenno fleet’s captured Lucrehulks bore down on them like a pair of unstoppable asteroids, throwing aside all laser fire thanks to their powerful shields. Like two interlocking chain links, both pairs of lucrehulks fit perfectly into each other’s C-shaped curve, until their large, exposed engine core mashed into each other, and were crushed by each other’s weight before exploding violently. Both the captured Lucrehulks and the Federation Lucrehulks were destroyed in an instant, throwing the eight smaller ships that remained of the enemy fleet into disarray. 

The Federation’s Battlecruiser’s struggled to recover from the shock of losing both their flagships, as the better prepared Serenno fleet pounced on them. Not expecting to run into a battle this close to the borders of Corporate Space, the collection of Munificent Frigates and long, narrow Providence Class Destroyers, were mauled badly by the enemy. There were ten ships from the Serenno House Fleet, and they were able to disable and destroy two of the enemy destroyers and one of the Frigates, as Tan’ya watched the battle unfold from the bridge of the little smuggler's freighter. 

Suddenly Asajj’s mind reached across the void between the ships, sending feelings of warning to Tan’ya. The exact contents of the warning weren’t clear, but the idea was clear. Time to retreat. No doubt the surviving Federation ships had called for reinforcements, and now a much larger force was on its way. 

The last of the captured Lucrehulks began to maneuver towards what remained of the enemy fleet, but Tan’ya doubted that same attack would work again after it was witnessed once. To make the kamikaze attack possible, the ships had to be piloted by a set of particularly stupid droids who lacked even the most basic programming for self preservation. They would be able to do little more than fly directly at an enemy who maneuvered around them easily. While what was left of the Federation fleet scattered like minnows before the lumbering forms of the Lucrehulks, the rest of the House Fleet spooled up their own hyperdrives, and prepared to jump again. 

Then in short order, they were away once more, disappearing back up the Hydian, leaving ruin in their wake. Tan’ya’s mind was already racing ahead, to the final phase of the plan, the ambush her father had prepared ahead, at Oshetti IV. With any luck there would be one more serious blow against the Federation today.

-----

Grib Siv had only just started his morning exercises when one of his aides approached with a nervous look on his face.

“Just give me the bad news.” Grib grunted, but didn’t stop his jogging. Keeping up a good speed under 1.5 gravity was hard, he had a thick lather of white froth pouring from his lips and down over his body as a result of the brutal workout. He raised his hand, and someone came over to spray a fine mist over him, helping him to keep cool and helping wash away some of the mess. “Go on, spit it out.”

“There’s been an attack at Bonadon.”

Bonadon. Bonadon. Grib didn’t remember anything about Bonadon. Wasn’t it just a barren desert world? “What was damaged?”

“Sir, our entire three month strategic reserve of hypermatter is gone.”

It took a moment for that to process, and when it did Grib almost tripped and fell.  “Gravity back to normal!” He barked, slowing his jogging as he considered the implication of that. “What are hypermatter prices right now?”

“Currently, they’re quadruple what they were twenty four hours ago.” One of his aids  replied.

Grib snatched up a bottle of water, and took a long swig. Unless the Zygerrian fleet was able to take Ranroon, the Alliance would have the Corporate Sector choked off from the rest of the Galaxy, and Hyper Matter prices inside the Corporate Sector were going to be even higher than those outside of it. The problem with carrying goods along the Hydian was that it was too long and too exposed. With so many Alliance ports along the route, any ships carrying goods to the Corporate Sector would be taking a massive risk of it being stolen or destroyed. The Serenno House Fleet didn’t need to be very large to stop merchant traffic, and the fleet at Botajef was large enough to be a genuine threat in its own right. 

Right now, the plan to take the Hydian wasn’t quite as clear yet. There was no quick and easy victory there, the Federation would have to peel back each port one by one to take control over the hyperlane. Grib’s thinking was that by taking Ranroon, and knocking the Tion Cluster out of the war sooner, they would be able to pressure Botajef and Serenno on two fronts, a more attractive prospect than having to fight his way through Serreno, Celanon, and Toprawa just to get to Botajef, which was where the real threat was coming from. Victory over the Alliance meant seizing or disabling the shipyards at Raxus Prime and Botajef. Anything else would be a stalemate that demonstrated Federation weakness, rather than strength.

“Have we heard back from Admiral Septu yet?” He demanded. “What’s his progress on retaking Ranroon?”

“He hasn't contacted us since you gave the order.”

“Call him.” Grib snapped. “Call him, right now. We’re short on time and he needs to get moving.”

The aid got out his holocom and quickly dialed. It wasn’t long before Grib was looking down at the face of Septu, whose small form looked up from Grib’s palm. Even from several star systems away, Grib could have sworn he could taste the admiral’s fear stink from here.

“Admiral, you were ordered to occupy the Ranroon sector six hours ago. Explain yourself.”

“Viceroy, the fleet isn’t ready for combat.” The words practically spilled out of Septu as rushed to defend himself. “We don’t have nearly the amount of fighter fuel or tibanna gas as previous reports led me to believe.”

“What?!” Grib snarled. “Why?!”

“Many of the captains have been skimming the reserves, and selling them for credits-”

“What?!” Grib shouted, in disbelief. “What is the state of your fleet's reserves?”

Septu swallowed, trying to keep calm. “Sir, this practice was in place long before I came, it’s almost universal across the entire patrol fleet! Some officers just consider it extra income when they’re jockeying for assignments. Why, I-”

“Answer the damn questions!” Grib snarled. “Do you have enough fuel to secure Ranroon or not?”

“...Viceroy, my fleet has mostly full hypermatter hoppers. We could make the jump to Ranroon, and maybe even fight a battle there and win it, but after that, we would be stuck waiting for resupply. The real problem is that I don’t have enough fuel rods to sustain our full force of fighter droids. We would effectively be fighting at half strength.”

Grib felt like his glands were almost popping, like the heat of his anger was boiling the water under his skin. He was out of fuel? How could he be out of fuel, when the war had only been declared a day ago?! 

Through grit teeth, he growled out, “It’s your job to maintain your fleet, Admiral.”

“Viceroy, please understand. The Zyggerian sector fleet I was put in command of ten years ago was nothing like it is now. I commanded ten Lucrehulks and forty smaller ships. There was no expectation of combat. Even the new ships you’ve put under my command were drawn from the rest of the Corporate Sector, and faced with the same circumstances. None of us thought we’d actually have to go to war!”

“How much have you made from skimming or fuel?” Grib Siv demanded. “Got your nice little retirement gem back on the Purse Worlds? A hundred green acres and a few bono beasts? You know Captain, I bet your wife is real happy with all the gifts you’ve been able to afford for her lately.”

Septu grimaced, swallowing. “Admiral.” He corrected. “I’m not a captain, I’m an admiral.”

“Not any more, you’re not!” Grib screamed, his eyes popping with outrage. “You’re fired! You hear me?! Fired! Get out! Get out right now! Your pension? Gone! Your kids? blacklisted. They’ll never work in the Corporate Sector again, you hear me? Your family is going to be beggars for the next hundred generations! If you’re still in that office and uniform by the time the security droids arrive to escort you out, they’ll tear that uniform right off you!”

With that, he hung up, fists shaking with outrage. “Get me the fleet commander at Reltooine. We’re going to reassign him to the Zyggerian Sector. What was his name again?” Grib snapped his fingers, trying to remember.

“Sir, Hekknar is unavailable.” 

Grib turned around, looking at his aid in disbelief. “What?! Why?!”

“He’s currently engaged in an action on the Hydian.”

“Who ordered that?!” Grib demanded. “I didn’t order that?! What’s he doing?!” Seething, Grib quickly used his own personal compad to dial Hekknar. The phone rang once, twice, before finally it was answered.

Hecknar was currently seated, likely in his command chair aboard the bridge of his flagship. For some reason he was the one who already looked angry, not Grib.

“Viceroy, I’m a little busy.”

“What’s going on Hecknar? Why are you advancing down the Hydian?”

“Sir, I had a report sent to you. After the attack on the Bonadon refinery, a ship was chased away from the scene by the patrol fleet there, but the patrol fleet was ambushed at Cadomai by the Serenno House Fleet. They took heavy damage and called for reinforcements. By the time my fleet arrived, the Serenno House Fleet was already retreating in disarray. I am currently in pursuit of the Serenno House Fleet. We’ll bring those bastard to justice for what they did today.”

Grib blinked at the moment, mind racing. “Wait you fool! Don’t you see?! The Bonadon fleet was lured into a trap at Cadomai, and now you’re chasing the Serenno Fleet?! They’re leading you into a blasted trap, you fool!” 

Hecknar stared up at Grib’s face from the palm of his hand, before comprehension dawned. “What should I do?”

“Turn around and come back, you fool!” Grib snarled. “Stop now before it’s too late!”  

Hecknar nodded quickly, and immediately began issuing orders to his fleet. Grib sighed, hanging up and leaving the man to it. 

“Alright.” He considered his next steps. “Call an emergency board meeting. We’re going to have to come up with a plan to find more Hypermatter. And get some of our lawyers on the line. I need to know what the blowback will be if I start requisitioning hypermatter from our clients.” Mouth keeping pace with his thoughts, Grib rattled off a series of commands that his aides dutifully took down, even as he changed out of his workout clothes and into a nice set of formal robes.

What an absolute disaster this day had been, and it wasn’t even breakfast yet. Still, it was hardly like the day could get any worse from here. At least he’d managed to avert one crisis.

-----

After watching and waiting for several hours, Ky Narec finally received the sign he’d been waiting for. It wasn’t anything specific, just a heightened sense of confusion in the Zyggerrian Sector. 

Taking out his holocom, Ky dialed his scouts. “Status report, what’s changed?”

One of the scouts wasn’t on the call, apparently away, but the one who remained looked surprised. “I was about to call you. Our informant is placed next to one of the Federation Commodores, and word has it that the Sector Admiral was dragged out of his office by a squadron of Battle Droids. He’s been relieved of duty.”

Ky almost couldn’t believe his luck. “And who’s his replacement?”

“That’s the thing! It’s been hours, and no one has been announced as his replacement. Currently, the Vice Admiral just called for a meeting with the Fleet Commodores, trying to get them to recognise him as the acting commander until a replacement arrives, but none of them are willing to go to the meeting because they’re afraid it will look like insubordination to the next guy.”

“Great work.” Ky hung up and turned to face the rest of the bridge. He’d been prepared for this moment for a while now. His hyperspace jump had been plotted since he took Ranroon, and the fleet had been in a state of alert for this exact moment. “We’re jumping in five, people! Five minutes! Set the clock.”

-----

Former Admiral Septu paced back and forth, glancing at his clock, at his orders, at his holocom, then back again. Minutes passed in an agonising crawl, his heart thudding painfully in his chest as it did. Fired! Him? After working so hard, for so long, Septu was fired. He swallowed, dabbing a handkerchief at his glands, and tried to compose himself, but failed. 

He felt like weeping. What was he going to do without his salary? Without the kickbacks his officers sent him for the fuel they skimmed? He’d made financial commitments, and now he had no idea how he could meet them.

This wasn’t his fault! This wasn’t fair! He was in his last year of service before retirement, and he hadn’t politicked his way into command of the crucial Zyggerian sector fleet because he actually planned to see battle, but here he was expected to command the largest military action the Galaxy had seen in a thousand years? Who was the genius that had that idea?!

There was a pounding at his door, and Septu lurched around to face it. He swallowed once, before answering it. The droids had given him five minutes to collect his things from his personal quarters, and now that five minutes was up. With hurried movements and shaking hands, he had swapped into a set of comfortable civilian robes, and jammed all of his personal effects into a bag, and now he was to leave. 

The few crew members aboard the lucrehulk watched as Septu was escorted out, whispering excitedly among themselves. A new spot at the top of the fleet had opened up, and there would be a chance for a promotion soon.

Septu was unceremoniously shoved into cargo freighter, and not even given the dignity of returning to Neimoidia on a ship. Instead he was sent straight to Zygerria’s surface, watching his fleet shrink away. He stewed in resentment and bitterness, cursing Grib Siv in his heart, right up until the moment a swarm of enemy fighters exited hyperspace.

Flashes of blue and red lit up the void as proton torpedoes ran uncontested straight into stationary targets. Septu watched, shocked, as the fleet didn’t respond for almost five minutes, even as half a dozen ships burned. He didn’t even know how long it was until at last someone started to scramble the vulture droids independently, and then finally the other lucrehulk captains followed suit in staggered and haphazard disarray.

Why did they take so long? Vice-Admiral Tonngrub should have been in charge, now that Septu was removed. 

Then he blinked in shock, as a cold realization swept over him.

No one is in charge! Grib Siv had relieved him of duty before appointing a new commander, and now Tonngrub had been trying to wrestle control of the fleet from the commodores! Now battle was here, and the fleet had no commander.

Septu could only watch as the biggest military disaster the Galaxy had seen in a thousand years unfolded behind him. After a while, Septu couldn’t help the smile that crept over his face as he sat down, and took out his personal compad. Of course Grib was going to try and pin the blame on Septu, but the fool had cut off his own hand hours before battle and now anyone could see where the blood was coming from even if he hid the stump behind his back. Mere minutes before a major military engagement, Grib had fired his commanding officer and then failed to find a replacement. The whole Galaxy would see he had no one but himself to blame.

Instead of feeling despondent, or fearful, Septu was actually quite pleased. Only the Force knows what would have happened to him if he was still with the fleet when the Alliance arrived. He wasn’t sure of his own ability to win a battle on a good day, but, with just a little spin, Septu could even position himself as the hero who tried to warn Grib about the state of the Zygerrian fleet. Maybe his pension wouldn’t be secured, but with a little work and some lucre grease applied to the right places, Septu might even be able to land in a senior position with the Neimoidian Home Defence Legions. This could even be the start of his own political career as a valiant reformer.

Going through his holocom contacts, Septu brought up a reporter he knew on Coruscant, smiling devilishly to himself. He pressed the dial, mumbling to himself. “I like profits, I want revenge, so why shouldn’t I have both?” 

Steppe Tanya Chapter 08

The giant insect flew at me so fast I could barely make out its segmented red eyes and wide orange wings. I only had time to throw myself backwards, which I immediately realised was the wrong move, as it easily tracked my movement and adjusted mid flight to crash right into me. Even as I was falling I realised it wanted to pin me so it could sting me and if it did I would die.

I turned as we dropped, rolling over and throwing the insect’s back into the ground. There was a strange whooshing chirp as I did, though it didn’t come from the creature's mandibles, but from beneath me, in its thorax. The insect was the size of a large dog, with an armoured carapace covered in small black bristles that rubbed painfully against my wrists as I wrestled against it. 

The cazador was stunned for a moment, not expecting for me to be on top of it. Its clawed feet writhed as it bucked, trying to get itself upright. Its barb was beneath me, unable to curl up into position to sting my back, but in its flailing it almost grazed one of my thighs, only being stopped by the thick fabric of my jeans. Without giving myself a chance to think or hesitate, I wrapped my legs around the joint between its abdomen and thorax, pulling my extremities out of range of its probing. 

It kept throwing itself around, each push of its wings bucked us up and down until we were both on our side. One of my arms was pinned, but I wasn’t willing to let it shake me loose, so I wrapped my free arm around its abdomen and grabbed its writhing wing at the narrow base, squeezing and crushing with all my might. The insect grappled me now as well, it’s six legs wrapping around my torso and digging into my back. I gasped in pain as its legs writhed,  shredding through my Khan jacket in an instant and tearing at my skin. 

I reached up, past its snapping mandibles, and jammed my thumb into its red eye with a crunch. The speed of its writhing doubled, but I was able to roll to the right, freeing up my left arm to jam my thumb into its other eye. Blinded, and making chirping shrieks of pain, the cazador gave one final titanic buck, and threw me loose. When I hit the ground, the pain of the sand entering the cuts on my back had me freezing up with a shuddering gasp, but the cazador didn’t notice. In its pain it was rampaging, scuttling about violently. It bumped into the wall of the boat shed and frantically began to sting the wood repeatedly. Slowly, I stood to my feet, rubbing my wrists where the hairs on the insect’s torso had cut my skin while we were wrestling. 

I cast about for a weapon of some kind, but there was nothing at hand except some ancient planks of wood. Just inside the door of the boatshed was what looked like a half finished nest for the insects, and my fellow Khan, Briggs, was laying on his belly inside, unmoving. Beyond him was a shelf with oars, which were probably my best bet. I might be able to bludgeon the thing to death with one of those. The sound of flapping wings caught my attention, and I turned my head to see what looked like another cazador, rushing towards me from over the horizon. 

The only thing I could think to do was slam the boat shed’s roller door shut with a squeal of an old metal wheel that hadn’t moved in decades. Outside, I heard the whistling chirps of the two abominations, as one of them pushed against the door, probing for a way to get through, but unable to open it. Not knowing much about the creature’s habits, I decided not to assume my own safety, and hurried over to claim one of the oars. 

As I passed Briggs, I saw his eyes moving to follow me across the room. His lips moved briefly, trying to say something, but I didn’t have time to pause and help him. In my rush I accidentally stepped on something that crunched, and when I looked down I found a dead pigeon under foot. The floor of the shed was littered with debris. Dead animals were everywhere, rats, crows, dogs, and even a horse was curled up with what looked like a giant grub the size of my forearm sucking from its carcass, there was even what looked like a long dead cowboy. 

Whoever he was, I had no idea but I almost cheered at the sight of him. If he died with his gun, I would be saved. I held my breath as I flipped open his jacket, but the holster was empty. It must have been in his hand when the cazador dragged him in here, and now it was lost somewhere. The only thing he had I could make use of was a boot knife still in its sheath, which I quickly tied to the end of the ore with his boot laces to make a spear.

That done, I hurried back towards the door when I noticed the horse’s eyes rolling in agony. It wasn’t dead, it was being eaten alive! Looking back to Briggs, I realised he’d had a small leathery egg sac planted right in the crook of his armpit. So that was what these bugs did. They stung you, paralysed you, then dragged you in here to be eaten alive by the next generation of their young. I stopped to quickly squash the egg, and stabbed the writhing grub on top of the horse for good measure.

The poor beast looked like it was already on the verge of death. The patch on top of its haunches where the grub had been gorging was nothing but a hairless mess of scar tissues where the little abomination had repeatedly bit into its host to suck its blood dry. The smell of old feces and urine from the horse was rank, it must have been here for a few days at the very least.

There was scratching at the door, as well as on the roof, and I realised that there was now more than one cazador trying to dig their way into the building. The wounds on my back were already hurting so badly that I was worried some of the tendons were damaged, and there was another deep cut on my front, right above my right breast that was still bleeding. Being X only knew what kind of filth was on those monster’s claws, and now working its way through my system. I was likely infected with parasites and worse, now.

Then I noticed a bulge in Brigg’s jacket pocket.

“Is that a gun?” I asked, bending over to check. It wasn’t a gun. It was a small leather bundle, full of empty old syringes, what looked like some healing powders, and two little bottles of medicine. One of them I recognised as morphine, called Med X here for some reason; it was obviously stolen from the Follower’s clinic because of course my criminal tribe couldn’t respect private property. 

Again, he tried to say something, but he was clearly struggling to breathe. I leaned closer, putting my ear to his lips. “-vehughmmm. Hhhaaaetivehoom.” He hissed, unable to speak clearly.

I stared down at him, before shrugging. Whatever was in the unmarked bottle, I doubt it could do him much harm at this point. I filled one of the syringes and injected it into his thigh.

A look of relief crossed his face, and he slumped back down. I couldn’t tell if I’d helped his recovery or just helped him get high. Either way, I left his satchel on his chest, and looked about for more that I could use.

Above me, I heard roof tiles falling free and shattering on the ground outside, while the first of the cazador’s legs scratched at the wooden boards overhead. 

The only thing in the room I hadn’t checked was what looked like a tool cabinet in the corner. When I threw it open I found nothing but old, empty beer buttles, rusty wrenches and a bottle of turpentine. 

Wait a second.

Moving quickly, I took the bottle of turpentine to the front door where I could still hear the scratching coming from. Looking through the glass window, I could still see two of them out there, uninjured, while the one I blinded earlier was still flailing in agony. My appearance at the window seemed to drive the two into a frenzy as they rushed straight at the glass. They shattered it with their faces, but weren’t able to fit through at the same time. I ripped the cap off the Turpentine, took a swig and sprayed a mouthful of the awful stuff into their faces. They recoiled, not liking it, and liked it even less when I did it again, but lit the next spray on fire with Boone’s cigarette lighter. The little black hairs that covered their carapaces burned up instantly, as the insects recoiled, flying away and rolling around on the ground.

“Look out!” Briggs whispered at me, his voice hoarse, and I spun around to see the cazador that had been digging through the roof finally forced its way inside. It got its head through, but a piece of the timber it had snapped got caught on something, and suddenly it was stuck. It flapped its wings furiously, trying to break free, but the wood bent without breaking, and it was stuck for the moment.

Well, I knew what to do. I swapped the knife at the end of my oar for a rag soaked in turpentine and lit it on fire. I held the flaming end under the cazador’s body and it shrieked. Flailing back and forth, it finally broke free by pulling its head back up through the hole it made, and rolled off the roof, rolling and flailing in pain until it fell from the roof and crunched into the ground outside. I breathed a sigh of relief, turning back to the door. Luckily, the old wood hadn’t caught fire, and the three injured cazadores seemed to have begun fighting each other. The one I wounded earlier was biting into the freshly burnt ones, who were now attacking it.

It must have bumped into one of them by accident and stung it blindly.

For the moment, I seemed to have found a reprieve. 

Briggs was sitting up when I glanced at him, though he looked pale and shakey, and he had vomit staining the front of his shirt. He seemed like he was trying to inject himself with Med X, though he had shaking hands. 

“You’ll kill yourself, let me do it.” I told him, taking the syringe away. “How much?”

“The five mark.” He whispered to me. “Cazadore venom hurts so fuckin’ bad.”

“I’m sure it does.” I mumbled, quickly injecting him. 

He immediately breathed out a sigh of relief as the drug washed his pain away, and I’m sure left him feeling pleasantly high. He began to explain what happened, even though I hadn’t asked him. “I saw the horse tracks. They weren’t even a day old. Followed them here, and as soon as that smell hit my nose, one of the goddamn things was on me.” He shuddered, though the expression of pain lessened significantly as the medicine took effect. “Fuckin’ demons, man.”

“What about the horse?” I asked. “It’s what this whole misadventure was for, is it too late to save it?”

He shrugged, before climbing to unsteady feet. He limped with each step, leaning on me as together we walked over to where the beast was laying on the ground.

“It’s a goner.” He said, shaking his head. “Amazing that it’s still alive.”

Looking at the horse, I felt a strange squeezing sensation in my chest. Probably exhaustion. Whatever I felt, it did seem like a waste to come here and fight off a nest of these monstrous things only to have nothing to show for it. 

“Can you try and treat it?”

He looked at me with obvious reluctance, but when he saw my face, he sighed and shrugged. “I guess we gotta try.”

He filled a new syringe all the way up with the unmarked bottle, and injected it into the horse’s neck.

“What is that?”

“Antivenom, cazador antivenom.” Briggs looked at me with a shrug. He talked constantly as he worked, maybe to distract himself from his pain, or maybe uninhibited by his morphine high. “I always like to keep it around, just in case of shit like this. Next chance I get, I’m adding radscorpion and nightstalker antivenom as well.” 

“Give it some Med X as well.” I told him.

“Come on, Mags. Look at it. Ain’t no way.”

“Just do it.” I told him. “We’re here for horses, anyway. Let’s just try our luck.”

He grimaced, before completely filling the needle with Med-X, and injecting the entire thing into its neck. Slowly, the panicked rolling of its eyes slowed down. Its legs twitched once, then twice, and within a few minutes it rolled over to its belly, clods of filthy mud clinging to one side of its face. It whickered weekly, licking my hand as I used my fingers to brush the worst of the mess from its face.

“That ain’t a slippie.” Briggs murmured, after a moment. “That’s a charger.”

“A charger?”

“Yeah.” He said, surprised, reaching up to remove some of the dirt from the top of its head, revealing what looked to me like two broken horns. “Yeah, see? That’s a charger, from out west. Damn.”

“Is there something wrong with chargers?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “I mean, it depends on what you’re looking for, right? Chargers’ll give you a good bite if they’re in a bad mood, or even knock you flat on your ass with a headbutt. They can be angry bastards. That ain’t so bad though, they’ll crush up a radscorpion or nightstalker that messes with ’em, or freak out if someone they don’t know tries to steal them. Chargers are a lot stronger than a slippie, grow bigger and can carry a lot more, and they’re less picky about their diets, so they’ll eat just about anything that grows. The problem is they bounce a lot when you’re riding them.”

I blinked at that. “What’s the problem with bouncing?”

“We’re gonna be in our saddles all day, Mags. If we’re riding slippies, and you’re riding a charger, your ass is gonna feel it more than mine. Plus it’s easier to shoot from a slippie’s back. More level.” He raised his hand flat in front of us and moved it in a line, as though comparing the motion of the two.

“Then who uses chargers?”

“NCR.” Briggs spat. “Rangers prefer ‘em.”

“Why?”

He looked at me like I’d asked the stupidest question he had ever heard. “Chargers for charging.”

I nodded slowly, imagining it. For a nomad who expected to be riding from sun up to sundown on a regular basis, the smoother, more even gait of the slippie meant less wear for the rider and was thus preferable, but for the NCR who were engaged in war with that luddite Caesar in the east, a good cavalry charge would probably be every bit as effective as they were in medieval times, and a more moody and aggressive horse could be preferable. Obviously, against a more modern opponent equipped with machine guns and mortars, a cavalry charge would be a disaster, but the deplorable conditions of the wasteland had made the ancient methods of war reliable and effective once again. 

“What about a work horse?” I asked Briggs. “Would a charger be good for a plow?”

He shrugged. “I mean, they’re alright. Probably better off with a two header, though. They’re bigger than Chargers, but stupider, and less bitey.”

Two headed horses? I suppose if there were two headed cows, why not the same for horses? “Where do all these different mutants come from anyway?”

“Mutants?”

“Yeah. Are there any normal horses left?”

He just looked at me, confused and seeming kind of offended. “Slippies are good horses. Don’t call ‘em mutants.” 

“Right. Sorry.”

Shaking his head at me, Briggs looked back at the charger, who was now finally standing up on shaking legs. “Slippies come from somewhere in the North East. Followers and Canaanites called it the Gate when they traded with us, but I don’t know anything about it, just that it’s the only way through the mountains out that way, apparently. Two heads come from the coast, I think. West of California, and North. Never been that way. Don’t know anything about it.  Chargers… I dunno. Grandpa said they didn’t used to be anywhere, and then they suddenly were here. All coming out of Death Valley, and the Big Empty.”

Of course he had to explain to me what those two locations were, but it wasn’t too long before I had the picture. Horses from the pre-war mutated into the various different post war varieties when exposed to different conditions. People after the war noticed the different capabilities of the different kinds of mutants, and used them for specialised purposes, probably eventually forgetting that there was ever such a thing as a normal horse.

The charger that Briggs had followed in here wasn’t exactly suitable for the nomadic lifestyle, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t trade it for caps at a later date.

When I checked what was going on with the cazadors out front, it seemed that two of them were dead from their frenzied infighting, and the other two were nowhere to be seen. Not exactly comforting, given that they could fly, but armed with our oars we carefully stepped out front. Slowly, gingerly as if each step still hurt it, the charger followed us outside. Luckily no cazador swooped down to attack us, it seemed they had enough of us after I set them on fire. 

Rather than head up the hill straight away, we diverted to the riverside to get a drink of water for the wounded charger, who had likely been left on the ground like that for days. The horse didn’t hesitate to drink its fill, walking straight into the water and letting out what sounded like a sigh of relief as the weight was taken off its legs while it lingered there in the shallows. It trailed the accumulated dirt and filth in the water, and watched us with a look that I took to be exhausted gratitude, but I admit I have no real experience with horses.

After washing his hands, Briggs took the time to wash out my wounds and treat them with the healing powder. He wasn’t able to sow them shut without twine, but he gave me his Khan jacket so the cuts wouldn’t be exposed to the air. 

If it wasn’t clear before, this highlighted just how dangerous the wasteland was. Someone would have to be a mad man to willingly wander it alone, or at the very least more experienced with how dangerous the local wildlife could be. It was foolish of me to willingly break the group up, and from now on I needed to make sure that no one who was under my command went anywhere alone and unarmed ever again.

After cooling down and getting his fill, the charger emerged from the water and I had good look while he was dripping wet. He was a stallion, though quite thin and malnourished in addition to both of his horns being broken. If he was out here alone by himself, he probably wasn’t in great health before being stung by the cazador. Just below his chin was a little tuft of black hair, almost like a goatee. In fact, as I looked at him I could have sworn he looked almost like someone had deliberately spliced just a hint of mountain goat DNA into a horse. The haunch that had been scarred by the cazador grub had what I realised was a mark on it. Shredded badly by the repeated bites, little hints of a brand were just visible, including what looked like an F or the start of an R in the top left. 

“Briggs, look at this.”

He came over, and saw what I was pointing to immediately. “Yeah, that’s a ranger’s charger, alright. Reckon that dead guy was his former owner?”

“No, that body was too old. If they both got stung at the same time, there would have still been a grub on that old cowboy.”

Briggs nodded at that, thinking. 

On the other side of the charger’s scar tissue was the remains of a different letter, just the rightmost prongs of what looked to me like an E. I pointed to it. “What’s this?”

“The R was for Ranger, that looks like that last bit of someone’s name.” He shrugged.

“Well, if his name isn’t on it, and he’s not here to claim it, then I guess this soldier is ours.” I came up to the front of the horse, where he was half heartedly chewing at some grass just on the shore. My new underling didn’t react as I stroked his mane, and even leaned into my hand as I patted at and rubbed his haunches. 

Eventually, as an exhausted, sodden and miserable group we slowly climbed our way back uphill. It was a bit of a hike due to the state we were in, and I didn’t want to ride the soldier either, given how weak he seemed to be. No sense in killing the only reward of our little misadventure.

Finally we arrived at the little grass flat at the top of the hill, where Holler was still riding in slow circles around the bighorners to herd them together and keep an eye out. Only now did I notice how often he was looking up, checking for cazadors no doubt. Manny and Boone were where I left them, watching us approach, but looking relaxed. 

“You run into some trouble?” Manny asked, taking a puff on his cigarette.

“Fuck off.” Briggs spat, and staggered away.

“He got stung by a cazador.” I told Manny, then patted the soldier’s muzzle. “This fellow was in their nest.”

For some reason Manny gazed at me, unblinking. Boone sat up in his seat, also staring at me through his sunglasses.

“What?”

“You went into a cazador nest without a gun? Just by yourself?” Manny asked, disbelief in his tone. It took me a moment to realise he was questioning my intelligence. Of course it was an incredibly stupid thing to have done, but my only defence was ignorance. If I’d known what a cazador was at the time, I would never have gone down there.

“If I knew it was a cazador nest, I would have come back and asked you to help.” I reassured him. To prove the point that the lesson was learned, I took off Briggs' jacket, and turned to show him the deep cuts across my back. “One of the things grabbed me, and its claws did that. If I’d been even a little bit slower it would have stung me, but managed to roll over and get it under me. Then I jammed my thumbs in its eyes.” 

While I waited for a reply, I pulled the jacket back on. When none was forthcoming, I turned to find the two of them staring at me, incredulous. There was a long moment as they stared, until Boone’s cigarette burned down to his fingers, and he dropped it with a curse then stamped it out.

“Look, I’m sure there are better ways to deal with the things, but it was the best I could do at that moment.” I defended myself, feeling faintly embarrassed. “I managed to burn the rest of the nest up by starting a fire with some turpentine.”

“I-” Manny opened his mouth then closed it. “I think I need to report this to someone.”

“I mean if that’s your protocol?” I shrugged. It seemed like common sense that the NCR would want to destroy any cazador nests it encountered, especially one so close to their new camp at Bitter Springs.

-----

When Melbourne and Tan returned, they brought with them a pair of slippies, loaded down with the supplies they recovered. They had dozens of guns, half a dozen sets of reinforced leather armour, bags of ammunition, two thousand caps, an entire case full of nothing but jet, and a box with some emergency medicine. 

Briggs and I broke that last one open right away, not even waiting to leave NCR territory. Some stimpaks, healing powder, and deworming tablets dealt with the damage the cazador had done, leaving behind just a few scars. To help the Soldier back to health, we used a surgical tube to feed some electrolytes, deworming pills, and healing powder directly to his stomach, otherwise he wouldn’t eat them. Despite the Charger’s reputation for ill temper, he was surprisingly compliant as long as I was the one handling him.

It seemed that the Khans preferred to use weapons they could make themselves, out of things they could easily scavenge. It was a crude mix of homemade submachine guns chambered in 9mm, and double barreled shotguns in 20 gauge. The submachine guns were too small in my opinion, needing some kind of front mounting if they were to be fired with any accuracy. They had a lot of recoil, making them difficult to aim when held with the intended pistol grip. 

Eventually, I was going to modify mine to make it easier to shoot in controlled bursts, but for now I favoured the double barreled shotgun I kept in a bandolier. It was crude, made from cracked, unvarnished wood, with what looked like repurposed pipes for the barrel. It was wrapped in copper wire, and had a screw in the top of it to act as a sight when you looked down the groove. As haphazard as the thing was, it had a wooden underside where I could place my hand, meaning I could shoot it with better comfort and accuracy than the submachine gun. 

When we left Bitter Springs, I rode a slippie along with the rest of the gang, not wanting to stress Soldier until he was feeling stronger. He followed along behind me, looking healthier and healthier as the day wore on. I noticed dead worms in his feces, which would explain why he was so malnourished when we found him. He responded quickly to firm commands, not needing to be told twice to come or go, and whenever he got too far from me he returned quickly when I whistled.

I don’t know what Briggs was talking about. These chargers seem quite usable to me.

-----

Melbourne and I briefly detoured to the Followers Clinic as we passed through Vegas, partly to offer them their share of caps for the work order that we used, and partly because I insisted on it. Not only was Ezekiel a friend I could work with, but as a representative of the Followers he could help negotiate deals on their behalf that I knew would be important for our future. The knowledge of the Followers was an incredibly powerful tool that I could scarcely believe was being so severely underutilised. 

When I stepped through the front door to the clinic, I drew a few gasps from the regular patients there. Now armed with the weapons and armour from the stache, Melbourne and I looked much more fearsome then when we set out. I was no longer wearing just the Khan jacket over a faded white shirt, but a set of reinforced leather armour with the Khan jacket over the top, and a pair of sunglasses. Spurs jangled on my feet with each step I took, but I ignored the frightened patients and stepped deeper into the clinic.

While Melbourne sorted out payment at the front counter, I found Ezekiel in the back offices. He was sitting at his desk, working at a computer on some kind of report when I stepped into his room. He twisted in his chair to look at me, but froze at the sight of me. His eyes went up slowly, rising from my chest to my face, his expression shocked. 

“Ezekiel, I want you-”

He gulped.

“-To come with me to Red Rock.” 

He blinked at me. Once, then twice. “Oh, right.” He hesitated for a moment, seriously thinking it over. After opening his mouth and closing it once, he glanced between me and the report he was working on, before finally shrugging. “You know what? Fuck it, why not? I’m an anthropologist, and a grown man, and I get to choose what I study and how. Julia doesn’t get to tell me how I do my research.”

I grinned widely. Not wanting him to get a chance to change his mind, I took his hand and bustled him outside. “You know how to ride a horse?”

“Uh. No?”

I had never learned to do it in my previous lives, but the muscle memory of this life had. Riding horses came as effortlessly to me as flying did. With an agile step up, I easily hopped into Soldier’s brand new saddle, freshly purchased from Cassidy Caravans. I offered my hand to Ezekiel, who took it, and with a tug I pulled him up into the saddle in front of me. 

I wrapped my hands around him, taking the reins, feeling him stiffen in his seat with what I presumed to be fear. It was his first time riding, after all. “Don’t worry, I’ll be good to you.” I promised him. And I would be. As the first new hire I managed to bring to the tribe, I would make sure he was kept safe and treated with due respect. There was no way I was going to lure other Followers out to Red Rock if they knew we treated them poorly.

Melbourne shot me an amused, disbelieving stare, before I gently pressed my spurs into Soldier’s sides.

Despite everything that had happened, and the awful world that I was now trapped in, I felt a strange lightness in my chest as we rode West towards the setting sun and an uncertain future.

-----

New Companion Unlocked!

Soldier the Horse. He's a bit of a fixer upper, but he's loyal and he can carry a lot of weight.

Chapter 45 re-write + Patron Roll

Hello there patrons. Two things. Firstly, I've done a pretty serious re-write of chapter 45. After some time and feedback, I felt like the victory of the Alliance was based on luck and Federation stupidity, rather than cunning and careful planning. I've decided to fix it, by altering a few things. I've changed Tanya's scene in chapter 43 slightly, to forshadow the Trade Federation fuel shortages and explain that draining the Fed reserves was a deliberate, long term plan done off screen in the intervening decade, and I've changed 45 pretty much entirely. A scene or two is the same, but almost the entire thing has been re-written. If you go back in this feed and re-read it, you'll see what I mean.

Also, some of you may have noticed I've gotten a bit slack with my patron credits at the end of each chapter. Putting together a list of new patrons has been quite the hassle, so if you want your name credited, you can add your own user name to the following list. That way, I can just copy paste the list to the bottom of each document. If your name is already on the list but you don't want it there, go ahead and delete it.

Thank you very much.

Chapter 46 coming soon.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1VvzZNXJh985nDeziG0RxI7buCPa8kMet7b-KrRBLxew/edit?usp=sharing

Tanya’s Steppe Saga 07

Of course I wanted the New Cannan gecko eggs to get started on my plan straight away, but I didn’t have the caps to buy any from Happy Trails, even if they had them. Taking a trip alone across the desert to Utah also seemed like an obviously bad idea. I didn’t have a map, didn’t know where I was going, and I doubted a single 9mm pistol would be enough to defend from the gangs of raiders I’d heard operated throughout the Mojave. Before I went to Utah, or before I paid Happy Trails to take a trip in that direction, I needed caps of my own, weapons, and the sort of security that only my tribe had been willing to provide me so far.

Resolved to go to Red Rock, I radioed ahead, asking for the other Khans to wait for me, so no one was surprised to see me when I arrived at the Followers Clinic just as the sun was rising. The morning air was cold enough that my breath came out frosted, and the handful of Khans there were trying to rebuild their barrel fire from the embers of the previous night.

“Hey, Maggie!” One of the men greeted me with a laugh.  He’d known Maggie for years, but I met him for the first time a few days ago. He had brown hair and a red beard, with huge hands and hairy forearms. Everyone called him Tan. “You got us freezing our asses off waiting for you here.” 

He hugged me without hesitation, and so following his social cue I hugged him back, along with all the other Khans who were relieved to see me, except for one who stood awkwardly at a distance. I guess they were all worried about Maggie. Ezekiel was also there to greet me and I hugged him as well, not wanting him to feel excluded. The man was just a fount of interesting and useful information, and if I could convince him to somehow accompany us to Red Rock then I definitely would.

“Here.” I offered Melbourne back her pistol, and she accepted it, checking the barrel and giving it a sniff. 

“You had to use it.” She stated, glancing up at me. Good nose on that one. My sense of smell had yet to recover from my time in Freeside.

Behind her, Ezekiel looked shocked.

I shrugged. “You were right. Leaving the Khans wasn’t anything like I thought it would be.”

Melbourne nodded. “We’ll have to get you one of your own when you get back.” Something must have shown in my expression, because she suddenly looked concerned. “What’s wrong? Afraid to face Papa after you ran away?”

“No, Papa told me I was free to go.” Still, it was a lot of miserable struggle that I went through with nothing to show for it. I think she wasn’t likely to drop it so in the end I simply said, “I just hate to go back empty handed.”

“Empty handed, empty stomachs.” Tan grunted, kicking at the sand. “S’going to be a hungry year or two without our herds. Fuckin’ NCR.”

That didn’t sound good. “What happened to our herds?”

“Scattered.” Tan spat. “All our slippies and bighorners, bolted. Now they’re probably getting picked off by cazadores.”

I blinked, recognising none of those nouns. I turned to Ezekiel, who saw my unspoken question.

“Uh, slippie is short for a sleipnir, a kind of mutated horse, big-horners are a mutated sheep-”

“And cazadores are fuckin’ demons.” Tan growled.

All around, the others nodded in agreement, looking upset at the idea. I suppose like many nomadic tribes, they were herdsmen by trade and culture, with drugs and raiding serving as a secondary source of income. No doubt many of them were feeling quite sour about losing their favourite pets. 

Maybe I didn’t have to return to the tribe empty handed? It could only help my standing within the group if I was able to help them recover some of their lost animals. If the Khans liked and trusted me, it would be that much easier to convince some of them to accompany me to Zion, or lend me the caps needed to get my gecko venture running.

I frowned, doing a quick head count. There were seven of us here, including Ezekiel. I’d never herded horses or goats before, but I think that should be enough for a small herd. “Could we gather our animals back up, and take them with us to Red Rock?”

“Can’t.” Melbourne answered. “Bitter Springs is NCR territory, now. And all we’ve got are some shitty hand guns. One patrol corners us, and we’re never seeing Red Rock.”

I shrugged. “Can’t we just get permission, then?”

They all looked at me, blinking. “Permission?” One of them muttered the word, like he never once used it before.

“We signed a treaty with the NCR.” I explained. “As long as we get our passports stamped, we can safely enter NCR territory to do legitimate work, which this definitely is.” 

“Passport?” Tan asked, then glanced over at Ezekiel. It took the Follower a moment to explain the concept, but when he was done Tan looked back to me. “Well I ain’t got a fuckin’ passport.”

“Yeah, but we can just make our own.” I shrugged. “All we need is some paper and some staples, and a bit of leather for the cover. Bam, official Khan passports.”

“Will that work?” Ezekiel asked, eyebrows raised.

“I don’t see why not.” I shrugged. “All we need is an NCR citizen to hire us to gather up the herds, and we’ll be meeting all the terms of the treaty. We can leave our guns here.”

All the other Khans suddenly looked uncomfortable.

“What?” I asked. “As long as we follow the terms of the treaty, we shouldn’t need to worry about getting attacked by the NCR.”

“Ain’t the NCR that’s the problem.” Tan answered, and there were a bunch of nods of agreement. “Cazadores!”

Right. Okay. Some kind of dangerous animal, then.

Suddenly the expression on Melbourne’s face brightened up. “The stash! How could I forget the stash?” She quickly explained. “We’ve got caps, guns, rations, meds, and chems stored in a bunch of caves above Bitter Springs.”

“Didn’t Papa Khan clear those out when we moved?” Tan asked her.

“Yeah, most of them. But the NCR didn’t give us time to get all of them, and I know which ones we had to abandon.”

“So we can enter NCR territory with a Follower’s work order, leaving our guns here with the clinic, get new guns from the stash, and gather up at least some of our herd before hauling it all to Red Rock.” I looked around at the gathered Khans. “Sounds like a plan?”

“Hell yeah, let’s do it.” Melbourne answered. The other Tan and the other Khans all nodded, looking interested, except for one.

“Do what you want, I’m staying here.” Standing at the back of the group was a dark skinned, scrawny and sullen looking teenager. He hadn’t said a word the entire time, keeping his lips in a sour little scowl. 

“What’s the problem?” I asked him.

“Fuck you, that’s the problem.” He snapped. “Your dumbasses got the fucking NCR riled up, shooting caravaners and raping and stealing, then they come down on us at Bitter Springs, and now you’re like, ‘Better poke that bear again.’ Man, fuck all of ya’ll.”

“We can’t stay here forever.” Melbourne replied. “So we either do this, or go back to Red Rock empty handed.”

“Nah.” He spat. “How about instead, I join the winning team? Why do I gotta stay with this tribe of morons whose breath all smells like Brahmin shit from all the bad jet they suck down? I say fuck this, and I say fuck you.” He sneered at me in particular for some reason. “I quit. I’m going to join the NCR.”

He looked around, challenging us.

“Good fucking riddance, then.” Tan spat, the wad landing at the kid’s feet. “You were always a little fucking bitch.”

With a snarl the kid lunged forward, throwing a punch at Tan, but the older, larger Khan easily blocked the strike and countered with an upper cut that took the teen clean off his feet. The boy crashed into the pitted old asphalt that ran past the front of the clinic, blood pouring from a pressure cut on his lip. Tan stepped forward, raising his boot to stomp on the boy’s face, but surprisingly Ezekiel stepped forward and pulled him back. 

Tan stumbled a step, before pulling himself free of Ezekiel’s grip. “Get off of me.” He snarled, straightening his jacket.

“You can’t just kill him!” Ezekiel said, looking between the boy on the ground and Tan, then to me like he wanted me to back him up.

To be completely honest, I thought the young man was being incredibly unwise, and had rather earned his beating by insulting the group and attacking Tan. Still, I always preferred to end a working relationship on amicable terms.

“Melbourne, the gun?” I held out my hand to my friend, who glanced between me and the boy, before shrugging and handing me the 9mm.

I walked over to the boy, crouching down in front of him, he shied away, trying to scoot back but stopped when I offered him the gun. He didn’t take it immediately, hesitantly, glancing between me and Tan, as though expecting some kind of trick.

“What the hell?!” Tan spat, furious. “Don’t waste anything on this little punkass bitch!”

“You said some things because you were angry.” I calmly explained to the boy. “And you’re right. The Khans have made some pretty big mistakes to get to this point, but I’m telling you it’s not easy out there. So take this,” I wiggled the gun, “as your final pay cheque, and I wish you the best of luck in your next endeavor. If things don’t go well for you, you can reapply for your position with the Khans at a later date.”

He swallowed once, before accepting the gun. I watched him carefully, ready to lash out if he looked like he was about to do something with it, but instead he stuffed the gun into his jacket pocket, standing up as he did. 

“It’s our fault they’re dead!” He grunted. With teary eyes, he shot a glare at all of us. “The women and the children, and everyone innocent died that night, and it’s our fault.” He took a few steps forward, and shed his Khan jacket into the dust in front of me. “Thanks, but I ain’t coming back to this grave.”

I watched him walk away until he was out of ear shot, ignoring the annoyed look on Tan’s face that he sent my way.

“Who was that kid anyway?” I asked Melbourne, in a low voice.

She shrugged. “It’s just Shaun.”

“Stupid little shit said he wasn’t Shaun, anymore.” Tan interrupted. “Said he was Bitter Root, now. Pretentious little shit thought he’d been through his beatdown. He doesn’t decide that, the tribe does.” 

The other Khans all nodded in agreement with him.

“Anyway, enough of that.” Tan waved his hand dismissively. “I’m sick of waiting around already, can we just get this shit done?”

——-

Making the passports didn’t turn out to be very difficult at all. The young punk had left his leather jacked behind, which made it easy to source leather covers for our little books. Melbourne turned out to be quite skilled with her hands, quickly using her knife to whittle a khan logo into the bottom of a stump. After hammering its shape into a piece of tin, we had a rudimentary brand, which we then warmed up over the fire and burned into squares of leather to make into our gang logo. Once we stapled in the blank paper we got from the Followers, we had a handful of passports, the first ever issued by the Khans presumably.

Unfortunately, Ezekiel wasn’t an NCR citizen, but another follower named Emily Ortal was. When I explained to her that the Khans might starve without our herds, she was reluctantly willing to sign the employment contract I wrote up for her to pose as our employer.

We sold the few guns we had to the Followers, then set out for Boulder City, following the shadow of Route 147 on a straight line East out of the city towards Bitter Springs. We were all freshly recovered from our injuries, and so we set a good pace. The Khans in general were used to long walks over harsh terrain, and the NCR had recently cleared the road, so we made it to Bitter Springs about an hour or so after the sun had set.

“What the hell are you doing back here?” Lieutenant Dhatri demanded, once he saw us.

“We’re here to present our passports before entering NCR territory.” I explained. “Specifically, we’ve been contracted by an NCR citizen named Emily Ortal to gather up the scattered Khan Big Horner and Slippie herds, which means we have the right to apply for a visa as per the terms of the Treaty of Bitter Springs.”

“‘Treaty’?” Dhatri stared at me, disbelieving. “You mean when you surrendered?”

“That was part of the treaty’s terms, yes.” I replied. “Now are you going to issue us our Visa’s?”

“Oh, come on.” He scoffed. “You can’t be serious with this?”

“Sir, are you proposing to violate the terms of the Treaty, and return the Khans and the NCR to a state of war?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He groaned. I opened my mouth to continue, but he snapped at me. “Shut up! This is officially above my goddamn paygrade.”

“I’m sure Major Bullah can make the decision.”

“Major Bullah has been reassigned, and I’m in charge here until relieved.” He looked about at the NCR soldiers who were watching our little argument with obvious distrust. “You! Sergeant, come here.” A soldier with sergeant rank pips came over. “Wait here. Watch them. I need to use the radio.

He stalked away, muttering angrily to himself.

——-

Colonel James Hsu

The hours passed slowly for James Hsu, they always did. His world was his office, and the collection of reports sitting on his desk. Food shortages here, low morale there, raider gangs picking off caravans, locals in Freeside beating up off duty soldiers who strayed past the gates, and the inescapable conclusion that half of what he was reading was brahmin shit from men covering their own asses. Time passed at a crawl, each second sluggishly sliding into the next, leaving nothing to show for itself but the gradual increase in Hsu’s headache. Being a Colonel used to mean something to him, now it just meant he was a whipping boy for a narcissistic gloryhound with the brains of a stump, and the self-awareness to match.

After the better part of a decade the Mojave occupation was still rolling on like a slowly unfolding disaster. A series of bad decisions made by people who had no idea what the situation was really like on the ground.

For example, word had made its way back west and onto the streets of Shady Sands that too many caravans were getting raided on their way to Vegas. There were bandits hiding out in countless old mineshafts and tunnels, ruins and hill camps, watching the roads and waiting for plodding, slow, well laden carts and to come by. Sending out a column of NCR Troopers to march through the area would do nothing because the bandits just waited and watched until a softer target came. It was definitely a problem, one that would take rangers to solve. They could just track each little band to their hidey hole and destroy them. It would take a number of independently operating units, peeling each gang up one by one, freeing up the clogged supply arteries little by little. It would take time, but it would work.

That wasn’t what they did, though. 

General Oliver didn’t like the Rangers, no sir, and General Oliver also definitely did not like protracted operations. If a problem couldn’t be blown up, he didn’t want to hear about it. Well, eventually the grumblings back West got to the point where General Oliver finally had to do something, and his solution? March right into the biggest raider camp in the Mojave, and destroy it. 

There were only a few problems with that brilliant scheme. The first was that the Khans weren’t anywhere near Vegas, and well north of the Dam, so they hadn’t been doing most of the raids that were causing so much damage, so clearing them away from Bitter Springs was going to achieve damn near nothing. The second problem was that it turned out the Khans had a bunch of fortified caves in the hills north of their camp, which Oliver might have known about in advance if he bothered scouting out more than the absolute basics, so casualties were going to be massive. The third problem was that the Khans weren’t just raiders, but herdsmen, with women and children too. The cost of the operation wasn’t just in soldiers and caps, but in rumors and word of mouth. Whether President Kimball wanted to admit it or not, the opinion of the Mojave mattered when it came to deciding who would rule New Vegas. 

Now Colonel Hsu was reading the reports for Operation Grassfire, and he almost couldn’t imagine how it could have gone worse. Expensive in blood and caps? Check. Plenty of soldiers' lives were lost and lots of ammunition was expended. Did non-combatants get caught up in the fighting? Of course. Women and children were mistaken for combatants in the dark and slaughtered almost completely. Would the Khans still be around to trouble them later? Oh yeah, they would just move to another hill to nurse their grudge. Horrible damage to the NCRs reputation as a whole? Oh, absolutely. Just about the only good thing that could be said for the bloody mess was that they had at least removed the Khans from Bitter Springs, so technically the operation was a success. If they were lucky, they might even see a one percent reduction in caravan raids, annually. A textbook Pyrrhic victory. 

Colonel Hsu shook his head, putting the report down. From his desk he took out some aspirin, and poured himself a glass of purified water, before slugging it back and wishing it was a shot of whiskey.

He folded the report back up, and moved it to his pile of completed paperwork, before picking up another sheet from his uncompleted stack. He had dozens more reports to read and he was going to be up late again tonight if he didn’t get through it all while the sun was up.

Just then there was a knock at his door. A private in an illfitting uniform saluted him. “Sir, radio request for you, from Lieutenant Dhatri. Channel 101.9. He says he needs to confirm his orders, sir.”

Dhatri? Wasn’t he assigned to Major Bullah?

Colonel Hsu sighed, and turned around to switch on his own radio. He turned the dial to the right channel and held down the button to broadcast.

“This is Colonel Hsu, for Lieutenant Dhatri. Over.”

“This is Lieutenant Dhatri. Need to confirm orders with you before I proceed, over.”

“Lieutenant, I’m not your commanding officer, over.”

“Sir, Major Bullah has been recalled by General Oliver sir, and I’m the ranking officer here. The situation here is a bit too big for me to make a decision on, over.”

Hsu pinched his brow, fighting back a groan. He knew that Major Bullah had been recalled to Hoover Dam, and was probably getting reamed out by General Oliver right now, but to leave the ranking officer at the scene as a Lieutenant was a serious mistake, especially if his orders were unclear.

After steadying himself, Hsu asked, “Major, what is the situation?”

“I’ve got a handful of the Khans that were vacated from Bitter Springs, saying they need to go back there to gather up their bighorner herds. Bitter Springs is supposed to remain a secure area, but they claim that for us to keep them out would violate our peace treaty.”

With a sigh, Hsu went through his pile of reports, before taking out his copy of the Treaty of Bitter Springs. He quickly scanned through its terms, before finding the relevant clause.

“Liuetenant, I need you to answer some questions for me, over.”

“Understood, Colonel. Go ahead.”

“Do they have passports?”

“...Yes sir.”

“Do they have a work order from an NCR citizen?”

“...Yes sir.”

“Are they armed?”

“No sir.”

“Are they at present a threat to any NCR personnel or citizens at Bitter Springs, or likely to inhibit the completion of your orders?”

“No sir.”

Colonel Hsu sighed, wishing that the Khans had broken some part of the treaty, but no, they’d stuck to it on their end. It would be much better to keep them out of Bitter Springs and away from NCR operations, but violating the treaty less than a week after it had been signed wasn’t a good look. No one would ever trust any agreement made by the NCR.

“Lieutenant, go to your tent and get your stamp. Stamp and date those passports. Record their names, appearances, and birth dates in your log book. Make a full report of their activities when they leave the area, but give them forty eight hours to gather their herds. Do not let them out of your sight, Lieutenant. Copy that?”

“Yes sir. Understood. Lieutenant Dhatri out.”

Hsu put the radio down and went back to his reports, briefly worrying that General Oliver would be angered by his decision, but quickly dismissed the concern. What was done was done, and he doubted Oliver gave a damn about some mutant sheep anyway. Honestly, Hsu barely gave a damn himself. How important could a pack of bighorners even be?

——-

So far, the plan to recover the herds was going swimmingly. I didn’t know the exact monetary value of the beasts, and I wasn’t at all familiar with their handling, but feeling their soft fur lining the collars of my Khan jacket, and breathing in the brisk air of a desert’s winter morning, I was already benefiting from their uses. Wool for clothing, milk for cheese and yogurt, and meat every spring with lambing season. The giant ugly brutes had a remarkably gentle disposition, despite their gross appearance. Each one was easily taller than me at the shoulder, with lumpy skin covering their burnt looking, hairless faces. They snuffled about, happily eating the banana yucca fruits that we offered them, along with grasses and a few other select herbs.

“See? They really like you.” Melbourne smirked at me.

“That’s just because I’m feeding them.” I’d shifted attention from the young bighorner in front of me, and he headbutted my leg to remind me to keep feeding him. I quickly obliged, offering him more yucca that I’d plucked earlier. I whispered to him in my most saccharine voice, “That’s right. Eat up and get nice and fat. Grow big, strong, and extra tasty, please!”  

Already I could see these creatures would make great employees. 

The NCR had been keeping a stern eye on us. It was a bit strange, having a dozen soldiers follow around five Khans as we gathered up mutant sheep, but they hardly interfered with us. The bighorners didn’t like them, apparently they found strangers frightening, but were well used to us Khans.

“How big was our herd originally?” I asked.

“We had thousands of them.”

I looked over the ones we’d managed to find, and couldn’t help but wince. There weren't even a hundred of them here. The rest had either been picked off by predators, or ran too far away for us to feasibly find them in the forty eight hours we were given. 

“They only stick together when there’s enough food to go around. Once the green starts getting scarce, they all run off to do their own thing.” Melbourne shrugged. “It’s unlucky, but it’s how it is.”

There were only around six hundred Khans left, and the bighorners grew large enough that one of them could feed dozens of men for a week when it was slaughtered and processed properly into dried meat and broth. Fifty adult big horners could feed the tribe for a week. If we were to slaughter this entire flock it would be able to feed all the remaining Khans for about two weeks. Of course, there was also the milk they produced, which would go a long way towards filling pots and stomachs each morning over the coming months.

“And the slippies?”

Melbourne just shook her head, looking despondent.

I couldn’t blame her. I was hardly an expert on nomadic warfare, but from what I recall a nomadic tribe would usually want around five horses for each mounted warrior. Horses would quickly become exhausted during the rigor of battle, and would need to be swapped out fairly often if they were expected to be ridden with any speed over the course of a hard fought day. Even if you only planned to use the horses for a single charge, you would need at least two horses. One to carry you and your equipment to the battle, and another that would be fresh for the battle when needed. Cavalry was an expensive investment.

Well, that cavalry which the Khans had invested so much time, love, and money into was almost entirely gone. Forget having five horses to each warrior, or even two! We hadn’t even found enough slippies for one for each man. I only counted sixty four of them.

They were quite ugly as well, with longer bodies compared to a normal horse, and an extra set of legs sprouting out of their shoulders for six legs total. Each slippie was of a darker colour, usually black and brown, though there were a few that were grey. They walked with a strange grace. It almost didn’t seem to matter what terrain they passed over, their heads and shoulders would remain at the same level. The movement almost made me think of a cat on the prowl, very slow and considerate until it wasn’t. Each slippie could move with a sudden burst of speed that caught me off guard the first time I saw it. I’d been offering one of the ugly things a prickly pear pad, when almost as fast as I could blink, the cactus was gone from my hand and the slippie was chewing happily.

Unnerving creatures.

Still, I could see the value in them. Certainly, charging them against a force like the NCR with its ranked infantry, armed with automatic and semi-automatic rifles would be a disaster, but the slippies would allow a small group of elite warriors to redeploy quickly across rough terrain. Even back in the 21st century, horses were sometimes used by American Special Forces in the remote corners of Afghanistan. I imagined they would be most useful in the hands of a group of snipers, or soldiers operating a long distance from reliable supply lines. 

I would definitely prefer a good car, but for now this was the best my tribe could do. Just going to have to make it work, and jump on better opportunities as they appear.

I glanced over at Melbourne, who had stopped what she was doing to glare at our NCR watchers. They were armed with bolt action rifles, mostly chambered in 308 rounds, and keeping an eye on us from a distance. They were First Recon Battalion, a specialised sniper force. Apparently, these were the gentlemen who had fired on our women and children in the dark, and destroyed my previous eye for good measure. They were garrisoned at Bitter Springs for now, awaiting redeployment.

They were just soldiers following orders, so I didn’t hold a grudge, but the other Khans absolutely did. The looks of pure hatred Tan in particular kept sending their way made me fear he might be about to try something stupid. Even if he didn’t, Melbourne might.

“Hey, Tan!” I called out as I walked over to him. He didn’t look at me, too focussed on one of the NCR Sniper’s in particular. “I was thinking you and Melbourne and I could head off to try and find that stash now. We can leave the animals here with the others.”

Tan didn’t reply, just spitting out a wad of coyote tobacco he’d been chewing on so it plopped on the ground.

There was one particular NCR sniper he was glaring at that looked vaguely familiar to me. It took me a moment, but I was able to remember where I’d seen him before. On the night of Bitter Springs he was the one who went off to get the stimpack which saved my life. Vargas, I think his name was. 

“You know him?” I asked Tan.

“That fucking traitor used to be a Khan.” He grit out through clenched teeth. “That fucker was with them! Shooting at our children that night!”

Well, it seemed like I needed to get Tan away from our watchers sooner rather than later, or he would definitely cause an incident.

“Come on.” I steered him away, leading him back over towards Melbourne. With clear reluctance, Tan let me drag him over to Melbourne. Once we were together in a little huddle, I said, “You two, go get the stash. I’ll distract the guards so you can slip away.”

They looked at each other. “Why us?”

“Melbourne, you know where the Stash is. Plus it’s dangerous to go alone, you said there would be cazadores around.”

“I bet there’s a lot of them, too. Feasting on our lost herd.” Tan muttered bitterly.

“So, go together, take some of the slippies to help carry everything, get the stash and come back.”

The two of them glanced at each other one final time, before agreeing with a shrug.

“You’re a lot bossier than you used to be.” Melbourne grumbled.

I didn’t bother to reply to that, turning away and making my way over to where Vargas was watching me. He blinked in surprise when I smiled at him, shifting on the rock he was sitting on. 

Seated next to him was a blonde fellow with a thousand yard stare, who didn’t even seem to notice me approaching. The cigarette in his hand was burning away, and for a moment I thought he was asleep until my shadow fell over him and he finally glanced at me.

“Got a light?” I asked him, and took out one of my last cigarettes. I only had two left from the box I’d brought with me to Vegas. Restricting myself to one a day had kept the cravings away, but the temptation to smoke was there almost constantly.

Vargas and his friend glanced at each other, before the blonde man finally tossed me his lighter.

“I remember you from that night.” I said. “You saved my life. Vargas, right?”

“Manny Vargas.” He corrected, and shifted uncomfortably. “Hardly saved your life when it could have been one of us who shot you. The new eye looks good, by the way.”

“Thanks.” I shrugged. “I’m Maggie.”

“Yeah, I know.” He shrugged. “You were, what? Fourteen, or fifteen when I left?”

Perfect. “Did we know each other?”

“Not really. You were one of Papa’s grandkids, and he kept all of you close.” Manny smiled, reminiscing, then stopped, getting a sad look on his face. He shook his head, waving a hand as if to dispel the memory. “Anyway. Uh, this is my friend, Craig Boone.”

“Nice to meet you.” I smiled at Boone.

He didn’t answer at first, just taking a long drag on his cigarette and keeping an eye on something in the distance. When he finally did speak, it was in a low, rough voice. “What are your friends sneaking off for?”

Fuck.

“Just looking for more bighorners and slippies.”

“Sure buddy.” Manny smirked. “They’re going to get one of your stashes, right?”

Of course a former Khan would figure us out in an instant. “Please don’t report this. We’re going to need those caps in the coming months. You can turn a blind eye for your old tribe, right?”

The two of them looked at each other. 

Boone took a long slow drag on his own cigarette, burning it down to the butt, before dropping it and crushing it with his heel. He turned away, walking down the hill away from us.

“He’s not going to report this is he?” I asked Manny.

“No, I don’t think so.” Manny said with a sigh, watching him go. “Tell you what, I’m worried about him so I'll keep an eye on him. If you guys can get your stash back here, and hidden away before we come back, I won’t say anything.”

He picked up his rifle from his lap, and hopped to his feet before turning to chase his friend down hill.

That just left me and two other Khans to keep an eye on the animals. They were Holler and Briggs, two men who’d been injured in the fighting. So far I hadn’t spoken with them much, but they seemed to respect Tan and follow his lead on most things. Holler was a ways away from me, riding one of the slippies in my direction with a pleased look on his face. Apparently, one of the horses we recovered was one he’d been riding since he was young. Recovering the beast had him smiling like a little boy on Christmas. Holler looked quite content to take his horse in gentle circles around our herds, keeping any of the animals from wandering away.

Briggs was nowhere to be seen, though. One of the larger Khans, Briggs was a genuine bull of a man with huge hands covered in scars. For some reason he wasn’t anywhere I could spot him.

“Holler, where’s Briggs?” 

The man blinked, spinning about in his saddle, searching. “Isn’t he back yet? He said he saw some hoof prints heading left, downhill from that trail heading towards the river. I think he wanted to see if he could find some more slippies down by the bay.”

I glanced around a bit, before shrugging. “You stay here then. I’ll go see what’s taking him so long.”

I hurried down the trail, the clear blue waters of the Colorado River getting closer and closer. The trail was an old one from before the war, made of compressed gravel and the occasional remnants of a two hundred year old wooden stair that had rotted away. Without the stairs to follow, I kept having to scramble down steep slopes, which slowed my progress. Finally, I found the hoof prints that Holler had described to me, heading away towards a small set of buildings in the distance. 

As I came closer, a sound carried over the wind.

“Heeeelp! For the love of god, heeeelp!” A man screamed.

Rather than rush over, I fell into a crouch, looking around to see if anyone else was nearby. I couldn’t see any sign of someone watching, waiting to ambush. No glint of a sniper scope in the bushes, or indication that anyone else was present.

“God, please! Someone! Someone help!”

Probably, Briggs had tripped over and broken his leg on one of those steep declines. Still, I didn’t want to risk rushing in blindly.

Carefully, placing my feet flat with each step and moving slowly so as not to crunch any gravel, I made my way over towards the building where Briggs was crying out from. It looked like it was some kind of pre-war boat shed, and I stuck to the outside as I crept around its exterior. Eventually I found a window and stood up on my toes to peer through. Inside I saw Briggs, blood pouring out of a puncture wound in his backside. His face was filthy, like he’d been dragged some distance, covered in a gravel rash as tears poured from his eyes. Terrified, he searched about, until his eyes met mine and lit up.

“I got stung! Fucking Cazadore got me- Watch out!” He barked.

I spun around just in time to see a black silhouette with orange wings swooping towards me.

CoS 45

“Warfleets are massing along the Hydian, as the Outer Rim Reform Alliance and the Trade Federation prepare to go to war. This comes just hours after an explosive confrontation between Senator Amidala and Senator Wurmnar on the senate floor. The Trade Federation has packed almost two thousand ships into the Zygerrian System, with even more expected to join them soon. Meanwhile the Alliance has been playing things a little closer to the chest, trying to conceal their exact numbers, but are clearly gathering ships in the Serenno System, right at the edge of their territory. We’ll be bringing you live updates as we learn more.

To get a comment on the brewing conflict now, we go to our expert, a lecturer on Military History at Coruscant University, Professor Pulg Ottihs joins us here in the studio. Professor Ottihs, what would it mean for the Galaxy as a whole if the Alliance and the Federation were to go to war?”

“A war between the two would have a profound effect, not just on the Outer Rim, but even here in the Core. I would like to highlight three things, if you’ll let me?”

“Please, go ahead.”

“First of all, we’re going to see a noticeable jump in the prices of all goods and services, everywhere. Most of the products we use and the food we eat in the Core Worlds are produced in the Mid Rim from raw goods transported there from the Outer Rim, much of it by companies headquartered in the Corporate Sector. Stressing those supply lines as materials are diverted for the war will cause shortages for consumers.

“Secondly, it has to be emphasized that this wouldn’t be a small, regional affair. Both the Alliance and the Federation have heavily industrialised worlds, such as Botajef and Eitti IV, and both have been expanding their fleets to the point where they can field thousands of warships. If a war does break out between the two it would be the largest war the Galaxy has seen in a thousand years. The death toll could easily be in the millions, if not billions.

“Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, it’s an extremely dire sign of the state of the Galactic Senate. It seems apparent that both sides believe their concerns will not be addressed by the Senate, and that our government is in fact so weak, and so ineffectual, that they will face no serious consequences, regardless of what they do to each other. Speaking quite honestly, if this war is allowed to play out, what’s to stop other opportunistic actors attempting the same thing in other parts of the Galaxy? We could be seeing similar conflicts breaking out everywhere, potentially even here in the Core. Empress Teta and Alsaka have been at loggerheads for some time now, and both are right on our doorstep.”

“So, if you had any advice to give to Supreme Chancellor Palpatine, what would it be?”

“You need to take the gloves off. Centralise emergency powers in the office of the Supreme Chancellor, and crack some skulls until they stop. Whatever their issues are can be sorted out once our authority has been reasserted. As costly as it might be, the consequences of a war would be worse. I think-”

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Professor Pulg, but we have breaking news. The Outer Rim Reform Alliance has issued a formal declaration of war against the Trade Federation, while the Senate sat in stunned silence. Senator Petvid of Raxus Secundus presented evidence to the floor that he says proves the Trade Federation offered financial and military support to a Mandalorian Revanchist group called the Death Watch, who attempted to assassinate Duchess Satine of Mandalore as part of an attempted coup that would destabilise the Alliance. On the ground in Mandalore, we’re receiving reports of street level fighting as various clans declare themselves for or against the current government. At this moment in time, we don’t know who the factions are, or the scale of the conflict, but already it is being considered a state of civil war. 

“Meanwhile, across the Outer Rim we are receiving reports of large ship movements, as both the Federation and the Alliance are dispatching their fleets. We’ve yet to hear of any battles taking place, but at this point it seems that it’s only a matter of time.”

“Don’t go anywhere, after this short break we’ll be right back with more breaking-”

The newsreader cut off with the flick of a switch, as Yetter Shaul leaned back in his piloting chair, frowning. He was a zabrak, so even if he didn’t exercise much, his high metabolism kept him from growing fat even though his work mostly involved him sitting around all day. He wasn’t quite a young man anymore, though probably not middle aged yet. His long brown mop of hair mingled with his scraggly beard, his overgrown horns in serious need of a good sand and polish. Not that appearances mattered for his work, people don’t pay long haul pilots because they’re pretty.

He was of humble beginnings, like a lot of zabrak born below the surface of Coruscant. It hadn’t been an easy life, especially when his father died while unloading a cargo ship from an overturned container falling on him. Yetter had been considering joining a gang to meet ends when the insurance payout came through. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to buy piloting lessons for a small starship, and to make a down payment for a loan on his own freighter. Ever since, Yetter hadn’t looked back once.

For the next ten years he lived as clean as a whistle, moving cargo from one end of the Galaxy to the other. There was always demand for something somewhere, and he was small enough to pick up on little contracts that the bigger companies wouldn’t notice. As a hard working owner/operator, his profit margins were pretty narrow, but enough to gradually work down his debt, one payment at a time. For years he resisted the pressure to become a smuggler, until one day the choice was made for him.

He didn’t know when it happened, he didn’t know enough about galactic macroeconomics to say how, but at some point even the little bit of profit he was making melted away. The cost of hypermatter went up, the cost of new parts went up, the cost of food went up. His little one man operation, with overheads so low you couldn’t feed a circuit worm with them, was going broke. He lived with no luxuries to speak of, but for a few cheap cafstims and some holorecordings of a few jizz wailers he liked, and was still somehow sliding into unprofitability. It was infuriating. It was unfair. He stared at that account for hours, stomach churning with discomfort, before finally he was able to accept the truth.

No matter what, he wasn’t going back to blasted Coruscant. He tried to be a good man, he really did, but that maze of back alleys and strangers haunted him. So, with a whispered apology to the spirit of his father, he reached out to a friend he knew to be in the smuggling business, and was soon plugged into the Galaxy spanning circuit of shadowy syndicates and ruthless alien cartels.

Hutts, Pikes, Weequays, Abbysinians, Zygerrians, slavers, pirates, spice dealers, and worse. They all had goods they needed to move from point a to point b without anyone knowing the wiser, and Yetter’s clean record was extremely desirable. 

Yetter didn’t have the stomach for anything truly awful, like moving slaves or organs, but he was able to live with moving stolen goods. Soon enough, his business came to revolve around transporting federation fuel rods, hyper matter, tibanna, and plasma cartridges. There was a massive, surging black market for such goods coming out of the Corporate sector. Honestly, the scale and depth of it had shocked Yetter. There were standard rates for bribes, available in an itemised table, published instruction booklets on how to avoid standard Trade Federation searches, insurance policies for smuggled goods, perks for preferred clients, you name it. Smuggling various kinds of fuel out of the Trade Federation was practically a cottage industry.

He had to wonder, how had it gotten so large? How long had it been going for? Was this sustainable?

Yetter tried not to think about it too much. He was getting paid well, and asking too many questions might lead him to dangerous answers not worth thinking about. Today, he wasn’t smuggling anything out of the Federation, he was smuggling something into it. In his cargo holds were a number of crates of blasters and food stuff frozen in carbonite. Military supplies by the looks of things, though not Federation issued.

Who was buying it? Why did it need to be smuggled?

In the end he just wasn’t paid to ask questions. Still, he sucked on the beard hairs that grew around his lip, feeling anxiety burning in his chest, his two hearts beating with unusual speed despite his physical inactivity. Here he was in the Corporate Sector, just as the Trade Federation went to war. It was such unlucky timing…

There was a ping from his holocom, and he reached over to flick it on, seeing his job calendar displayed. This wasn’t where he recorded the smuggling jobs, he wasn’t stupid enough to keep a record of that, this was where he recorded the legal courier work that was his front. The calendar was rapidly emptying itself, as clients deleted their jobs. They forfeited their security bonds, but from their perspective it was probably safer than relying on him to be able to carry goods across what was soon to be an active warzone.

More worried than ever, Yetter dialed his handler with the Ring.

“What’s up?”

“Hey uh… I’m out here in the Corporate Sector. I saw that the war was just declared, so I need to know, is this job still good?” Yetter almost felt stupid for even asking. 

“Trying to renege?” 

“No, no, ‘course not.” Yetter swallowed, nervously. He’d never been threatened by the Ring before, and he didn’t have to be. “Just worried about finding work. All my jobs on the books just quit.”

“Ah, I see the problem. Tell you what. My boss has a special interest in your current run. Don’t ask, I don’t know. But I can see he’s authorised me to offer payments for your downtime. After you make the delivery, don’t go anywhere. Just linger on the landing pad. If you stay there on standby for us, we’ll cover any overdue fees, and we’ll pay you a substantial bonus. After this job is over, I’ll see if we can’t hook you up with some of our front businesses to keep you going. That sound good?”

It meant getting even deeper in business with the Ring, but given the war that had just broken out, Yetter didn’t really believe he had a better option coming any time soon. “Alright. Thanks. I’ll take you up on that.”

“No worries. Don’t worry mate, we take care of ours.”

Not feeling much better, Yetter hung up and turned his news broadcast back on.

“-in the markets we’re already seeing the expected jump in fuel prices, demand for hypermatter and plasma has jumped through the roof in just minutes, and is expected to continue to climb even after trading closes today.”

Suddenly it occurred to Yetter why so much plasma and hypermatter was being smuggled out of the Corporate Sector. Now that the war was on, the value of the stuff was only going to keep going up and up, and up. Whoever ran the Ring had his finger on the pulse of the Galactic economy, and was making smart plans well in advance of the rest of the Galaxy.

Finally, his holocom pinged with a call from the flight tower. “Flight Tower to Yetter High Speed Couriers, we’re broadcasting your landing codes now, over.”

Finally! With practised ease, Yetter brought his humble freighter low, landing smoothly on the pad despite the howling weather.

Bonadon was hot and dry at the best of times, and the wind that blew across the landing pad wasn’t at the level of a standstorm, but it still kicked up plenty of dust and debris. Yetter was well used to the conditions of the world at this point, so took out his goggles and a dusk mask, before grabbing his compad and hurrying inside. Normally one of the Neimoidians would come out to speak to him, but on a day like this Yetter wouldn’t bet on it.

The facility was huge, easily the size of a Coruscanti spaceport, with multiple ports for ships, small and large to land. It was huge, domed, and armour plated like it was expected to withstand orbital bombardment.

The sign at the entrance had a small, easily deciphered map to offer directions. In one direction was the port, the repair shops, droid storage, personnel rooms, etc, and in another was hypermatter storage.

This was the Trade Federation’s strategic Hypermatter Reserve. Even with the outbreak of war, this facility alone had enough hypermatter stored to keep the Federation security fleets flying for at least three months. How much it would all be worth now, Yetter could only guess at.

“Are you Yetter?” The Neimoidian who greeted him just inside the entrance was a creepy looking fellow, with one milky, bulbous eye and dried, cracked skin that was flaking over his top lip. “From the Ring?”

“That’s me. You’re buying this stuff?” Yetter asked, taking out his compad and exchanging information with the Neimoidian’s own. “It’s mostly just carbonite goods and some-”

“I don’t want to know.” The Neimoidian answered, holding up his hand. “The Ring is paying me to store this stuff here. Anything more than that and I ‘m at risk of knowing too much.

Right. It was an attitude Yetter could sympathise with, though he wasn’t sure how the Ring planned to make money on a grocery run. Whatever. If they were smart enough to put together their little scheme to profit off the hypermatter they were skimming from Federation ships, then they surely had some kind of plan here.

With the exchange of permissions done, Yetter returned to his pilot’s chair, sealing the door behind him. He settled in to watch the group of droids that rolled out across the landing pad, up the ramp and began unloading his ship.

With his part done, Yetter leaned back in his chair and watched the droids work. It didn’t take them long, and they did it without accidents. While they were taking the goods off the landing pad and into the facility to find the storage room, Yetter saw something that made him gasp. One of the blocks of frozen carbonite had what looked like a hand print on it.

He swallowed, feeling guilt writhing away at him. People. The Ring was having him move people disguised as food. Were they slaves? Was he a trafficker now?

Yetter squirmed in his chair, the feeling of guilt unsettling his stomach. But who could he talk to about it? What could he tell them? Wasn’t he complicit?

He wanted to believe he was a good person, but in the end he was much like everyone else. In a dangerous Galaxy, he was always going to do what he had to so he could survive and keep flying. Anxiety led to inaction, and as the sun set Yetter eventually crawled into his cot, and fell into an uneasy sleep. 

-----

Because the Alliance had been the ones who declared war, they gained a very small advantage over the Trade Federation. Specifically, they knew the exact minute, hour and second, so were already moving their fleets just as news was breaking across the Galaxy. Ky Narec had absolutely no doubt in his mind that the Federation would have had their forces in a state of high alert. When the war was declared they would be quick to dispatch their fleets, but they would still need at least some time to calculate their hyperjumps and send their orders down the chain of command to where their Captains, Commodores and Admirals would receive it.

Twenty minutes. Maybe Ky would be able to get to Ranroon twenty minutes ahead of the Trade Federation. The distance from Liana to Ranroon was greater than the distance from Zygerria to Ranroon, which would be crucial for him to achieve victory today. Would the Force grant him more than twenty minutes? Or even less? He didn’t know. What Ky was certain of was that failing to secure Ranroon would instantly doom the Temple on Indinoor. 

The only way for the Federation located in the Corporate Sector to get into the Tion Cluster and Alliance space was through the Shaltin Tunnels, with Ranroon and Zygerria forming the two ends of a bottleneck in hyperspace. If the Alliance from the Tion Cluster wanted to push north into the Corporate Sector, they would need to pass through the Zygerrian system, but the reverse was also true. If the Federation wanted to invade the Tion Cluster, they would need to pass through the Ranroon system. The Federation already held both of them, which meant Dooku now had to secure Ranroon or the war was lost.

Ky breathed out once through his nose, long and slow, passing his feelings of nervousness into the Force and focussing his mind. Strangely, despite everything that had happened, he was feeling more at peace than he had in a long time. He was fighting to protect his home and his Jedi, and a future for Asajj.

The system was coming up now, he could feel it. None of the Neimoidian fleet commanders would be strong enough in the Force for him to sense their minds from here, but at the very least Ky was certain there were no Sith among the enemy.

“All cruisers, arm weapons and raise shields.” He ordered.

One of the technicians looked at him, surprise flaring in his mind because he had just been about to announce they were only a minute out. 

“Focus.” Ky chided him, with a smile.

The technician jumped and looked back to his console.

In just a few moments, the cone of light formed by the hyperspace tunnel disappeared with an ear splitting crash as they returned to normal speed. Inside the sector, there was already fighting under way as Jedi fighter bombers flew towards the edge of the system, chased by swarms of vulture droids. Ranroon had a security treaty with the Trade Federation, and already had a picket of Munificents in place. Currently, the Munificents and their accompanying fighter droids were chasing after the agile line of hyperspace capable Jedi bombers, who were making their way for the sector’s southern edge.

Coordinating the initial bombing with the declaration of war would have been tricky, if not for their shared ability to communicate in the Force. Mere seconds after the war was declared, the Indinoor Jedi attacked. Now the Federation picket was stretched thin, a long line of ships growing further apart like a scattered herd of lumbering wilder beasts as they chased the stinging swarms of Jedi insects. They were sitting ducks, waiting to be picked off in isolation.

“All cruisers and battleships, open fire.” Ky ordered. “Turn  the Interdictor on as soon as all our ships are in system.”

The Federation picket quickly realised they were outnumbered and out of position, and turned to run in a panicked and disordered way, acting independently of each other as they reoriented away from Ky’s fleet while continually receiving turbo laser fire. The commodores of the Indinoor fleet carefully selected each of their targets, picking off one cruiser after another. The enemy's hyperdrives spooled up, and for a brief moment, it seemed as though a majority of the enemy fleet would escape, when the Interdictor thrummed to life.

The sudden appearance of an artificial gravity well that covered a large part of the star system cut off any hope of escape. All hyperspace travel out of the Ranroon sector became impossible in an instant. It took the Federation defence picket a few minutes to realise that, and by then it was too late. Their only hope to survive now was to surrender.

“Sir. The enemy flagship is broadcasting a general surrender.”

“Good. Tell them to abandon ships and make for the surface of Ranroon.” Narec glanced at his chronometer. He was conscious of the time they were taking. As quickly as they had won the initial fight, the Alliance fleet needed to rearm and reposition for the coming enemy attack. Soon the massive fleet the Federation had been gathering for months at Zygerria would be here, and that was going to be a significantly more potent force than this local security picket.

As soon as the two dozen Munificents were disabled, and scans confirmed that the enemy ships had no more life signs, he ordered the fleet to reorient towards the sector’s northern edge.

“How are the Jedi fighters? They all make it back okay?”

“Only two of them were shot down, sir. Their pilots’ rescue transponders are active.”

Embarrassing for those pilots, but a little friendly ribbing would teach them not to do it again. Hopefully they wouldn’t be injured, and soon be able to return to combat wiser for the experience. Ky searched for them in the Force, and felt his two wayward knights reply to him in kind, relieved that he was there.

“Go on, send out the rescue freighter.”

In quick order the Munificents were scuttled, and their small crews were sent drifting into Ranroon’s atmosphere in life pods. The planetary government tried to broadcast a message, but he didn’t have time to receive it in person, instead ordering his men to reroute their call back to the Alliance’s diplomats back on Raxis.

Again, he checked his holocom’s chronometer. Twenty minutes had passed in the blink of an eye, but so far there was no sign of the enemy fleet approaching from the Corporate Sector. The fleet was on high alert and ready to receive the enemy, but still it seemed like they were far away. He reached out in the Force, searching as far as Zygerria for any signs of the enemy, but there were no Force sensitives in the sector who registered on his senses.

He pursed his lips, considering.

Taking out his holocom, he called ahead to the scouts he had on Zygerria.

“What’s happening to the enemy fleet?”

“Sir. The order came through to muster for an invasion into Ranroon, but then it was belayed.”

“Do you know why?”

“I can only speculate.”

“Well, let’s hear it.”

“We’ve got a source near the Zygerrian sector command that says he’s lost his nerve. Apparently he’s hiding in his office, pacing.”

“Huh.” Narec frowned. “And you trust your source?”

The two of them looked at each other. “Yes, sir. The Zygerrian’s have no love for the Federation out here, and our friend has been well paid.”

“Well, let me know if anything changes.” He then hung up. It seemed like the enemy fleet commander was hesitating. Waiting for reinforcements from the Corporate Sector? He wasn’t sure. For a moment he considered his own plans, fortifying the chokepoint here at Ranroon was crucial, but it seemed like the enemy was milling, confused, hesitating. There was an opportunity here, though he hesitated to jump on it.

He reached out to the Force, trying to get a sense for the future. Watch. He was told. Wait. 

Watch for what? Wait for what?

“I’m going to be meditating.” Ky decided. “Tap my shoulder if anything changes.”

He folded his legs, sitting on the deck and breathed out slowly. Watch, wait. Soon.

Soon.

-----

Inside the temporary storage bay, timers went off in sequence, and droplets began to form on the edge of the different carbonite blocks. Slowly at first, rivulets of the liquid ran off the sides and dripped down to the floor where it pooled in dark grey masses. As the slimy fluids fell away, bundles of vegetables and fruits defrosted and rolled away, revealing the shapes beneath. Men, stacked on top of each other carelessly, like a pile of bodies, though every one of them was very much still alive.

They were young and fit, with hard, taught muscles and calloused hands. They were shivering from the cold at first, crowding together and blowing on their own trembling fingers to get some warmth back into their extremities. Despite the pain they were in, none of them said a word, none of them panicked. At first they were blind, tears running freely down their faces as they worked the gunk from the eyes. It took a while, but gradually their sight returned and one by one they rolled off of each other, finally climbing to shaking feet. Carefully, with practiced precision, they opened some of the crates they’d brought in with them, and took out body suits and armour.

They armed themselves, pushing shoulders through sleeves and stamping feet to go their boots on. They distributed blasters between them, and loaded their scatterguns. Not the old crude ones that could only fire twice and would scatter smoke everywhere, but new, black and sleek, with extended magazines and casings as thick as a man’s thumb. They had grenades, climbing harnesses, medical kits and slicing tools.

When at last they were all but ready for war, they placed their helmets on, and as one gathered around a final block of carbonite. This one they didn’t leave laying on the ground, but stood it so that it was upright. One of them reached forward, flicking the switch on the side of it, then stepped over to kneel in front of it. That soldiers all formed a line to either side of him, kneeling before the melting carbonite with their heads lowered in reverence. The fruits and vegetables which had disguised its contents fell away, rolling and bouncing to the floor to reveal a feminine form.

Clad only in her underwear, Tan’ya began to stir. When the melting carbonite fell away from her torso, she drew in a long, shuddering breath, but remained upright. Despite the bitter cold she pressed the palms of her hands together, and closed her eyes. In but a moment, warmth had spread from the Force and to the rest of her body, spreading pins and needles all over her. With a little press of her mind, the rivulets of wet carbonite that had been clinging to her fell away.

When she opened her eyes, they were blood shot, but she could see her soldiers clearly, kneeling before her. All of them were holding out the pieces of her armour, offering them to her. One piece at a time, Tan’ya used the Force to pull to herself first the body suit, then the grieves, the boots, the breast plates, the pauldrons and the gauntlets. Finally she took up a light saber and a blaster, sliding them into the holsters on each hip.  The only pieces that remained in the hands of her men were the helmet, and a small black cube of stainer.

Tan’ya hated war, but she had to admit that she was feeling relieved to be returning to it.

War was a terrible waste of human resources. War destroyed trillions of credits of material, and cut short the lives of countless talented young sentients. Even after it was over, the societies that took part in it would spend decades struggling to reorient their economies away from producing war materials, often leading to economic depression and stagnation. There was no one who could look at the staggering costs and risks of war, and conclude that it was anything other than a senseless waste.

This particular war was a long time coming. Worse than a regular war, worse than a civil war, worse than an unjust war, or even an industrialised war, was a lost war. To be crushed under the heel of a foreign oppressor, to be humiliated and robbed of your livelihood, your hope for the future, was not to live at peace. This was the state of a nation that had been brought low, defeated, and made subject. This was a kind of war waged on the soul, even after the violence had stopped.

The simple truth was that Serenno and the Outer Rim Alliance were going to war with the Trade Federation because they couldn’t stomach the thought of such a false peace for a minute longer. Peace with the Trade Federation was hardly more than shaking hands with a parasite even as it drained your blood. It was rigged markets where you always lose and a bleak future where all productivity was sucked up and sent straight to the pockets of beings who held you in contempt.

War, for all its horrors, had some simple virtues. Two nations bent towards destroying each other were being fundamentally honest in their intentions. There were countless lies told to win a war, but war was by its nature more honest than peace ever could be. It was a proving ground, a chance for a new generation to demonstrate its own brilliance in a true test of the wits across every field of human endeavor. Science, engineering, economics, spycraft, tactics, strategy, and simple martial valor. War pitted people against each other in every possible area of human conflict, and demonstrated who was greater. 

And so that was the question. The Trade Federation and the Corporate Sector it ruled over thought itself greater than the other powers of the Outer Rim, and now those same powers had risen up to prove them wrong.

Tan’ya stared at her astrography chart, her eyes turning from planet to star, fleet to sector, checking unit disposition reports, and considered her plans one final time. She breathed out once, swallowing, before leaning back. If there was ever a time to back out, it had long since passed. This was it. The culmination of a decade of work and planning.

The Federation and the Alliance were now locked in mortal conflict. If the Federation were defeated, their empire would melt away, like so many others had before. If the Alliance were defeated, they would suffer under alien subjugation and exploitation for another generation.
She reached out with her hand, taking the cube of stainer from one of the men, and waited for a moment for the men to take out their own.

“Now let the proving begin.” Tan’ya murmured, before passing the little black cube between her lips and chewing. Her men did so as well, each eating his piece of stainer. Finally, with their teeth stained black, they all as one took the helmets and pulled them over their heads.

Gone were the young men and women of Serenno, and in their place strode forth war and death.

CoS 44

22 BBY

The spaceport departures lounge was full, but there was almost no queue at all for customs. Obi-Wan wouldn’t have even had to wait at all if it wasn’t for Prialla and Anakin being admitted to the spaceport ahead of him. Obi-Wan watched over his shoulder as a husband held his pregnant wife, who seemed to be struggling with the weight of the moment as tears rolled down her face. The woman had the same blue eyed, blonde haired look as Duchess Satine, common to those of original Mandalorian stock.

Obi-Wan sighed, wrenching his eyes away and looking back ahead. It made sense that so many people would want to leave, and so few would be wanting to come. Imagine if the assassin had succeeded in killing Satine? What would have happened to the government? What if the Clans tried to retake control? Or, may the Force be with us all, one of those maniacs from the Watch? The atmosphere was so tense and fearful that it was obvious people thought they were returning to civil war even though Satine was still alive. 

“You okay, Kenobi?” A voice asked over his shoulder.

Obi-Wan didn’t even look back. “Quinlan, I spent a long time on the run with Satine to make sure Mandalore would be at peace, and now it seems that effort was in vain. Perhaps the New Temple is eager to plunge the Galaxy into war, but having been through one, it’s not a fate I would wish upon anyone if I could help it.”

There was a brief pause before Quinlan replied. “But that’s the rub, isn’t it, Kenobi? It’s really not up to us is it?”

Soon enough the customs desk was done with Anakin and Priala, then it was Kenobi and Quinlan’s turn. Once their credentials were accepted, they were allowed through. They left the main entrance as a news channel played over a nearby public holocom. It displayed the image of an attractive twi’lek, just shy of middle age. She spoke in a clear, low voice.

“Tensions rise across the Outer Rim, after another heated day on the Senate floor. Senator Libbo Wurmnar of Neimoidia and Senator Padme Amidala of Naboo, both accuse each other of trying to provoke a war. Representing the Trade Federation and the Outer Rim Reform Alliance respectively, Senator Wurmnar claims the Federation has the right to freedom of navigation, while Senator Amidala claims that the Neimoidians have been creating an empire in all but name for decades, as the Republic refuses to take action-” 

The voice was cut off as they stepped out onto the street. The Prime Minister’s speeder was coming to pick them up, but they had a moment before it arrived.

“So, what’s our play?” Vos asked. 

Hearing him voice the question, both Anakin and Priala came over, waiting to hear what Kenobi had to say.

“Concorida Services is affiliated with the Prime Minister. If he’s behind the assassination, then we don’t want him or anyone else to know we’re looking into it.” Kenobi looked around. “Understand? We’re not going to mention that company at all until there’s no other choice.”

They all nodded. 

“Vos, Anakin and I recovered a box that the assassin used to hide the explosives, along with a blaster. Can you use your Psychometry on them? We might get lucky and find a lead.”

Anakin dug the box out of his backpack, broke the plastic seal they’d been keeping it in, and handed it to Quinlan, who closed his eyes and checked its past, before he grunted and shook his head. “Purchased from a street vendor on Coruscant.” When Anakin passed him the blaster, he did the same. “No luck. Made and sold on Coruscant, doesn’t look like she has a license for it, but nothing we can use.”

“I expected as much.” Obi-Wan sighed, and Anakin quickly resealed both pieces of evidence. “The Alliance and the Trade Federation won’t wait for us, so the clock is ticking. We need to cover a lot of ground fairly quickly, and we may only have hours to do it, so we need to split up, but this is also Mandalore, so we’re at serious risk of harm if we go off by ourselves. To keep it simple, we’ll split into two teams of two. Anakin, you’re skilled with computers, Prialla, I’ve never really worked with you before, but I’d ask you to go with him. Check public records, find out everything you can about Concordia Services. Quinlan and I will go to the governmentorial palace, and speak with the Prime Minister. Vos, I don’t think he knows about your psychometry. Maybe if you can get a handshake in we can learn something useful. Any objection?” Obi-Wan looked to the others.

No one raised their voice in protest, which Obi-Wan chose to believe meant his plan was excellent.

After that, they broke into two teams. Anakin and Prialla headed for the hall of records in a speeder taxi, while Kenobi and Vos went to meet with the Prime Minister. 

The palace looked like much of the rest of the upper city, after it was rebuilt by the New Mandalorians. It was all composed of large plates of transparisteel, even some of the ceilings and floors. It gave the impression of glass houses, easily damaged by a thrown rock, but transparisteel was actually fairly tough. The intention was to symbolize the transparency of the new government, another way of rejecting the old mystique of super commandos with covered faces. Obi-Wan didn’t exactly appreciate the aesthetic. Especially when he glanced down half a dozen floors and accidentally made eye contact with a man who awkwardly looked away and tried to pretend he hadn’t been curiously staring at the Jedi.

“I just don’t get how anyone lives here.” Vos grumped.

“They don’t live here, they work here.” Obi-Wan explained. 

A handful of the Mandalorian Royal Guards let them into the throne room, and they found the Prime Minister waiting for them at the bottom of the steps that led up to the dais. The throne sat vacant at the moment.

“Eyeing your next promotion?” Vos asked, smirking.

Pre Vizla turned to the two Jedi entering the room, and laughed politely at Vos' suggestion. “We have yet to determine if the Duchess’s chair is hereditary or elected. I would not want it either way.” He bowed once, small and formal. “I’m Pre Vizla, Governor of Concordia and Prime Minister of her Majesty’s government.”

“I am Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi.” Obi-Wan bowed. “Of the Coruscant Temple.”

“Quinlan Vos, Indinoor.” 

The brusqueness of the intro made Obi-Wan flinch, but then he realised what Quinlan was up to when the man offered his hand to the Prime Minister for a shake. Realizing what his gambit was, Obi-Wan rushed to add, “You’ll have to forgive us, the Jedi of Indinoor seem to have not learned their manners, yet.”

“Yes. Quite.” Pre Vizla agreed. He was a tall, bald man with piercing blue eyes, and blonde eyebrows. Definitely a pureblooded mandalorian at a glance, but with a sharp jaw and neck corded from regular exercise. He was also trained to shield his mind, so there was a moment as Vos waited with his hand outstretched, and Obi-Wan watched, before Vizla reluctantly accepted the handshake. 

Whatever Vos saw with his psychometry must have surprised him, because he paused on the spot for half a second. Then he completed the handshake, and strode over to the transparisteel wall. He whistled. “Wow, what a view.”

Pre’s eyes narrowed. Whether it was because he realised Vos’s game, or at the flagrant disrespect, Obi-Wan wasn’t sure.

“I apologise for him, really.” Obi-Wan stepped forward. “On Coruscant, we have higher standards of professionalism, I promise.”

Pre turned to regard Obi-Wan, hard face and gaze narrowed. “There's only so many insults I will accept, Master Jedi.”

“Yes, of course.” Obi-Wan turned to Vos. “Knight Quinlan, if you’re not going to be civil, perhaps you should find a better use of your time elsewhere.”

Quinlan turned, regarding the two with a defiant expression. He gave an annoyed snort. “Wanted to do some sightseeing, anyway.” He muttered, and stalked away.

“I honestly don’t know what they’re teaching them out there.” Obi-Wan explained to Vizla with a sigh. 

“Yes, well is there something I can do for you?” Pre asked. “Of course I will help you with your investigation in every way I can. Duchess Satine is a good friend.” 

“She’s a good friend to me, too.” Obi-Wan answered. “She’s at Indinoor currently, I understand she has security arrangements made with Count Dooku.”

“How much security can he provide?” Pre replied. “He’s about to go to war.”

“My concerns, exactly.” Obi-Wan said. “Obviously, the last thing Mandalore or the galaxy needs right now is another war. I’m here to ask for your cooperation while we conduct the investigation. Right now the attack seems to have been ideologically motivated, but the assassin cleared every background check. Most likely she became radicalised to Mandalorian revanchist ideals after entering the Duchess’s employment.”

“I see.” Pre frowned. “What can I do to help?”

“At the moment, I was hoping you would give us access to government archives here on Mandalore. I don’t expect we’ll find anything, but of course I try to be thorough in my investigations.”

“Of course.” Pre agreed. “Is there anything else?”

“For now that will be all. Despite my associate, it's been a pleasure. In the future I’ll contact your office, I understand these are busy days for you.”

After giving his polite goodbyes, Obi-Wan left and soon Quinlan Vos fell into step next to him. “Did you find anything useful?” He asked.

“Yeah, I’ll say.” Vos grunted. “Mister Prime Minister over there is leading a double life. Didn’t get long enough to see everything, but over the last few months he’s been spending half his time with some kind of super-commando cell.”

“Huh.” Obi-Wan frowned. “That’s not a good sign.”

“He’s also abducted and executed three different people.” Vos added. “As in, he executed them personally. With what looked like a black lightsaber.”

Obi-Wan turned to look at Quinlan, eyebrow raised. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

Obi-Wan frowned. “Does your psychometry work even though he was shielding his mind? I wasn’t able to get a good read on him.”

“Ah, you know how it is, Obi. For just about any Force technique, someone can develop a counter, but psychometry is such a rare ability that almost no-one is going to take the time to find a way to fight it, let alone practice it.”

Obi-Wan nodded. “Well, at any rate it seems we’ve confirmed the Vizla clan’s involvement. Things shouldn’t be too difficult from here. If Satine gives the order, we can draw on local law enforcement, have the whole lot of them arrested, and be out of here within the week.”

“A week?” Vos looked at him. “You said it yourself, Obi, we don’t have time. We’ve got four Jedi here, and we can move on Vizla’s commando camp without any of them knowing a thing. I say we go for the throat, and rip the whole operation out in one good, clean bite.”

Obi-Wan considered his suggestion, before sighing. Unfortunately, Vos was right. A clean sting would see everyone involved arrested by local law enforcement while they were all separated and unable to help each other. Simultaneous, targeted raids all across the planet and its moons, sweeping all perpetrators up in one swoop. The problem with that was a much bigger war was on the verge of breaking out right now, and even worse the Prime Minister was involved. There was every chance local enforcement could be in league with him, and even if they weren’t, just the sheer amount of time it would take to prepare the operation made it unfeasible when every hour counted.

“Alright.” Obi-Wan sighed. “When you’re right, you’re right. I’ll call Anakin and Prialla. We’re all going to Concordia.”

---

So, Death Watch had this base set up. There were some guards, and it was on the dark side of Concordia. Not the Dark dark side, like the Force Dark Side, but the ordinary dark side as in not illuminated by the sector’s yellow star. Prialla wished she knew more than that, she really did, but that was about all she could tell from behind the three Jedi who blocked her view, and it wasn’t like she could admit that to them. They all had their binoculars, as they peaked out from behind a boulder, their butts blocking her view. Asking them to move felt a bit… pushy. Especially given her diminutive stature, literally and figuratively.

The three of them just… wouldn’t get it. She liked Quinlan, she thought Anakin seemed pretty nice, and Obi-Wan was an awful jerk, but the one thing all three of them had in common, other than being way taller than her, was that they all had a reputation on their side. Quinlan was a famed investigator and dark horse, Obi-Wan was practically a living legend even before he became a Jedi Knight, and then Anakin was the Chosen One! Prialla didn’t let it bother her, but she couldn’t help but feel like maybe Dooku would have sent another heavy hitter if this mission was so important? So obviously, this mission just wasn’t important.

It wasn’t just that she had shorter legs than the three and had fallen behind them as they hiked over a mountain to creep up on the enemy camp, and it wasn’t even the fact that all three of them had a stronger connection to the Force than her. At a hundred fifty centimetres, Prialla was incredibly short, and a lifetime of exercise combined with a small diet had kept her slim. She practiced hard at the lightsaber, really she did. As a teacher at the Indinoor Temple, everyone respected her advice and her input, and that was great and all, but she knew that when Dooku wanted something dangerous or important handled, she wasn’t going to be the one he turned to.

People just didn’t take her seriously. And she wasn’t stupid enough to demand to be taken seriously, because childhood experience had told her that would definitely not work. All she could do was acknowledge that it was frustrating that Dooku had sent her here with Quinlan to keep the Coruscant Jedi busy, and move on.

With a sigh, Prialla reached out with her mind, checking over the camp in the Force, seeing as how she wasn’t able to look at it with her eyes. All the guards had been trained in mental protection and had their mental shields up, but the ones sleeping in the barracks had left their dreams exposed. There was another section of the compound, separate from the barracks where another mind was sleeping.

Prialla would have moved on, but something tickled the back of her mind, and she lingered on the loner. 

She waited, listening for a few moments, until she froze in surprise. That was a kid in there!

Scowling, she got to her feet and began to walk off when she hesitated. She glanced back at the three Jedi giants, watching the camp and planning their infiltration.

Eh, whatever. It’s not like they’ll need me for anything.

If there was one thing good about being small, it was that most people failed to notice when you left.

--- 

The three Jedi didn’t know where Prialla went, but they were able to guess that it was probably somewhere inside the camp. Spurred into action, they now moved together, crossing down the rugged hillside to the enemy camp in just a few seconds, and leaping over the walls into the camp one after the other without alerting anyone.

They shared their thoughts and intentions with each other in the Force, deliberately. They didn’t need to talk or make hand signals, when as one they weaved from shadow to shadow, perfectly evading the enemy as they did. No alert went up, no alarm was tripped. They passed the wide open courtyard and vehicle pool, slipping inside the barracks with no one the wiser.

They passed soundlessly through the bunks of sleeping commandos, which they knew would be no trouble because the Mandalorians weren’t protecting their thoughts in their dreams. They stepped through a mess, and then down a long, tubing corridor, following directions from Obi-Wan. He was able to read the Mandalorian alphabet, and led them into an office before pulling the door shut behind him.

Anakin honestly thought the whole run had been thrilling. “What now?” He asked in a low hush, excited.

“Quin.” Obi-Wan directed, pointing towards a computer in the middle of the room.

Quinlan Vos stepped over to it, then rested his hands on the keyboard. He frowned after a moment, then shook his head. “Nothing useful. It’s not Pre Vizla’s computer. The commander of the base is the one who uses it.” Then he squinted and frowned. “They arrested her for some reason. At gun point.”

The two older Jedi made eye contact. “Then it sounds like she’s who we want to talk to.” Obi-Wan suggested. Then he looked at Anakin, and hesitated.

Anakin recognised that look immediately. It was the, ‘Anakin, stay here’ look. The one that meant Obi-Wan had some busy work for him, just to keep him out of trouble. Even here, even now, in the middle of an enemy camp, Anakin still wasn’t trusted.

“Let’s go!” Anakin interrupted, before Obi-Wan could issue his order. He hurried for the door, and ignored the hand Obi-Wan placed on his shoulder. 

“Anakin, wait-”

But he was already out the door.

It wasn’t long until the two of them fell in step behind him. Obi-Wan rushed to catch up. 

“Anak-”

“I think I feel her up ahead.” And it wasn’t even a lie. Across the open yard there was a single building standing by itself, with what looked like ray shields set up over its windows and the main door. Inside, there was a single mind, furious and despairing at the same time. If he’d been betrayed and imprisoned by his friends, Anakin imagined he might feel the same way as well.

A ship flew overhead suddenly, spinning in mid-flight as it did. Anakin barely registered that it was a gunship, before the Force warned him and he threw himself to the side, rolling as he did. A flash of yellow gold lanced into the ground where he’d been standing just a second ago and there was a rush of heat and light that propelled Anakin off his feet. He shielded himself from it with the Force even as he was launched at the wall of the camp. He was going too fast, he was going to hit the wall and scatter like a plate of his mother’s slow roasted black melon bantha shoulder. The Force couldn’t slow him in time, so he pushed down and just barely cleared the wall to be launched beyond the camp perimeter. After that he was able to slow his fall, and landed in the grass on his feet, staggering a few steps to bleed his momentum.

It had all happened in less than a second. Anakin blinked in shock, patting himself down and finding no cuts or blood from fragmentation. In his mind, he quickly replayed the fraction of a moment that had passed, and realised that gunship had shot at him with a rocket. There hadn’t been time to block against it or defend himself, just-

Another warning in the Force ran through his mind, and Anakin spun, drawing his lightsaber as he did. The blaster bolt bounced off his blade and right back into the throat of the Mandalorian who fired it, passing perfectly between his armour plates and killing him instantly. Their jetpack cut as their fingers came off the controls, and they plummeted to the ground with a wet crunch, blaster falling from their fingers.

There were more of them coming. They shot at Anakin, and he ducked and weaved, deflecting the shots back that he could, while staying just barely ahead of them. The Fore wasn’t sending him sudden warnings, it was fully in conversation with him. In the heat of the battle, the Mandalorians had dropped their mental shields, and between their clear intentions and the Force’s guidance, Anakin was able to stay ahead of their attacks. One of them raised their wrist, and Anakin saw the fire coming from it even before she pressed the button to spray him with burning gelatin. All it took was a dot of focus from the Force, and the liquid fire was blocked from its ejection port. The Gelatin dribbled out over the woman's hand, and she screamed, flicking her hand out as if to shake the fluid off, before she fell to the ground to try to peel off her armoured glove.

One of the mandalorians fired a rocket from his wrist directly at Anakin, but he spun out of its path and seized it with his mind. He spun, directing the missile in an arc before whipping it back around into the Mandalorian who fired it. The explosion blasted the man from the sky, his mind winking out in the force.

The remaining Mandalorian who had been shooting at him hesitated, and Anakin took the moment to look around. Back over the compound wall, he saw what looked like flashes of light, but he couldn’t see what was happening inside.

Annoyed, Anakin reached out, and grabbed the wall, before pulling it towards himself. The fence flipped forward, slamming into the ground with a loud crash, revealing Obi-Wan and Vos fighting, green and blue swords flashing back and forth with dozens more mandalorians flying in to join the frey.

Then the group looking to attack Anakin all peeled away at once, as the gunship spun around to face him. Death was coming his way, and Anakin bolted to the side as fast as he could to get out of the path of the storm of automatic blaster rounds that raked across ground towards him. Some blaster bolts were just too big to block, or they came too closely clumped for his lightsaber to be everywhere it needed, and the shots from the gunship were both. The landscape behind Anakin was torn to shreds by the loud blare of blaster fire, each loud ping of a shot coming so fast and close together it almost sounded like an ear rending siren call. Anakin threw himself up, backflipping over the arc of fire and threw his lightsaber at the cockpit. It lanced through the air, and pierced straight through the transparisteel into the chest of the pilot. 

The ship spun out of control, smashing into the ground and carving a line in earth. With a tug on the Force, Anakin pulled on his lightsaber, drawing it back to his hand, before charging to the compound to join with Vos and his master. 

“Anakin!” Obi-Wan cried out, relief in his voice. “I should have known you’d be fine, you were always a great flier.”

“You know me, Master. I just can’t keep my feet on the ground.” 

Vos barked out a laugh.

Covering each other, the three backed away, as the fire from the Mandalorians stopped. Not because they were all defeated, but because they seemed to realise that firing at the clumped Jedi was dangerously counter productive. They milled about, in the air and on the ground, keeping their distance while trying to come up with a plan.

“We’re lucky these aren’t real super commandos.” Obi-Wan grunted.

“What are they?” Anakin asked.

“I don’t know, but they don’t have beskar.”

“So what do we do?” Anakin asked.

“We’ll do what we were already planning to do.” Obi-Wan answered. Grab the prisoner, grab a ship, and let’s get out of here with what information we can.

Vos nodded in agreement. “Boy, can you get one of those parked ships running?”

Anakin glanced at one of the parked gunships. “Yeah.” 

“Then I’ll cover you. Kenobi, get the prisoner.”

They nodded, then split apart, rushing in different directions.

Trying to carve his way into the ship was a bad idea when they wanted to fly it, so Anakin pulled out his compad and started to slice his way into the loading ramp. As he worked, the Force sent him numerous warnings about shots headed his way, and he struggled to keep himself from flinching each time as Quinlan Vos deflected each shot. It felt like it took much longer than it really did, barely thirty seconds in reality, but finally the ship’s computer relinquished control to Anakin, and he lowered the ramp.

Inside the cock pit, he froze at the sight of the controls. They weren’t like anything he was trained on. There were countless layouts for starship cockpits across the Galaxy, and Anakin had never seen this particular variant before. Worse still, it was labeled in the Mandalorian alphabet, which he couldn’t read.

“Anakin?” Vos called back to him from the ship's ramp, sensing his hesitation.

There was nothing for it. Anakin had always had a gift for machines, now was the time to use it. Letting the Force flow through him, he quickly began to work the controls, only really dimly aware of what he was doing. The ship’s engines roared to life, and its shields flicked on. Vos backed up the ramp, as small arms fired bounced from the ship.

“Get us in the air! We’ll circle back around for Kenobi.”

Anakin nodded, eyes half closed as the ship shot forward into the sky. Behind him he heard Vos stagger and fall with a curse, but ignored it. He couldn’t tell if it was the Force warning him, or the ship’s sensors,  but somehow he knew that the enemy had reinforcements incoming. Below in the base, Anakin felt Obi-Wan running, arms straining as he carried the armoured form of a woman, and smoothly turning the ship as hard as it safely could inside an atmosphere, before banking it down and swooping low.

Obi-Wan lept perfectly, rolling on the landing ramp and was helped aboard the ship by Vos. The woman he was carrying was red-haired, green eyes and a face covered in freckles and bruises. Definitely one of these mandalorians, judging by the armour. 

“Where’s Prialla?” Anakin asked.

They all looked at each other, and Anakin growled. He pulled the ship straight and accelerated away, reaching out with his mind to find her, but she was gone. Was she dead? He hadn’t heard her cry out for help or sensed her death. She must have been shielding her mind, trying to hide from them.

“I’ll call her.” Vos said, taking out his holocom. He dialed her number, and it rang once, twice, three times before she finally answered. 

“Guys! You’ll never believe what I found!” The words rushed out, excited to the point of giddiness, though her image wasn’t being displayed.

“Prialla, where are you?” Vos demanded.

“Walking away from the camp. Back the way we came. Towards the ship. It’s still parked there, right?” Sorry, got you on handsfree, my arms are full.” She huffed out, breathing hard, like she was carrying something particularly heavy.

The three of them looked at each other. “It should be.” Vos agreed. “Where did you go? What did you find?”

“Well, I sensed a young mind in the Force. Like a child, right?” The sound of Prialla’s footsteps stopped, as she was gasping for breath. She turned on her holocom, and Prialla’s image was displayed. Standing right at her shoulder was a teenage boy that it took Obi-Wan a second to recognise. “See?”

“Korkie Kryze?” Obi-Wan asked. “What in the blazes are you doing here?”

“The Prime Minister told me I need to go with him.” He answered. “For my own protection.”

“Good work.” Obi-Wan breathed out. “I’m sure his testimony will be useful for bringing the Prime Minister to justice.”

“That’s not even the best part!” Prialla said, turning her body so the load she was carrying became visible. She was carrying the torso of a droid, one that had its arms and legs missing. “TC-72, tell them what you told me.”

“Oh, thank the makers.” The droid said in a female voice, relieved. It looked a lot like Anakin’s old protocol droid, but had plasma scorches, and a single one of its metallic eyes was hanging out. “I thought I was going to be destroyed! These barbaric mandalorians stole my arms and legs! For fun!”

“No, not that!” Prialla said. “Tell them the other thing that you told me.”

“I was sent here to help my Master- Former Master now- Pre Vizla negotiate for and translate with some of the smaller Mandalorian clans, who speak more obscure dialects of old Mandalorian-”

“Right, but who sent you?”

“Well, I was just getting to that. I was purchased by Zitt Flabb of the Trade Federation’s Office of Interdepartmental communications, and was gifted to Pre Vizla along with a sum of ten million credits.”

Anakin paused, blinking at that, looking over at Obi-Wan even as Vos broke out into a wide grin. 

“Great work, Prialla!” Vos said. “Get back to our ship as fast as you can. We’ll do some circling up here to try and keep the heat off you.” Then he hung up.

There was silence in the cabin for a long few moments. 

“...Any chance I can persuade you to hold off on making your report to Dooku until the investigation is completed?” Obi-Wan asked.

Vos just laughed.

---

“Warfleets are massing along the Hydian, as the Outer Rim Reform Alliance and the Trade Federation prepare to go to war. This comes just hours after an explosive confrontation between Senator Amidala and Senator Wurmnar. The Trade Federation has crammed more than two thousand ships into the nearby Zygerrian System, with even more expected to join them soon. Meanwhile the Alliance has been playing things a little closer to the chest, trying to conceal their exact numbers, but are clearly gathering ships in the Serenno System, right at the edge of their territory. We’ll be bringing you live updates as we learn more.

To get a comment on the brewing conflict now, we go to our expert, a lecturer on Military History at Coruscant University, Professor Pulg Ottihs joins us here in the studio. Professor Ottihs, what would it mean for the Galaxy as a whole if the Alliance and the Federation were to go to war?”

“A war between the two would have a profound effect, not just on the Outer Rim, but even here in the Core. I would like to highlight three things, if you’ll let me?”

“Please, go ahead.”

“First of all, we’re going to see a noticeable jump in the prices of all goods and services, everywhere. Most of the products we use and the food we eat in the Core Worlds are produced in the Mid Rim from raw goods transported there from the Outer Rim, much of it by companies headquartered in the Corporate Sector. Stressing those supply lines as materials are diverted for the war will cause shortages for consumers.

“Secondly, it has to be emphasized that this wouldn’t be a small, regional affair. Both the Alliance and the Federation have heavily industrialised worlds, such as Botajef and Eitti IV, and both have been expanding their fleets to the point where they can field thousands of warships. If a war does break out between the two it would be the largest war the Galaxy has seen in a thousand years. The death toll could easily be in the millions, if not billions.

“Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, it’s an extremely dire sign of the state of the Galactic Senate. It seems apparent that both sides believe their concerns will not be addressed by the Senate, and that our government is in fact so weak, and so ineffectual, that they will face no serious consequences, regardless. Speaking quite honestly, if this war is allowed to play out, what’s to stop other opportunistic actors attempting the same thing in other parts of the Galaxy? We could be seeing similar conflicts breaking out everywhere, potentially even here in the Core. Empress Teta and Alsaka have been at loggerheads for some time now, and both are right on our doorstep.”

“So, if you had any advice to give to Supreme Chancellor Palpatine, what would it be?”

“You need to take the gloves off. Centralise emergency powers in the office of the Supreme Chancellor, and crack some skulls until they stop. Whatever their issues are can be sorted out once our authority has been reasserted. As costly as it might be, the consequences of a war would be worse. I think-”

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Professor Pulg, but we have breaking news. The Outer Rim Reform Alliance has issued a formal declaration of war against the Trade Federation, while the Senate sat in stunned silence. Senator Petvid of Raxus Secundus presented evidence to the floor that he says proves the Trade Federation offered financial and military support to a Mandalorian Revanchist group called the Death Watch, who attempted to assassinate Duchess Satine of Mandalore as part of an attempted coup that would destabilise the Alliance. On the ground in Mandalore, we’re receiving reports of street level fighting as various clans declare themselves for or against the current government. At this moment in time, we don’t know who the factions are, or the scale of the conflict, but already it is being considered a state of civil war. 

“Meanwhile, across the Outer Rim we are receiving reports of large ship movements, as both the Federation and the Alliance are dispatching their fleets. We’ve yet to hear of any battles taking place, but at this point it seems that it’s only a matter of time.”

Steppe Tanya 05

Freeside was a slum, complete with raw sewage in the streets and gangs of armed robbers watching me from every alleyway. The stench of human refuse was overpowering, but somehow the druggies squatting in the filth smelled even worse. The once smooth asphalt roads were pitted and cracked, with debris pouring out of countless collapsed buildings and onto the road. Two hundred years after the end of the world, and seemingly not a thing had been done to try and repair or clean up.

I hurried through town, keeping my hand close to the 9mm at my side. There was one man with a moustache, and wearing a hat with goggles that approached me, but I warded him off by reaching for my pistol. I kept my eyes on him as I walked away, and he looked at me confused.

“What about Dixon’s resupply?!” He called out, before shrugging, annoyed, and going back to whatever he was doing.

As I moved through the decayed, urban sprawl I saw dozens of casual horrors, like a line of underage prostitutes, hanging out together under the watchful eye of a slick haired pimp in a black jacket. A child threw a rock at a large, hairless rat, stunning the beast before chasing it down to bite into it raw, blood and other fluids running down his cheeks and hands. A man who had somehow survived what looked like third degree burns all over his body squatted down to defecate on the street in front of me, and even he wasn’t nearly as stomach churning as another fellow who did the same, but had long, fat, writhing tapeworms hanging from his anus.

Finally, after an hour of walking, a street with some semblance of order came into view, the glowing lights of the Strip in the distance. I didn’t want to run, lest I incite this filthy rabble to chase down a fleeing woman, but I did quicken my step. Criers promised me an array of fine beverages and prostitutes at the Atomic Wrangler, while across the street a young delinquent with shoe polish in his hair whistled at me as I passed.

When I arrived at the gate and saw it guarded by an array of robots, I felt relieved. The shining towers of the Strip were separated from the rest of the city by a large wall, topped with barbed wire and patrolled by machines. The robots were strange looking, each was essentially a large television screen with tubelike arms sticking out the sides, balanced precariously atop a single wheel. The screens portrayed a cartoon image of a grumpy police officer.

“Submit to a credit check before proceeding to the gate.” The machine demanded in a tinny voice. “Trespassers will be shot.”

“Uh, what kind of credit check?” I asked.

“Admission to the strip requires an official passport or proof that you are carrying the minimum balance of two thousand caps.”

I blinked once, then twice. “I don’t have either of those.”

“I’m sorry, but your balance doesn’t meet the minimum.”

“...Kuso!” I hissed, turning around to look behind me, back the way I came, but seeing light glinting off eyes from a nearby alleyway. A group of men were gathered, watching me with vicious grins, and carrying various bludgeons and knives. I drew my pistol and they disappeared from sight, no doubt waiting for a chance to strike at me later. Turning back to the robotic greeter, I said, “I’m worried I’ll be attacked if you don’t let me inside. Can you let me in?”

“I’m sorry, but your balance doesn’t meet the minimum.”

With a final groan of frustration, I turned around and walked back the way I came. I stuck to the centre of the roads, head turning in each direction at every alleyway, until I passed a female crier that called out to me, “Hey, you! Why not come stay at the Atomic Wrangler?! It’s not on the strip, but it’s the next best thing! We’ve got booze, drugs, and hookers!”

“How about rooms, do you do cheap rooms?” I asked. 

“Yep!” They answered, then turned and pointed down a branching street. “We’re right across from the Silver Rush, you can’t miss us.”

“How much for a room?”

“Just fifteen caps!”

I sighed, realising I didn’t even have that much. I was about to leave, but I stopped to look down at her exposed midriff, and provocatively short outfits, a question springing to mind. “Hey, why don’t you get jumped by these thugs?”

“Oh, I work for the Garettes.” She waved it off casually, like that explained everything. “Maybe they could give you a job, too? They’re always looking for new girls.”

I grimaced, instantly dismissing the idea. “What if I don’t have any caps? Do you know where I can stay?”

“You can try your luck at the Mormon Fort, but they don’t always have enough beds.”

‘Mormon?’ The word should have been unfamiliar to me, though it tickled something from my memories. Two lifetimes ago, in Japan, I had a decent working knowledge of the USA, though I couldn’t remember everything right now. “Thank you for your help. Can you point me in the right direction?”

-----

Yes she could.

Mormon Fort turned out to be a 19th Century fortress, made of sandstone and with a large wooden gate. I had a sinking suspicion that it had been preserved in the years before the Great War as a historical relic, from America’s colonial past. Now it was occupied by the Followers of the Apocalypse. 

As I approached, one of the gate guards saw me and immediately came forward to speak with me.

“Hey, Maggie?”

“Yes?” I squinted at him. “Do I know you?”

He spoke very slowly, and held out both his hands like he was afraid I would run away. “No, my name is William, I’m a friend of Dr Usanagi. She radioed ahead to let us know you might be coming. Now, I’m sure your confused right now, but I’m here to help you. I’m just gonna take your arm, and get you inside if that’s okay?”

On the one hand I was offended at being treated like an invalid, but on the other it was well past midnight and I was eager to go to bed. “Fine.” I muttered, letting him lead me.

They had a bed set aside for me in a tent reserved for other women. It smelled horrible, and I was sleeping on what looked like an old, stained mattress on the ground with a few layers of blankets to keep me warm. At least I wouldn’t have to share. With a long, miserable night behind me, I finally was able to go to sleep. I went to bed comfortable in the knowledge that I would be able to resume my job hunting in the morning.

-----

After speaking to the Garrets at the Atomic Wrangler, and confirming the only job they could offer me was as a scantily clad ‘working girl’, I headed across the street to try my luck at the Silver Rush with the Van Graffs. First impressions weren’t good when the guard at the door felt me up during the body check. Second impressions were even worse when I stepped inside, and found what looked like a bloodied and beaten man tied to a cage wall in the shooting range. My third and final negative impression came when the woman behind the counter saw me, and pointed her finger at the door angrily.

“Nuh uh. We don’t do business with Khans. Get out.”

I briefly considered applying for work with the Kings, but decided against it. Mick and Ralphs weren’t hiring, and the only other available employment seemed to be a man trying to start up his own fast food franchise, skinning and grilling various rodents and selling them near the Free Side Gate. I watched as he fried up rats, iguanas, and giant insects, and realised I had no idea at all if he was being serious or was just utterly delusional. No thanks.

After an entire day wasted, I retired to my bed in the Mormon Fort again, frustrated and foot sore.

-----

The next day I left the Mormon Fort, hiking my way out of the City to try my luck with the different caravan companies. Who knows? Maybe someone would be hiring.

“We’re closed.” The guard at the Crimson Caravan wouldn’t even let me in the front gate to their compound, even though I wasn’t wearing my gang colours, having turned the jacket inside out. I thought the discomfort of the embroidery rubbing against my back would be worth it if it meant I wasn’t associated with my tribe, but apparently not. “You ain’t coming in here.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t care what the NCR says.” The man answered. “Whether you people have Passports or not, ain’t no caravan company going to hire a raider to spy on them and tell their friends.”

“But I’m not a raider.”

“Right, and I’m a super mutant.” The man snorted, rolling his eyes. “We all saw you Khans coming in the other day, and you were with them!” He jabbed his index finger into my chest. “Fuckin’ Followers, fixing you scum up when they woulda done better finishing the fuckin’ job. Goddamn NCR, can’t get anything right.”

I stared at him for a moment, briefly surprised at the amount of hatred he had for my tribe, but then I suppose caravaners in particular were vulnerable to raiding. It was easily possible that my peers had killed someone he knew, or done things that were even worse. With a sigh, I turned and walked away, ignoring the invective he shouted at my retreating back.

With the Crimson Caravan firmly crossed off my list of potential employers, I decided to try my luck at Durable Dun’s.

-----

“At least if Caesar was in charge, he woulda crucified every last one of you!” 

Wiping spittle from my face, I hesitated before continuing on to Cassidy Caravans.

-----

“...Look, I have insurance back West.” Cassidy said to me, her world weary face looked sympathetic but firm. “If they find out I hired a Khan, my rates go up.”

I thanked her for her time, and as I walked out the door I heard the distinctive sound of a whiskey bottle being uncapped.

-----

“The Khans think they send over a pretty face, and I’ll fall for this shit?” Griffin of Griffin Wares yelled. “I wasn’t born yesterday!”

-----

The sun was setting as I trudged back to the Mormon Fort, humiliated and frustrated. It seemed that from the perspective of any respectable employer, a former member of a raiding band was just too much of a risk to consider. This was the Wild East, where there were no courts, and everyone was just making a judgement based on their own intuition. It wasn’t as though I could sue these people for discrimination, even if I was a citizen of the NCR.

For all my hard work trying to find an honest living, all I got was footsore, and a thin gruel for breakfast and dinner, the best the Followers could offer me. If the communists would just sell their service like a decent person then their charity would have more to offer! Here I was, begging for a job while stuck in a bloody breadline!

-----

The next morning, I set out for Camp McCarren. It was a bit further than I had traveled the previous days, so I set out early in the morning, the thin lukewarm soup doing little to sate my growling stomach. After detouring east to the Freeside gate out of the city, I then turned south towards the airport.

What had once been Las Vegas' largest airport was now the largest military base in New Vegas. Old passenger and freight liners were visible on the runway, rusting wrecks of what once was. Maybe one day, once the people of the Mojave had begun to industrialise again, they might take the old planes apart for the steel inside them, but for now they were old, disused, ruined hulks. Each one was nothing but the rotting bones of the once great civilisation that covered every corner of this continent. I was already annoyed from hunger, but the reminder that Being X had shunted me off to die of radiation poisoning in a dangerous wasteland infuriated me.

“Of all the dirty, pathetic, conniving asspulls that worthless liar could attempt, how could he think that this would make me want to worship him?”

Eventually, my journey came to an end with my destination in sight. A fence ran around the base’s perimeter, with a large gate as the only way in. Armed guards stood ready at the exterior. As I approached, I found myself drawn along by a crowd of others who seemed to be in a partygoing mood. Plenty were drinking openly, despite it being early in the day.

“What’s going on, is there a celebration?” I asked one of the gate guards.

“NCR personnel get free access to the Strip.” He answered, with a long suffering shrug. “They’re off duty and out of uniform, on their way to the tram.”

Free access to the Strip? I could get access to walled off, protected urban center with actual industry, commerce and safety?

“Can I join?” I asked.

He nodded, turning to point at one of the airport terminals. “Go in there, and talk to one of our recruiters.”

Feeling a surge of relief, I hurried across the open ground. I was hit by a rush of cool air when I stepped inside. The airport interior was air conditioned! The luxury of it was so powerful that I froze in the doorway, merely basking in the feeling of cool air.

Ahead of me was a man with a corporal’s bars on his collar sitting behind a counter. Amazingly, there wasn’t even a queue, and he seemed to just be waiting around, bored. I hurried up to him, feeling almost giddy.

“I’d like to join the NCR!” I said.

He looked at me, before lazily turning his chair straight and digging out a pen. “Name?”

“Maggie.”

“Surname?”

“No surname.”

“That’s okay. You can use your father’s name, or your tribe’s name if you have one.”

“Uh… Papa.”

He looked up at me, raising an eyebrow. “You really want to be known as Maggie Papa?”

I sighed. For a moment I considered lying, but I also didn’t want to get discharged if they found out about my background later. “Is it a problem if I was raised by a raider tribe?” I asked in a low voice.

“Not really. As long as you can speak English and follow orders, the NCR will accept just about anyone who can pass basic. They don’t even need you to read and write, though no way you’ll rise above Private if you can’t read your orders.”

Ha ha! I couldn’t believe it. Finally, the road ahead was opening up. “Khan. My name is Maggie Khan.”

“Oh, good for you.Getting out while you can? Wise decision.” He said, impressed. Then he looked back down to his form. “Birthdate?”

“Uh… I don’t know.” 

“Just gonna go ahead and make it today, then.”

His questions went on for a while longer, but soon enough he had everything filled out. “Alright, I’m gonna pass this on to the Military Police, and they’ll check our database, and as long as there’s no obvious security risk, your application will be accepted by this time tomorrow. Then you’ll be off to Cam Golf for basic training.” He looked up at me, smiling in a friendly way. “You got anywhere nearby to stay tonight?”

“Mormon Fort?”

He winced. “Ah, well.” He looked down, his gaze lingering on the front of my shirt for a moment. “Tell you what?  I’ll pass your application to my friend in the MPs, and ask him to rush this one as a favor, see if I can’t get an answer for you today. Meanwhile, I’m on break in half an hour, so why don’t I take you out for lunch? ”

At the mention of food, my stomach growled loudly and my face heated up. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

He led me outside the airport, to the mess hall where the soldiers ate. The runway was covered by a maze of tents, fire ranges for target practice, barracks, latrine pits, and all the things I expected to see with an army. It was pretty easy to determine which were the tents that the soldiers bedded in, and which were shared environments just based on their size. As we passed a sleeping tent, I was able to count the number of beds inside, four of them. If there was four men per tent, and twenty five tents in this two alone, that would mean each row was at least a hundred men. Glancing around, I could see that there were forty rows in view, so about four thousand men were camped out here on the airport runway. There were some sign posts and a few clear paths for people to walk down, but compared to the Kaiser’s armies I thought this was a pretty sloppy camp.

Even as we were approaching the mess hall, I saw what looked like a Caravaner bringing a horse drawn cart of goods right up to the kitchens, where a man in uniform waited to receive and sign for it. Was that carted all the way from California? On horseback? It was going to be extremely difficult to sustain an army in the field that way. 

I sat down at the table, and it wasn’t long until I was served a plate of half burnt beans, greasy ham and runny mash potato. In my first life I would never have eaten something like this, but my second life had thoroughly rooted out any part of me that was a picky eater, dragged it behind the trench and shot it for the glory of the Kaiser. The armies of the Rhine had been expected to eat far worse.

“Hungry, I see.” The Corporal smirked at me, and I realised he hadn’t given me his name.

“Yes, can I get seconds?” I was still far from satisfied.

He laughed at that, taking my empty plate. “Why not?” He headed towards the kitchen. 

Feeling happy, full, and like things would soon get better, I sat there feeling surprisingly content. For the first time since I came to this absolutely awful version of Earth, it felt like things were finally looking up. 

“-yeah, she’s just inside. Why, something come up?”

That sounded like the Corporal's voice, coming from the door, but he sounded nervous, like he was just caught doing something he shouldn’t have. A prickle of worry stirred in my belly, and I stood up, moving closer to the tentflap.

“-lifted documents from Major Bullah’s tent, during Operation Spring Clean. It’s a good thing you put a rush request on this one, who knows what else she might have grabbed. Is she still here? ”

…Damn it. I turned around and hurried away, slipping out the other side of the tent and ducking to the right to step into a different row of tents and out of their siteline, then I beelined it for the gate. 

-----

Worthless NCR, bloody caravaners, and stupid Khans! I continued through Free Side as the sun set, casting long shadows from the skeletal wrecks of buildings over the street. Why did I even waste my time applying for a job with the NCR? At this point, about the only people that might be willing to hire me would be the worthless communists of the Followers! And they still thought I was an invalid!

I swear, one of these days I was going to find a way to cast Being X from his throne, and then we’ll see how that self righteous liar likes crawling around in the mud! 

Suddenly, a man sprung up from behind a car in front of me, swinging a lead pipe at my face. I was so shocked that I just barely raised my arm to protect my head, red hot pain shooting up to my shoulder where he struck my elbow. I staggered back, fumbling for the 9mm in my pocket and tugged it free, only for someone behind me to seize my good arm just. I lost my hold on the gun, and it fell, bounced and slid under the same wrecked car the fellow had jumped out from behind. I tried to stamp on his foot, but another thug grabbed my other arm, gripping it painfully and nearly pulling me off balance.

“I got you, girl!” A foul voice hissed into my ear, rancid breath and rotten teeth reminding me of old blood and bodies in the war. “You're gonna be mine, now!” 

I threw myself forward, trying to pull free and get my gun, only for the first man with the pipe to grab me by the legs. “I told you guys! I told you! Third day in a row she comes through here, just as the sun is coming down!”

“God, you’re so fucking hot!” The rotten breath in my ear whispered. “God, I’ve wanted you so bad.” His rancid tongue licked the side of my face, trailing saliva and old blood from what smelled like several bad teeth. 

I didn’t waste my breath calling for help. Around the street I could see numerous other strangers clearing out and running away, pretending they hadn’t seen anything. A few of them even stood there watching, including an armed and armoured man, who calmly smoked a cigarette while these men assaulted me! Panic rising, I considered my options, and realised none of them were very good. I might have been strong enough to overpower Dr Usanagi, but these were all men, and there were three of them, already with a good grip on me.

The one with the pipe reached for the front of my pants, fumbling with the zipper as his hands trembled with excitement. Not giving myself time to think, I kicked upwards, bringing my legs up to level with his face, and wrapped his head between my thighs. I squeezed as hard as I could, and he yelped in pain as his skull squeeked, striking at the outside of my leg with his pipe, but I grit my teeth and kept up the pressure. The two men who had my arms were trying to pull me away from him, but the man in front of me was pulling the other way. For grim life I clung, and there was a tipping point when the pipeman tripped backwards over the rusted hulk of the car. He took me with him, pulling me free of the two behind me as we both went sprawling. In the tangle of limbs, I was face down, just at the edge of the old car and still trying to crush the man’s head. 

I stretched forward, reaching desperately for my pistol, and felt my hand touch cold steel. My fingers just barely closed around it when a pair of hands seized my other shoulder and pulled me back. The gun came out in my hand, and I realized all I’d grabbed was the barrel, the trigger wasn’t in my hand. With a smooth motion that surprised even me, I twirled the automatic with my fingers, so the wooden grip slid into my palm and the trigger was under my finger. 

I rolled over, gun in hand and the thug who had been pulling at my shoulder’s eyes widened before I blasted him in the dead centre of his nose. He sprawled back, gurgling and screaming, and I looked past him to the other goon, who flinched to the side to try and clear the path of my gun, but it didn’t save him. I fired three times into his chest, and he staggered back, reaching for his injuries, frozen in place for an odd moment before collapsing. 

The last of the gangsters who was trying to wiggle out from between my thighs screamed, trying to bite through my pants legs, and I yelped in pain as his teeth ripped into flesh. With a hateful snarl, I pressed the pistol into his belly, and emptied the magazine. The fecal and blood smell of a ruptured intestine filled the air, as I was splattered with his sickly gore.

He writhed, and screamed. “Momma! Momma!” 

I released him, rolling away and scrambling to my feet. Quickly I drew the magazine from my other pocket, reloading in one quick motion. 

I looked around at the few Freeside folk who had stuck around to watch the whole thing happen. The man in man in overlapping plates of metal armour and wearing sunglasses, actually clapped, looking faintly impressed. The condescension was so infuriating that I shot him directly between the eyes. That was done for the rest of the onlookers, who turned and ran.

I hate this place, I hate these people, I hate this world. 

I didn’t want to waste ammo finishing off the two that were still alive, so instead I grabbed the discarded metal pip, and burst his skull open with a two handed swing. “You like that?” The one who I had shot in the face seemed to be trying to stand, but nerve damage kept him trapped to the ground, paralyzed. This was the disgusting cretin who licked my face, his eyes wet with tears as he twitched, trying to move and watching me fearfully. With a disgusted sigh, I put my boot to his throat and pressed down until finally he stopped twitching.

Almost before I even noticed I’d done it, I’d fished out the pack of cigarettes from my pocket and lit one up with my light. I puffed at the tobacco as I looked around, and realised one of my attackers had dropped a few caps. I blinked once, then stooped down to check the rest of everyone’s pockets. My attackers had seven caps between them, but the onlooker I shot had hundreds! He also had a fine holster on his hip, a large old fashioned revolver with a scope on it, and six extra oversized rounds of ammunition for the handcannon. I was also pretty sure his suit of armour would sell for money too.

I took my spoils to Mick and Ralph’s, the local pawnshop, just as they were about to close up. They barely seemed phased by my blood stained appearance, and they quickly ushered me inside.

“Hey, that’s Orris armour.” Mick murmured, recognising what I was trying to sell. “You killed Orris?”

“Yeah?” I scowled at him. “Doesn’t seem like that should be a problem around here.”

The two brothers looked at each other, then shrugged. 

“He was a scumbag, anyway.” Ralph murmured. “I’ll give you 50 caps for it.”

“One hundred fifty.” I countered. 

We haggled back and forth for a while, but in the end I walked away with a new backpack, a white shirt to go under my Great Khan jacket, a holster that fit my 9mm better, pants that protected my knees, and finally a few bras. Walking around without my chest properly supported had been painful, I have no idea why my body’s former occupant hadn’t owned any. I still had a few hundred caps left over.

For a few moments, I considered renting a room at the Atomic Wrangler, but decided against it as I didn’t know how long my current windfall would last. The guards at Mormon fort recognised me, and let me in through the gate without trouble.

Despite everything that had happened that day, I went to bed feeling better than I had since leaving the Follower’s Clinic.

Count of Serenno Chapter 43

22 BBY

A single station floated in orbit above Serenno with a nearly finished, sacanium plated battleship cradled in its arms. Deep Space Demolitions and Removals had been claimed as a prize of war, and had itself been recycled. Refurbishing the station’s interior had taken a lot of work, as had tracking down a point of origin for all the slaves being trafficked inside. The life support had been filthy, and so its machinery had needed to be almost entirely replaced, the vents scrubbed and cleaned out to get rid of the smell of mold and rotting food. The original purpose of the station was to tear apart ships, not put them together, but it was easily large enough for an entire cruiser to park inside it, and there was no other way Tan’ya would get her hands on a similar station. It had taken three years to finally remove all the unneeded parts and gradually transform it to meet Tan’ya’s needs, and even after that, it took another three years to complete the creation of its first ship. Normally it wouldn’t take so long, but it was the first starship Serenno had ever manufactured, and Tan’ya wanted to ensure that it was done right. 

Until now, the humble House Fleet had made do with ships purchased from other worlds, or taken in battle. These days the House Fleet stood at ten ships; the original three Hammerheads and two captured Coronas, along with another four CC-21 combat cruisers manufactured by Botajef Shipyards. For all the media interest in the sudden rise of House Serenno and its ‘Pseudo-Feudal Empire', ten cruisers was a paltry amount. They weren’t even genuine battleships, just mid-sized battle cruisers. A large force like the Trade Federation’s would easily be able to overwhelm and destroy this meager fleet.

Tan’ya knew that her fleet wasn’t what frightened the Federation. The thing that really had Grib Siv scared were the shipyards at Botajef and Raxus Prime. Between those two worlds they could output a third of what the Trade Federation’s own yards could, but that gap was closing. Right now, the Federation was still the mightiest power in the Outer Rim, but in ten years would that still be the case?

If Tan’ya was in their shoes, she would take action now, while the advantage was hers. Crush the upstarts, make it clear to the Galactic Audience what would happen to the Federation’s enemies. Knowing this, Tan’ya was facing a war in the near future, a war that she dreaded in some ways, but anticipated in others. The Alliance had a plan, one that could work. If it succeeded, the Trade Federation would never be a threat again, but if it failed they would lose everything. 

Now, berthed before her eyes, the final pieces of the SHF Naboo were coming together. Named for Count Dooku’s crushing victory over the Trade Federation’s fleet, it was to be the first of its kind. A sacanium plated, heavily armed battleship, named as a direct insult against Grib Siv and his allies. Looking out at it, Tan’ya couldn’t help but sigh sadly, knowing that it would be completed too late to see the coming battle. 

She swirled the cafstim in her cup, took a sip, and leaned forward to look out the window at Serenno below, and the jagged, splotchy brown scars that were dotted across every continent. They told a story, for those who cared to hear it.

It begins with a disaster for the upper classes across Serenno, Barons and major business owners alike. Their wealth and influence were massively diminished during the tyrannical reigns of Count Ramil and Count Gora, and even now they had a fraction of their former power. The two tyrants had confiscated hundreds of thousands of kilometres of the world’s best farmland, forcing out the serfs who had worked the lands previously, and replacing them with droid labourers. Those same serfs had then been forced to survive by any means necessary, mostly resorting to banditry or the logging industry, leaving deep and visible wounds on Serenno as a planet, as a culture, and as a people.

It was the kind of damage that couldn’t easily be undone. Suddenly returning the confiscated lands to the nobility wouldn’t see the serfs returned to their ancient homes, as the much more efficient droids labourers now dominated that industry completely. In the end, the only way out was through, and the solution to Serenno’s problems hadn’t come from increased market intervention, but reduced. With her father leaving Serenno mostly alone to pursue his greater political ambitions, almost all the day to day work of ruling had fallen to Tan’ya. She had finally had her chance to implement her beloved Chicago school of economic theory.

Her father had already overhauled Serenno’s law enforcement and dealt with the pirate threat, providing safety to the population. Then he sourced imported plasma from Naboo, providing cheap energy. Cheap energy had reduced the operating costs of the world’s droid labourers, repair shops, and food processing plants, which resulted in food prices lowering dramatically. Starvation, which even ten years ago had been a threat lingering in the backs of people’s minds, was now gone almost entirely.

Those were the three pillars of a functioning economy. Security,  energy, and food. With those needs met, the people were now able to focus their time and effort on creating new sources of wealth for themselves. Businesses were springing up everywhere, from domestic furniture making to local banks, bakeries, breweries, publishers, marketing firms, holonet and shadowfeed installers, blaster salesman, and the list went on and on. Given the chance, the people of Serenno had naturally flowed like water, filling every available economic niche. The cheap energy had brought the costs of construction down, resulting in a housing boom, as more and more families found that owning their own homes was no longer an impossible dream, but an achievable goal. Prosperity was growing, flowing across the planet like molasses, reaching one village, one family, one entrepreneur at a time, slowly but surely filling every corner. If things continued like this, it wouldn’t be more than a few generations before Serenno stood as a peer to the rest of the Galaxy.

Unfortunately, things were not likely to continue like this. The plasma from Naboo was subsidized by their government, and ignored the more profitable markets in the Core Worlds. This wouldn’t last long. Soon enough, market pressure would draw the shipments away and the loss would drive Serenno back into the misery and poverty it was slowly climbing its way out of.

Plans were in the making to avert this fate.

Looking past the window, Tan’ya caught her own reflection in the viewport and paused, looking at herself. It had been multiple decades since high school as a boy, but Tan’ya was sure that she was the sort of girl that would have fit in with the pretty girls. Perhaps she had a touch of her father’s hawkish nose and thick brows, but for the most part she resembled her mother, with brown hair, pale skin, and blue eyes. Nice, high cheekbones, clear skin, and a set of perfect teeth, with soft pink lips. Unlike her mother, she had an athlete's body, thanks to a lifetime of disciplined lightsaber practice. Her limbs were long and corded with tight, flexible muscles, and she walked with a measured, focused confidence born from countless hours of combat and training. On some level, Tan’ya was surprised that there weren’t more young men who showed open attraction to her, but then when she thought about it, she realised she was the exact kind of woman that would be too intimidating for her peers to pursue. 

Currently, she was wearing her formal clothes, with a cape, chain of office, and a long black skirt similar to the one Asajj wore. She had a lightsaber on one hip, and a blaster on the other, something that other Indinoor Jedi had begun copying from her father. 

There was a knock at the office door, and Tan’ya turned away from the window, waving a hand after a moment to open the door and see her guests in. M8-ID, her long serving protocol droid, led Admiral Hoves and General Seith inside.

“Gentlemen. Are we ready?”

Gon Seith nodded, though he didn’t look happy about it, but Hoves looked completely at peace despite the risks of their plan. “Every ship is stocked, crewed, drilled and ready, Your Highness.”

“And their communications?” Tan’ya asked. “Has anyone leaked the plan?”

“No, Your Highness. The men are only allowed to send written messages, which we review and delete any part that could give details to the enemy before sending them.”

Tan’ya nodded, before looking at Gon. “And the smugglers?”

“As ready as they can be.” He hesitated, then added. “It’s too late to change our plans now, but maybe we can change your role in it? I’m worried about the risk to your safety.”

Tan’ya considered the man, slightly annoyed that he still didn’t see that there was really no other way. “I appreciate your concern, but who would you propose to replace me with?”

“Your Father would be able to-”

Tan’ya held up a hand to forestall him. “Father will be needed elsewhere, Colonel. He might be able to take on my role, but I can’t take on his. I have been trusted with the security of Serenno and the Hydian, and Father has already approved of my plan. I understand that it’s risky, but this is what we have to do.”

“...I understand, Your Highness.” Gon said, quietly. 

“Now, if there’s anything else?” Tan’ya asked, looking between him and Admiral Hoves.

“Just one thing, before I depart.” Hoves answered, then took three wrapped cubes of stainer from his pocket. 

Tan’ya took one for herself without hesitation, but when Hoves offered one to Gon, the older man hesitated.

“Something wrong?” Hoves asked.

“I’m not from Serenno.” Gon answered.

“Yes, this is a great honor for you. Why do you hesitate?”

“I’m a Coruscanti.” Gon tried to explain, looking to Tan’ya as if expecting her to understand, but finding her only watching the exchange curiously. 

Hoves closed his hand, drawing the cube away. “Do you plan to return there?”

“Not me, no, but my first granddaughter was just born.” Gon explained. “I want to know they’ll be able to return.”

“You stand with a foot in each world.” Hoves said. “Know that I only offer this to you because of your granddaughter. Your daughter has married a man of Serenno, and your blood has mingled with ours. The future of you and your descendants is already here, with us. If you return to the Great Mouth it would be alone.” 

“Admiral Hoves,” Tan’ya warned. “Though I agree the ritual is important, now is not the time for Gon to choose his family’s future.” 

Hoves looked between her and him, before nodding once. He reached out, took Gon’s hand, and dropped one of the cubes into it. “The time that you will have to choose is not now, but it is coming. Eventually you will have to eat this or throw it away, and then you will know what to do.”

With a final bow to Tan’ya, Hoves left to depart on his mission, closing the door behind him. Gon pocketed the cube of stainer, looking after the man with a frown. 

“These Serennoans are getting quite belligerent.” He muttered.

“It was bound to happen, eventually.” Tan’ya told him. “I understand that it puts you and the other Coruscanti in a difficult position.”

“Yeah… difficult.”

The reality is this was bound to happen sooner or later. The Serennoans hated and resented Coruscant, even more than most anyone in the Outer Rim. A decade ago they tolerated the Coruscanti presence on their world because they had a need for skills they did not yet possess. Now that time had passed and the Serennoans were increasingly ready to take on the roles they once depended on others for. Coruscant was still despised, but the Coruscanti who were here had a measure of good will built up, but there was a question being asked that had to be answered.

It was a question much bigger than Serenno. It was even bigger than the Alliance, and the coming war with the Trade Federation. Slowly but surely that question was going to reach every corner of the Galaxy, waiting on the tip of every tongue, and burning in the forefront of every mind. It was a question that couldn’t be ignored, one that would tear this galaxy apart.

Are you on our side or not?

Tan’ya took a few more minutes to drain her cafstim, relishing the taste, before getting out her holocom and typing up a quick message. ‘Fleet has been dispatched. Ready on our end.’ She was just moments from leaving herself when the holocom rang. It was Hego’s number, but despite that Tan’ya considered ignoring it. Everything was in place, all that they were waiting for was a casus beli. Did Hego want to change something now? Businessmen could be skitish…

She steeled herself, quickly checking to make sure her uniform and appearance were in order, before finally answering.

“Mister Damask, it’s good to hear from you.” She smiled. “But I am a little pressed for time.”

“Then I will be brief.” He assured her. “Reports have come to me that your father is planning an assault into the Ranroon Sector. I understand your role, but is a pitched battle with the fleet at Zygerria viable? I’ve invested quite a large amount into my part of this plan, and it seems to me to be quite the gamble.”

Tan’ya hesitated for a moment. Part of her wanted to tell him that the military side of the plan was her and her father’s business, but at the same time she did need to keep him reassured or all the whole thing would be pointless. No doubt he had his own advisors and informants speaking to him about the risks involved. 

“You’re right, it is a gamble, but a measured one. Holding the Trade Federation at the Salzin Tunnels would secure that entire front. The Zyggerian sector fleet would have a numerical advantage, but our own work with the smugglers has been going perfectly. They don’t even realise how low their supply of vulture fuel rods, tibanna gas, and hypermatter really is. At this point, I suspect we have a better idea of the Sector Fleet’s actual capabilities than Viceroy Grib Siv does. I understand the concern, Magister Damask, but I’m confident in this plan.”

He considered her for a long moment, sucking on his long pipe. After undergoing a lengthy medical procedure, the damage to the Magister’s lungs was repaired to the point he no longer needed the rebreather, but he’d taken to using his pipe as a prop instead. It was one of the few points against the man in Tan’ya mind. What was he thinking, smoking after such a slow and expensive recovery? If she were in his shoes, she’d never breathe in so much as an engine fume ever again if she could help it.

“Very well.” Damask said at last. “In the future, I would prefer you inform me before you gamble with my credits.”

“Of course.” Tan’ya agreed. “We will include you in the planning phase going forward.”

He nodded once, appeased. “And what of the Jedi investigation? Any concern about the Coruscant Temple interfering?”

“Not a concern at present.” Tan’ya replied. “They can only confirm what we already know, and Knight Prialla will be there to keep them honest.”

“Very well. You seem to have everything firmly in hand.” Damask tilted his head respectfully, before hanging up.

Tan’ya let out a breath of tension that she hadn’t realised she was holding. With her allies placated, it was time for the real work to begin. She had a long trip ahead of her, traveling through some of the most remote and wild regions that remained in the Galaxy.

-----

The air was balmy and humid, joined by gentle wind chimes and the soft sound of a nearby stream. It burbled down the hills, past the resort and its outdoor pavilion, merging with a larger river in the distance, and numerous insectoid oishinlan beasts came over to lower their heads and sip from its cool, refreshing waters. The pavilion itself was suffused with the smell of burning incense, fresh fruits genetically modified to impossible sizes, cooked mushrooms, and deshelled dnobag beetles deep fried to perfection with traditional spices. Attractive twi’lek slaves in a variety of exotic colours that made them easier to tell apart moved gracefully about, stopping to gather up drinks or offer new refreshments to the resort’s guests.

The occupants of this resort were a collection of cowardly, snivelling grey toads who Grib Siv could smell from the entrance. The pathetic stink of their fear was almost as repugnant as the various odors of their old, grey, mistreated bodies. The Trade Federation Board of Directors were all neimoidian of course, and among them it was clear that Grib was the only one with youth, or vigor. At a respectable forty five years of age he was no spring chicken, but none of these worthless old men had seen the inside of a gym in decades and it showed. They let themselves grow fat and soft, not realising that the mind and body were a single organism, and failing to look after one would hurt the other.

Grib Siv was a clearly superior nemoidian specimen, a fact he thought unfortunate. If more of his species were like him, it wouldn’t be humans who dominated the majority of the Galaxy. Born and raised on Coruscant, Grib was well used to the subtle, but powerful currents of Republic politics, and he understood appearances in a way that these mediocraties and company men never could. The appearance of strength was a strength in itself, and looking weak made you a weakling. That was why Grib was in the gym every morning, strengthening his core, improving his cardio, and building muscle in his limbs. His body was strong, so his mind was sharp, and the awful smell coming from Neeg Tone made him pause in his step.

Turning to look at the old toad, he was unsurprised to see the twi’lek girl who had been helping him undress looking like she was about to throw up. Neeg’s scent glands were repulsively swollen, bulging from the back of his neck in angry purple welts that quivered as he turned his head. Seeing that almost everyone’s eyes were on him, Neeg whispered out in a hoarse, dry voice. “My doctor tells me it’s from too much stress.”

Grib clenched his own glands tight, to stop himself from releasing his own stress scent out of sheer frustration. Surveying the rest of the board of directors, most of them entering a similar state of undress, exotic twi’lek servants hovering about, pampering and flattering, but they could do nothing to lift the spirits of this lot. Even with the pavilion’s relaxed aesthetic, they looked dour, nervous, and damn near helpless. It was a miserable atmosphere that wasn’t just visible in Neeg’s glands, it could be seen in Vinwe’s dry, unhealthy skin, patchy and peeling in places, where he kept scratching at it. Himera was clearly stress eating, planting his morbidly obese form right next to the snack table and absently chewing his way through plates of whatever he could get his hands on, even as he stared at a potted plant with eyes fixated on somewhere else entirely. At the very end of the pavilion, leaning against the balcony and watching the landscape of watering beasts was Reyhon Andlo, an illegal death stick in hand that he was smoking with trembling fingers.

This was the mighty Trade Federation’s Board of Directors, and this was what Grib had to work with if he was to win the coming war.

He rubbed his hands together, looking left and right, before settling on his first target. He paused for a moment, taking out a powerful lozenge that numbed his sense of taste and smell, and popped it into his mouth. With preparations made, he strode over.  “Neeg!” He called out, and the old nemoidian jumped so quickly that his swollen glands jostled against each other. “I’m glad you could make it, you old scallywag.” Grib fell into his chair next to the older fellow, and patted him on the back, well below the shoulder blades. 

Neeg didn’t look happy to see him. As the Director of the Legal Division, he had a crucial role to play in the coming war. Despite how much he was clearly struggling with his burden, Neeg cleared his throat, and spoke in a low, hoarse tone, one that was already cracking from doing too much yelling. “Grib, I’ve needed to talk to you. I’ve done a review of our current contracts, all of them, and what you’re asking for is impossible.”

“I don’t like that word.” Grib warned. 

“But it is impossible!” Neeg insisted, glands pulsating with his rapidly elevating heart beat. “The ships you need are already committed, our security patrol fleet is bound to our clients. If we try to recall them all, we’ll be trapped in legal warfare against seventy nine sector governments for the next half a century! Even the most back water among them can easily afford an excellent legal team. That’s not even counting the different planetary governments. We can’t just cancel our contracts either, not when they’ve kept up with their payments.” He swallowed once. “The only way out is to declare an emergency-"

“No.”

“Grib!” Neeg hissed in pain, puss oozing from his overworked glands. He sounded like he was about to start sobbing in anguish. “If you want those ships freed, it’s the only way to get them legally! We declare an emergency, and we can recall them without voiding our contracts.”

“If we declare an emergency, this company dies!” Grib hissed, leaning in. “Someone in the Banking Clan has begun shorting our market position, Neeg!” He grabbed the nomoidian’s arm and pulled him closer, speaking in a low, angry, whisper. “Not just some Magister, but one of the Five! What if the rest of them join him? If we declare an emergency it could cause a panic with our shareholders! Forget losing the war, if our stocks bottom out before it even starts, there won’t be a company left to fight it!” Grib reached up and rested a finger against one of the swollen lumps, pressuring it and drawing whimpers from Neeg. “We’ve talked about what we need to do, now do it.”

“But Siv!” He whined, gasping and writhing. “If we fabricate cases of personnel abuse against all our clients, we open ourselves to counter suits! Yes, it gives back those ships and crews for now, but in a year we’ll-”

“A year is all we need.” Grib declared. “We can settle our debts afterwards. You understand? No more whining, now do it.”

Neeg swallowed, thickly, nodding. “Okay. Okay. I can get you a year.”

Grib released him, and clicked his finger at one of the servants, who came over offering him a fresh white towel to clean his hand with. Wiping the pus from his finger, Grib looked over to see Neeg watching him, cautiously. Something was clearly on his mind. “What’s the matter?”

“Reyhon Andlho has a plan.” Neeg answered. “He came to me with it, and I think he’s gone to some of the others, too. You should hear him out, Grib, I think it’s a good one. He told me not to tell you, but I think you should know.”

Grib was furious, but forced a smile to his lips. “Yeah, I’ll talk to him, alright.” He stood up, looking out towards the balcony, where Reyhon was just finishing his death stick, his shaking hand at last seeming to have calmed.

Once again adopting an air of cool confidence, even as his glands were all but boiling over with the sour scent of outrage, Grib made his way to the Board Secretary. Reyhon heard someone approaching from behind, and turned to regard Grib, his scrawny face so pale that it was nearly white.

“Andhlo! So glad you could make it.” Grib smiled. “I hope customs didn’t give you too much trouble for your extracurriculars." 

Andhlo blinked at him, his large eyes taking a moment to focus as he grasped the implication of Grib’s joke. “No.” He answered, plainly

Grib waited for a moment for Andhlo to continue, and barely stopped himself from hitting the fool when he realised that was it. “Neeg mentioned a brilliant idea you had, anything you care to share?”

“...It’s still in the preliminary phases of development.” Andhlo said at last, shooting a betrayed glare towards Neeg, who flinched away from his friend’s gaze. “I need to workshop it.”

So it was that kind of plan, huh? This skinny fool thought he could force Grib’s hands once he had all his kcudrays lined up? Not while Grib was still standing here.

“Well that’s what this get together is for! Why wait when we can workshop it right here?” Grib announced, cloaking his fury with a razor thin coat of magnanimity. He threw his arm around Andhlo’s shoulder, pulling him forcefully towards the table at the centre of the pavilion, and the skinny addict wasn’t able to resist his more powerful brawn. “Everyone! Gather round, gather round! Andhlo has a plan to propose to us all!”

Andhlo stumbled, and opened his mouth to object, but soon seemed to realise that it was too late for that. Slowly, all fifteen members of the board of directors gathered, looking much the same as they had a moment ago, tired and stressed.

“Go on, Andhlo. We all want to hear.” Grib said, looking around at the rest that were gathered and forcefully adding, “Right?”

There were scattered nods, Neeg’s the most enthusiastic of all. Pathetic.

Andhlo hesitated for a moment, before breathing out through his nose, and beginning. “Look. We’re caught between a rock and a hard place. We’ve got two bad choices in front of us. If we don’t crush the Alliance soon, then it won’t be more than a decade until their navy is as big as ours, and they’ll be coming for us. Not to mention every sector we lose to them is another sector not paying into our security services, and the ancestors know our overheads are just…” He sighed, knuckling his neck glands, nervously. “Well, let’s just say I try not to think about them.” 

That brought out some nervous chuckles from the rest of the board. 

“But look, our situation is… not ideal, but it's stable. Not being able to move our security fleet down the Hydian is a big problem, but there are ways around it. They haven’t targeted our regular cargo ships yet, or our clients, and that gives us some wiggle room.” He waved his hand in a line, like a fish swimming upstream. “We can open negotiations with them, pay them to provide security for our civilian fleet while they pass through Alliance territory. Then, we can have our own security fleet continue to patrol the routes on the other side. We can pay other worlds to allow us to dock and do maintenance for our security fleet in the Mid Rim. It will be expensive, it will push up our operating costs even higher, but at this point, does that even really matter? The point is if we do all this, we buy ourselves time. Time to re-arm, and prepare a proper warfleet. Not a security fleet, but a proper military arm with real battleships and solid, reliable crews.”

“We have a huge fleet, already.” Grib pointed out, offering him a bit more rope.

“Yeah, but I’ve read the reviews, Grib.” Andhlo replied. “All of them.”

“What reviews?”

“The crew performance reviews!” Andhlo snapped, already so stressed out that he was fumbling for another death stick to light up, but gave up when he couldn’t find it, instead waving his hands about desperately. “All of them! It took me and my team months, but we went through every single performance review of every ship crew and every client for the last decade, and it’s not looking good, Grib.”

“Andhlo, captains fake their crew performance reviews, because they’re all trying to get promoted. Everyone knows you can’t trust them.”

“That’s the problem, Grib!” Andhlo hissed, eyes darting to all the gathered Nemoidians, as if begging them to see what he was seeing. “Almost all of them were falsified in some way! We didn’t find a single good or reliable officer or crew in our entire fleet! We don’t know what their actual combat readiness is, we don’t know if their ships are being properly maintained, and we don’t know if morale is high, because they’re all blasted liars! We’re flying blind here!” He swallowed thickly. “Right now we could amass the single biggest fleet the Galaxy has seen in a thousand years, which sounds great. But what if we lose, Grib? What if we get wiped off the board? What if it's like Naboo, but at an even bigger scale? Five to one odds, but with a thousand ships lost this time?”

“I see.” Grib replied, considering carefully. “So what makes you think your new war fleet proposal will be better?”

Andhlo looked relieved, like he felt as though someone was finally hearing him, and a spot of hope had bloomed behind his eyes. “Because I didn’t just review the fleet, I reviewed our ground commanders as well. They can’t falsify their reports the way the fleet can, because they actually see combat on a semi-regular basis, we can just look at things like their droid replacement rate, or their mission accomplishment rate, and other statistics they can’t falsify. We can rate them mathematically, the same way you would a smash ball team. Our best performing officer is from the debt recovery department, a primitive named General Grievous.” His speech was picking up speed, excitement entering his voice. “He’s the real deal, Grib. A genuine, unparalleled military talent. His recovery rate is one hundred percent, and his military record before he joined us? Incredible. He already observed all the problems I had, and already had this whole plan laid out and ready to go.”

Grib stroked his chin, pretending to seriously consider the notion. “So this is his plan, then?”

Andhlo nodded. “I’ve spoken with him. I’m telling you Grib, this is the man we want in charge of our warfleet. With six months, and the chance to hand pick his own officers, recruit new crews, and get us ready, we’ll roll those Alliance bastards. They won’t stand a chance, and our monopoly over the Hydian will be guaranteed.” 

“Six months?” Grib repeated. “That’s all?”

“Yes! That’s all.” Andhlo promised, looking at everyone who seemed to be just about nodding along with him.

“Only six months…” Grib murmured. “That’s a lot of time to ask for these days…”

“You’re right.” Andhlo agreed. “But if we just give ourselves a little time, we can have a certain victory then, instead of gambling everything now.”

“Alright, well, what if we could achieve a certain victory now, instead of in six months?” Grib suggested. “Wouldn’t that be better?”

“Well, of course, but the fleet-”

“What if I was able to double its size, overnight?”  Grib added. “You don’t think a five to one advantage is a good enough margin of error? How about a ten to one advantage?”

Andhlo blinked once, then twice. “That would take our entire patrol fleet. All our assets, already commited-” 

“That’s right, but thanks to a legal loophole that Neeg has discovered, I’ll be able to recall our entire fleet at once.” He looked to the older Neimoidian. “Isn’t that right, Neeg? We’ll have legal cover for the next year, right?”

“Wh- uh-” Neeg’s eyes darted between Grib and Andhlo, and the assembled audience. He turned pale, gaping, and his pustuled glands began pulsating again. 

“Isn’t that right, Neeg?” Grib’s voice growled.

Neeg jumped, then nodded. “That’s right. For, uh, a year, we’ll be able to draw on every ship.”

“Well, there we have it.” Grib looked to Andhlo. “Do you think ten to one odds will be enough?’

Andhlo remained silent, it finally seemed to dawn on him that his proposal never really stood a chance. “But in six months-”

“In six months, the Trade Federation may well be no more.” Grib spoke over him, and that drew startled looks from everyone present. “Of course, I don’t mean to be rude, Andhlo, but your plan is missing some crucial information. You’re the one that was flying blind, as it were.”

That drew some nervous titters from the surrounding board members.

“Last night I was informed that one of the Banking Clan Five has shorted our market position.” Grib announced, and gave it a moment to sink in. “Gentlemen, the Galaxy has looked at us, and has seen everything that Andhlo and this… Grievous has. We’re not discussing secrets here, we’re talking about things that are public knowledge. The Galaxy sees us as weak, failing, flailing, dying. We’ve already had to beg the Senate for a bailout, and that teet has run dry. It took every trick and connection I had to just get that influx of credits to come our way, and now it’s all already nearly gone. We’re running on fumes. We don’t have six months!” He declared firmly. “If we negotiate with the Alliance, appease them with tribute, we confirm what everybody already believes they know. It will cause an investor panic, and our stock prices will plummet as our shareholders sell it all. The Federation and its constituent companies will cease to exist!

He surveyed the group, who watched him with rapt attention, startled and horrified, but listening. He let his glands release, the sour scent of his hatred and anger leaking into the air, his raw contempt for these fat, sallow, fools.

“The choice is not to fight now or fight in six months, it’s to fight now or die. This is it, gentlemen. No more hiding from the truth. The most important moment of your lives is coming soon. It's time to go for it. We win, or we all lose everything.” He looked left and right, meeting the eyes of each and every one of them. “Do you understand?”

They all made scattered sounds of agreement.

“What?” He cupped a hand to his ear. “I can barely hear you! I said, do you understand me?!”

They spoke as one, from the chest, and sounded just barely like they weren’t all complete wastes of time and skin.

“Now, we’re going to enjoy our time at this resort, and we’re going to work together to come up with a real plan that will actually save the company.” He settled his glare on Andhlo, who flinched back. “Understand?”

Once again, the surrounding execs bellowed their agreement. 

“Good.” He waved a hand to dismiss them, and they all began to go their separate ways, but Grib kept a firm hold on Andhlo, to stop him from wandering off. Grib leaned in close to whisper in Andhlo’s ear hole. “Fire Grievous.”

Andhlo looked shocked. “But he’s our best-”

“I don’t care what he is.” Grib hissed. “We can’t have a general undermining their own Viceroy! You can scapegoat him for your little coup attempt, or you can take the fall. Pick.” Then he shoved Andhlo away.

For a moment, Andhlo stood there trembling. He clenched and unclenched his hand, the sickening scent of fear wafting from him. At last he seemed to get control of himself. The fear scent disappeared, giving way to exhaustion. “Fine. I pick me.”

“What?”

“I quit.” As he said it, a hysterical giggle escaped him. “I quit. I can’t take this anymore.”

“And what happens when the Galaxy finds out about your bad habits, Andhlo?” Grib warned. “You quit now, and everything I have on you will come out. You won’t be going back to normal life, you’ll be going to a cell. The bribery, the skimming, the second family. All of it.”

Andhlo looked at him for a moment, before shrugging. “You try to expose me, you expose the rest of the board. Everything I did, they’re doing too.”

Grib considered him for a moment, before dismissing him with a final, disgusted flick of his wrist.

As the pathetic little addict walked away, showing just enough spine to run, Grib consoled himself with the knowledge that he’d have the fool killed soon enough. There was nowhere in the Galaxy that Andhlo could hide from the Master’s blades.

Turning back to the rest of the board, returning to their massage chairs and steam baths, an air of determination began to form over the pavilion. Not confidence, not courage, but the desperate, feral determination that came with knowing these next days could decide their fates. Slowly but surely, Grib would spend the next dozen hours, working his way through the group, one by one, sharpening his tools for the coming war, and arraying them for the purpose. It wouldn’t be long until the Federation and all its might was fully committed, a force ready and waiting to shatter the Alliance once and for all.

After that, he would just need some fool to set off the spark.

Birthday Celebration! (one week hiatus notice)

Hello everyone. Thank you so much for supporting me up to this point, and thank you for the feedback you've given. As my patrons, I feel that it's only appropriate to give notice of my plans and my schedule, so that you understand I'm not aiming to take missuse your generosity.

Today, July the 4th, is my birthday. Yes, I know. Even out here in Australia everyone makes the same joke. In celebration of my birthday, I will be taking a one week Hiatus to explore the Outback, and relax from my general obligations, social media, work, etc etc. For this week I will be out of signal range and communications, and will not be uploading on or working on any of my writings. After that, on July the 11th, I will return to my usual workload and schedule. I'm hoping this will be a meditative experience that will help me clear my mind and return to my writings refreshed, and eager to continue.

Thank you for your patience and generosity.

Count of Serenno chapter 42

22 BBY

This was the first time Anakin had ever been to Indinoor, but from orbit it looked almost like Tatooine with a deeper brown tint. At a glance, the planet was clearly vast and barren, with only a few clouds rolling across its surface. Its oceans of mud and industrial slurry shone with a thin layer of a greasy rainbow hue as the sunlight refracted across its surface. There was one exception though, a single patch of green right at the edge of where the exposed surface of blasted black granite met the oceans of muck.

The green spot was composed of a patchwork of farms, all connected by a clearly marked series of roads and fences. Out in the mud flats, what looked like a fishing trawler hauled in a net crawling with filthy crustaceans, and there were even other flat bottomed vessels like it hovering even further out into the sea. Farms all spread outward from a single point, a vast plateau of solid stone that rose up forty metres into the air. In the shadow of that natural stone column, there was what looked like a large village, with market stalls in place, and a yard full of tractors for sale.

It was odd, but seeing the dusty brown town left Anakin with a strange sense of nostalgia for Watto’s scrapyard.

At the top of the Plateau was the Jedi Temple, constructed in the style familiar to all Orders across the Galaxy, its central construction featuring a pyramid and several towers. At the apex of the pyramid was a verdant green garden, whose trees and brushes swayed in the strong breeze. 

With careful precision, Anakin brought their ship to a halt and let it gently lower down towards the landing platform. The port was abuzz with activity, their little ship barely managing to find a place among other craft. In every corner, armed jedi hurried about, many wearing flight suits rather than robes, fueling what Anakin recognised as long range, hyperspace capable fighters and bombers. All the Indinoor Jedi seemed ready to move at a moment’s notice, and were packing rations and water into the holds of their ship.

Despite the end of their long journey from Coruscant to Indinoor, Obi-Wan did not look relieved to arrive. If anything, Duchess Satine was the one who seemed happiest to be here. She glided down the landing ramp towards the waiting reception in her full regalia, every bit the dignified monarch. Behind her, close to her shoulder was Knight Vai, dressed in the armoured uniform of the Indinoor Jedi with the chain of office at her neck.

Waiting to greet them was Count Dooku, his silver hair and proud hawkish features standing in sharp contrast to the young family that surrounded him. There was a multitude of decades between him and his wife, who was a beautiful woman standing proudly behind her children. The oldest of them was a teenage boy, who bore a striking resemblance to his father despite his youth. Next in line was a girl who was just in her preteens, her face notably scarred. The last was the smallest, a young boy who was gaping with undisguised awe at the Mandalorian bodyguards of the Duchess.

None of them were Tan’ya, whose adventures had already made her somewhat famous and infamous among the Coruscant Jedi. Anakin wasn’t sure how many of the rumours he believed, but he had been curious about his fellow Chosen One for a long time, and felt somewhat disappointed she wasn’t there. 

“Duchess Satine.” Dooku greeted, but didn’t reach out to her. Normally a head of state would treat the other to a handshake, or even a kiss on the cheek, but in this case Dooku left that to his wife, who warmly hugged Satine.

“It brings me great joy to see you unharmed.” He looked over to Anakin and Obi-Wan, the warmth leaving his eyes in an instant. “Was the escort I provided insufficient?”

In the corner of his eye, Anakin noticed Obi-Wan try and fail to suppress a wince.

“No, not at all,” Satine answered. “Obi-Wan is an old friend. He asked to come here because he wished to speak with you.”

“Is that so?” Dooku answered. “Then out of consideration for you, I will listen to what he has to say.”

“Well, let me introduce you now.”

“We’ve already met, actually.” Obi-Wan spoke up, stepping forward. 

“Yes,” Dooku agreed. “It was not a joyous occasion.”

“Indeed, the loss of Qui-Gon Jinn has affected us all very deeply.” Obi-Wan smoothly brushed past the snub, and Anakin had to admire his delicacy. “My Master was a great man.”

At the reminder of their shared connection, Dooku’s stern expression softened a touch. 

“Duchess Satine,” Athemeene spoke up, “why don’t you come with me? We’ll help you get acquainted with where you’ll be staying here, and give Master Kenobi and my husband a chance to speak in private.”

Duchess Satine agreed, and let herself be led away by the Count’s family, Jedi Knight Vai trailing behind her. As Vai walked, Anakin saw the children closing ranks around her, and began to ask questions. For the first time, he even saw a smile on the stern knight’s face as she even held the hands of the young girl with the scars.

Just how close were these Jedi to the Serenno dynasty?

When they had the platform to themselves, Dooku glanced at Anakin, but mostly kept his attention on Obi-Wan. 

“The Council has asked me to investigate the matter of the attack on Duchess Satine.” Obi-Wan began. “The trail of evidence we followed led us to Mandalore, but given the sensitivity of the situation, we thought it best to ask permission before travelling there directly.”

“The Council concerns itself with my thoughts now?” Dooku drawled. “How novel.”

“I assure you, the Council hardly thinks of anyone else.” Obi-Wan smiled.

The joke actually got the corners of Dooku’s lips to twitch. “I can see why they sent you.” He considered the request for a few moments. “The attackers must be brought to justice, and the truth brought to light for the whole Galaxy to see.”

“Of course.” Obi-Wan agreed, after only a fraction of a second's hesitation.

“Good. then you agree that when the attacker is revealed to be the Trade Federation, it will be in the interest of all to make this knowledge public.”

The certainty in Count’s voice gave Obi-Wan pause. “It is far too early for such accusations. We’re just trying to get to the bottom of this.”

“And at the bottom of this is the Trade Federation.” Dooku harrumphed. “You can be sure of that.”

“Is that why you’re preparing for war?” Anakin asked.

Dooku turned to regard him. “I don’t believe we’ve met before. Padawan…?”

“Anakin Skywalker.” He bowed. 

“Ah yes, I remember now.” Dooku frowned. “If the Trade Federation is prepared to wage war on me, should I not prepare to defend my people as well?”

“Sure,” Anakin agreed with an easy shrug. “But it looks to me like you’re the one who wants this war to start.”

“Oh?” Dooku raised an eyebrow.

“Well, I might lack your experience in military matters, but even I’ve noticed that in many ways the Alliance has the upper hand against the Trade Federation.”

“And what would those ways be, Young Skywalker?” Dooku asked. “Our combined fleets are still a fraction of their size, we would be madmen to want a war we stand no chance of winning.”

“Really?” Anakin raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “That’s not how I see it. You’ve already demonstrated that their current fleet of converted cargo haulers are poorly designed for battle, and you seem to be able to capture them with near impunity when they cross into your sector, though I’m not sure how. The Corporate Sector sits at the end of the Hydian Way, and has access to the Perlemian Trade Run. Which means that if you do shut them out of Alliance space, they won’t be able to access their markets in the Core at all. You’ve got your hands resting comfortably around their neck, and now you just need an excuse to start squeezing.” 

Dooku stared at him, the corner of his lips slightly upturned. “A fair assessment, if not for their industrial capacity dwarfing ours completely. Even with the dockyards at Botajef and Raxus Prime restored to working order, they can produce almost three times as many ships as we can. Any prolonged conflict against the Trade Federation would see the Alliance crushed.”

“You know, you’re right,” Anakin agreed, smirking. “But somehow I just can’t shake the feeling that it’s not gonna stop you.”

Obi-Wan stepped forward. “I think, what my Padawan means to say, is that our purpose here is merely to bring criminals to justice. If our investigation should incriminate the Trade Federation, or exonerate them, we will follow the evidence where it leads, you have my word.”

“...Very well.” Dooku finally agreed. “I propose a joint investigation. I will dispatch my two best investigators to aid you on Mandalore and share information, ensuring the Council and I can be confident in whatever you uncover.”

It seemed like a fair deal to Anakin, but Obi-Wan looked worried. “May I ask, who will be your representative?” 

“Jedi Knight Vos, and Jedi Knight Prialla are my two most experienced investigators.”

Obi-Wan maintained an expression of careful neutrality. “I see.”

“Something the matter?”

“Knight Vos and I have something of a history.” Obi-Wan explained, and Anakin had to resist the urge to stare. Vos had left Coruscant only a year and a half after Anakin had arrived, but he remembered Kenobi being friends with him. “I’m worried our prior disagreements might affect the investigation.”

“I see.” Dooku frowned. “Well, if that’s the case, I can ask the Jedi Council to recall you, and send investigators that won’t cause such concerns.”

“...That won’t be necessary.” Kenobi said. “I’m sure we can put our differences behind us.”

“Very good.” Count Dooku gave Kenobi a satisfied smile. “Well, if that will be all?”

“Actually.” Anakin spoke up. “I was hoping for a chance to meet your eldest daughter. Is Tan’ya not on Indinoor right now?”

The Count turned to regard him. “No. She’s on Serenno, preparing its armies for a potential war. She had duties at home that she must attend to in my absence.”

“A shame,” Anakin lowered his head in disappointment. “I was looking forward to meeting the fellow Chosen One.”

“I am afraid she would not share your enthusiasm,” Dooku huffed, before turning to rejoin the rest of his family inside the Temple. Obi-Wan watched the man leave, an annoyed expression on his face.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I just can’t escape the feeling that we’re being toyed with.” 

“In what way?”

Obi-Wan frowned. “I’m pretty sure Vos is the Council’s spy, keeping an eye on Dooku, and now he’s sent the man away at a crucial moment.”

“And Master Yoda didn’t mention this to us?” Anakin scowled. “If Dooku has a spy right next to him, we should have contacted him to ensure Dooku isn’t hiding anything from us!”

“I think you’re missing the bigger picture, Padawan.” Kenobi grunted.

A protocol droid waddled out of the temple’s entrance, sent by Dooku to give them a guided tour, while its master retired to his office, no doubt to scheme the destruction of the Federation. Even Obi-Wan didn’t get a chance to speak with Duchess Satine, as she was also caught up in preparation for a potential civil war.

It would have been nice to get a chance to have a conversation with some of the Jedi from Indinoor, but none of them seemed to have time for him, all rushing about in a frenzy. The few he spoke to only had time for a few platitudes, assuring that he and the other Coruscant Jedi were welcome here, in a way that only highlighted how they all felt the need to say it. It was a little frustrating that many of the students were already knights. It seemed Dooku wasn’t as determined to infantilize his pupils as Master Yoda was.

After a day of fruitless milling about, Anakin and Obi-Wan eventually made their way to their quarters, preparing to rest.. 

Before Anakin could say his goodnights, Obi-Wan stopped him, lingering in the door to his bedroom. “I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier, and I think you’re right. There are two Hyperlanes coming out of the Corporate Sector, and the Alliance has control over systems that would allow them to block both. I checked my compad, and its not looking good for the Trade Federation - they are yet to fully recover from the disaster at Naboo, even after getting a major bailout from the Senate. A few bad battles could be all that stands between them and total bankrupcy. Even worse, most of their Security Fleet is spread out across the entire Galaxy, committed to their existing security contracts with various worlds. They can’t just withdraw their ships, or they’ll be drowning in lawsuits.”

“If their overheads are so high,” Anakin added, “and they need their ships to make money for them, what do you think the chances are that they've been keeping up with maintenance on their reserves?”

“For obvious reasons, they won’t share that.” Obi-Wan said. “On paper, the Trade Federation fleet might be far bigger than the Alliance’s, but how much of it can they actually use?”

“...Do you think Dooku knows?” Anakin asked. “How long do you think they’ve been planning this?”

Obi-Wan frowned. “I’ll try calling Yoda. Why don’t you try to get some rest, and we’ll see what we can confirm in the morning. At the moment all we have is speculation.”

Anakin nodded and stepped into his room. “Goodnight, Master.”

It wasn’t a good night, though. Anakin lay in bed, restlessly staring at the ceiling. It wasn’t the looming war that plagued his mind, or the investigation into the assassination, but Padme that kept him awake. 

It wasn’t as though she disliked him, or thought poorly of him. She just didn’t think of him at all. He was nothing, nobody. Supposedly the Chosen One, but denied the chance to do anything by that little green goblin and that Council of old men whose only interest was continuing to do nothing. Did they really think that proving the assassin had worked alone would make a difference to Dooku, and the rest of the Outer Rim?

They were holding him back. The frustration was burning away at him, only made worse by the realisation that the woman who had filled his thoughts for almost a decade hadn’t even spared a single thought for him during that same time.

Restless energy stirring inside him, and eventually Anakin gave up on sleep. He sat up and turned his bedside light on, looking for something to distract his wandering mind. There was a small bookshelf in the corner, with a number of old fashioned flimsi books stocked on it, so he walked over to grab one off the shelf to read the title.

“A Complete History of the Galactic Republic. Volume Nine. The Great Galactic Wars. Written by Tan’ya of House Serenno, in memory of Dr Difo Syas.”

Anakin blinked at that. She wrote a book?

He read a few pages, before giving up and putting it back on the shelf. The book was incredibly dry, dispassionately going into detail about Galactic Macro-Economics, which only made Anakin’s mind more as his eyes glazed over trying to read it. He returned it to the shelf, and squatted down to check the rest of the titles. 

There were twelve volumes in total, with the last one being Volume 12, the New Sith Wars. No other books sat on the shelf, making Anakin’s brow raise. Did they have the completed series in every guest room? Was she showing off?

He didn’t have time to read twelve volumes of densely packed history, but he did open up his compad and quickly looked them up online. Reviews were a bit mixed, from what Anakin could see. The first two books were written by Dr Difo Syas, and were well regarded but the third book abruptly changed focus to the dry minutiae of warfare. Around that time the original writer died, and that was when Tan’ya stepped in. Her writing style was very much more like a report, with less focus on entertaining the audience and trying to persuade them of the moral good of the Republic, and instead took an alienating and neutral tone. She spoke about the Republic like she was examining a foreign power, identifying its strengths, motivations and weaknesses. Some people enjoyed the tone, but it rubbed others the wrong way.

Surprisingly, there were even some news articles about Tan’ya in particular. Anakin found that there were actually several journalists who had been following the House of Serenno for years, and writing about them in a hostile context. 

GHASTLY NEPOTISM IN THE OUTER RIM, shouted one headline. The author seemed particularly contemptuous of the notion that Tan’ya was credited for a wide ranging series of military reforms to Serenno, that a number of other worlds in the Alliance had begun copying. That genuinely shocked Anakin, and he found himself reading more and more about the surprising body of achievements credited to the girl. Military reforms, diplomatic efforts, establishing academies of engineering on Raxus and Serenno, Officer Schools, and even participating in several battles if rumor was to be believed. The other Chosen One had been busy, while he was stuck in the Temple. 

It was deeply frustrating. Obi-Wan would stick up for him from time to time, but at the end of the day he just didn’t see the same problem that Anakin did. ‘Trust the Council,’ Obi-Wan insisted, but then why didn’t the Council trust Anakin? He would do anything they asked, if they just gave him something to do!

Sighing, Anakin lay back in bed. The worst thing was realising that he actually missed Watto. Yeah, the slimy junkyard owner wasn’t exactly pleasant company, and of course Anakin had hated being a slave, but at least the Toydarian trusted him. Build this, fix that, clean this, check that part for damage, dismantle that hyper compressor, on and on. It wasn’t fun work, and often it left Anakin covered in filthy grease and with sore hands, but at least he felt useful, and was given a chance to learn and grow.

Slave Master Watto treated Anakin better than Jedi Master Yoda in some ways. In too many ways.

If it hadn’t been for Chancellor Palpatine, Anakin wouldn’t know what to do. Not only had the man freed his mother and given her a place to live and work on Coruscant, but he was one of the only people who seemed to see Anakin’s potential.

“‘Patience is like a muscle. Exercising it makes you stronger.’” Anakin murmured. The Council might not trust him now, but the time would come when they would need him. He wasn’t even a knight yet, and he was already one of the strongest in the Order.

Finally, Anakin was able to rest, the sound of sand on the wind slowly lulling him to sleep.

Anakin looked like he had barely slept a wink last night, and Obi-Wan could hardly blame him. With the threat of war looming over the Galaxy, Kenobi wondered how many billions of other sentients had struggled in the late hours of the night?

As a Jedi, Kenobi didn’t allow himself to hate, but he certainly had no love for the Trade Federation. He understood Dooku’s grievances well; the Federation was expansionist, they wouldn’t stop harassing worlds until they got their way, they had a disproportionate influence on the Senate, and they mistreated the people they ruled over, it was all true. Even so, whatever problems there were with the Trade Federation, surely they could be settled in Court and not on the battlefield? Was it really worth dragging potentially hundreds of worlds into war, when if everyone was willing to see reason, they could just litigate the issue without a drop of blood shed?

Dooku should have been setting an example for the Galaxy to follow, instead of goading his enemy to make the first move.

Obi-Wan sighed, and chewed on his cereal. The dried grains and blue electrolyte milk weren’t an ideal breakfast, but with both him and Anakin late to the table, they needed something to fill their stomachs quickly. His Padawan was battling restlessness all morning, trying to get even a wink of sleep, while Obi-Wan got caught in a lengthy conversation with Yoda and Mace. Sitting there across from his Padawan, Obi-Wan’s enjoyment of quiet breakfast with a hot cup of cafstim was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of an unusually small Jedi sliding into the chair across from him with a glum expression.

It took Obi-Wan a moment to recognize Jedi Knight Prialla. He never knew her personally, she’d been a few years above his creche as a youngling on Coruscant, but he had heard of her joining Dooku on Indinoor almost immediately after her knighting. All these years later, he’d almost forgotten that she was here, but he remembered her distinctively small silhouette.

He swallowed his mouthful of cereal, before giving her a polite smile. “Knight Prialla, it’s been years. I’ve heard you’ve joined the investigation with us.”

“Good morning, Knight Kenobi.” She answered, and gave him a polite smile, though her face quickly fell back to a frown. “Vos should be here soon.”

Obi-Wan glanced at Anakin, who had looked up at the appearance of the diminutive Jedi. “Anakin, this is Knight Prialla. She left Coruscant not long before you arrived.”

“Good to meet you.” Anakin said, flashing an awkward smile. 

“Why so glum?” Kenbobi asked after a moment, trying to clear the uncomfortable air forming between them.

“Last minute reassignment.” She huffed. “Don’t worry, I’ll do my best on the investigation, but I was really expecting to be here for the battle.”

Obi-Wan and Anakin exchanged glances.

“You want to fight in the coming war?” Kenobi asked.

“Yeah, of course.” Prialla answered, looking up, eyes wide. “That’s what the Jedi are supposed to do, right? Defeat evil and protect the innocent.”

Obi-Wan pursed his lips, surprised. “War is not something a Jedi should seek out, and I say that having fought in two of them.”

“And one of those was against the Trade Federation.” Prialla replied, gaze determined and unwavering. “They need to be stopped, Knight Kenobi, and you of all people should know that after they made you starve and killed Master Jinn.” 

Obi-Wan frowned. He was about to reply,  snappish and cutting response on his lips, when Vos arrived.

“Obi-Wan!” He smiled as he pulled out his chair. “It’s been years, how are you?”

Looking at the man, Obi-Wan wasn’t quite sure he felt as happy to see him. Whether Vos was working for the Council or not, that didn’t change the fact that he’d abandoned his Padawan before she was ready.

“I’m well, Vos. We were just talking about the coming war.”

At that, Vos barked a laugh. “Well, if you’re hoping to talk us out of it, you’re arguing in the wrong corner. It’s the Council’s decision.”

Obi-Wan blinked at that. “I didn’t know the Indinoor Temple had its own Council.”

“Well, at the moment we only have a few Jedi Masters in the whole temple, so not all the seats are filled.” Prialla answered. “But it won’t be long until more of our Knights achieve the rank of Master.”

“I see.” Obi-Wan thought for a moment. “And who decides when a Knight is ready to become a Master?”

“Well, the Council, of course.” Prialla answered.

“Which until recently was composed entirely of Dooku.” Obi-Wan prodded. “So everyone on the Council was appointed by him as well.”

“And Master Narec!” Prialla frowned, annoyed. “He’s been here since the start.”

“I see.” Obi-Wan replied. “So you’re telling me that the Temple is going to war entirely on the word of Count Dooku and his sock puppet.”

There was the sound of a scraping chair as Prialla shot to her feet, eyes glittering with fury. At her diminutive height, even standing over a seated Obi-Wan her eyes were only a little above his. “Master Narec is a greater Jedi than you ever will be!” She hissed. “And if you like, I can show you what he’s taught me.”

It took Obi-Wan half a moment to realise he was being challenged to a duel.

“Prialla.” Vos suddenly spoke up, and she turned to him. “That’s enough.”

“But he said-”

“I heard what he said.” Vos agreed. “And Obi-Wan is going to apologise, because he was out of line.” He turned his head to meet Obi-Wan’s gaze. “Right?”

“Yes, of course.” Obi-Wan lowered his gaze. “I spoke ill of Master Narec, when I shouldn’t have. I apologise”

“I think we’re all just a little hot under the collar.” Vos murmured. “Right, Pri?”

“...I’m not the one you should apologise to.” She stared at Obi-Wan for a few moments longer, before saying. “You’re right, Vos. I think I need to cool off.” She snatched up her tray and left, stalking away with hurried footsteps out of the mess hall.

After she was gone, Vos looked at Obi-Wan, scowling. “What in the blazes was that, Kenobi?”

Obi-Wan looked at Vos with remorse. “I overstepped. It’s just I cannot fathom why are the Jedi around here so loyal to Dooku and Narec? The man is an autocrat and a despot, and Narec seems to back his every decision unquestioningly.”

Vos squinted at him, like he couldn’t believe the question. “Because they’re heroes, Kenobi.”

It was such a blunt answer that it took Obi-Wan completely by surprise. “Really?”

“Of course!” Quinlan laughed at the shocked expression on his old friend’s face. “It’s a classic heroic narrative; the one good man trapped in a corrupt institution, Dooku turned his back on the corruption and decadence of the Core to come and fight for the people of the Outer Rim, peeling back the syndicates and megacorps one star system at a time.”

“Or to put another way, he turned his back on the Jedi Order and the rule of law to become a petty warlord ruling over a feudal state!”

“Well, that’s certainly a way to phrase it, but no one is telling that story to the Outer Rim.” Vos shook his head, bemused.

“It’s all over the holonet!” Kenobi replied, and Anakin nodded in agreement.

“It’s all over my newsfeed, and I’m sick of hearing about it,” his Padawan muttered.

“You think the people of the Outer Rim pay attention to what’s coming out of the Core? They hate the Core. The Feed has way more reach, and a lot more people in the Rim are using it, and Dooku dominates the Feed.”

Now Obi-Wan felt confused. “What, the rumored Shadowfeed?” As he asked it, Anakin was already typing something on his holocom.

“Looks like it’s an alternative to the Holonet.” Anakin murmured. “They’ve got news, weather, public astrogation charts, search engines, everything. Even their own social media!”

“Does the Jedi Council even know this exists?” Obi-Wan asked, disbelieving. He turned to look at Quinlan. “Why didn’t you report this?”

“Why would I?” Vos barked out a laugh. “I don’t work for them anymore.”

Obi-Wan froze in place. For a moment, he couldn’t tell if this was Vos maintaining cover, or if he really no longer saw himself as a Coruscant Jedi.

“Well, it looks like I’ve given you a lot to chew on,” Quinlan said, standing up. “I’m going to go see if Prialla has cooled off. Will you be ready to head to Mandalore in an hour?”

“Yes.” Kenobi answered, hesitantly.

“Well, see you on the landing pad.” Vos turned and strode away.

Obi-Wan watched the man leave, feeling surprisingly nervous all of a sudden. What in the blazes was this Galaxy coming to?

New Vegas Steppe 04

The bulk of the Khans were still packing their things, when I departed for the Followers’ Clinic with the rest of the injured. There were around thirty of us, sporting a mix of injuries that required further surgery. A stimpak could heal a broken bone, but if it wasn’t set correctly first then it could result in permanent disability. Spinal injuries in particular required a lot of caution before being treated with a stimpak, or any injury were fragments of bone, bullets, or other matter might linger in the wound. These stimpaks really were miraculous, and I was eager to learn more about them.

All the tribe’s horses had run away during the battle, so those of us in a fit state to walk did so. The few of us who couldn’t carry ourselves were laying or seated in horse drawn carriages, which looked like they were repurposed from cutting apart old vehicles. I personally didn’t know much of anything about mechanics, but I supposed that as long as the metal springs were relatively intact, there was no reason not to take advantage of the vehicle’s suspension.

I found myself walking near the centre of the formation, surrounded by a group of burly, filthy men. Almost all the surviving Khans were the tribe's warriors, with the dead women and children being buried on site by teams of NCR. They didn’t just want to remove the Khans from Bitter Springs, evidently they intended to repurpose it for their own strategic ends. The Khan warriors glared at the NCR with a kind of suppressed, exhausted hatred. I could tell this wasn’t over. Whatever economic incentives might be offered in the future, the Khans would never forgive the NCR for this.

Obviously traveling to New Vegas on foot wasn’t exactly ideal, but it did give me time to talk and learn from the Followers who were walking with us. Word had gotten around that my brains had been scrambled, and all my memories were gone, so no one seemed to mind my probing questions.

“I heard that you’re an anthropologist?” I asked, sideling up to a fellow named Ezekiel. 

He was a short man, actually an inch or two shorter than me, and a good half a head smaller than the bulk of the Khans. He was quite thin, but like everyone I’d seen in this new world, he had calloused hands that were well used to hardship. The pair of prescription glasses he peered at me through might have looked nerdy if it wasn’t for his sun darkened skin and the sidearm he carried.

“Yes.” He finally said, like he was waiting for something. “I’m also trained in first aid. When the NCR contracted the Followers to provide first aid for their operation, I was qualified, though it really wasn’t my specialty.” 

I nodded at that, giving him an interested smile, which for some reason made him break eye contact. He must have felt like I was being condescending, so I pressed, “Is it alright if I ask you some things?”

“U-uh, go ahead.” He said, glancing briefly at me then jerking his gaze forward to watch the road ahead. 

“If the US Federal government collapsed during the great War, how did the California State government survive?”

His eyebrows shut up, and he turned to look at me, blinking.

“I’m sorry if it’s a dumb question.”

“No, it’s not a dumb question.” He replied, his gaze falling down before he jerked it straight and tore his gaze away to look ahead. “I mean, that is to say… uh. I’m surprised you knew there was a California State government. Very few people know anything about the functioning of Pre-War governance. How did you know that?”

“...I don’t know.” It was an easy excuse to use. I had already been diagnosed with amnesia, so it was easy to just plead ignorance. “Somehow it’s just in there.”

“I see. That’s very interesting.” He pushed up his glasses. “That is to say, there is no connection between the New California Republic, and the former State of California. The state government was destroyed alongside the federal government.”

“Then where does the NCR come from?”

“The same Vault that your people, the Khans came from.”

“What’s a Vault?”

“Uh… a very large, pre-war underground shelter built to host a population of up to 1000 people for a duration of at least fifty years, until the bulk of the radiation had cleared.” He then added, “Your people, the Khans, come from the same Vault as the people of Shady Sands.”

One of the nearby Khans spat at the name.

Ezekiel ignored him and continued. “Shady Sands is the current capital of the NCR, and though its founding tribe has long since been outnumbered by newcomers, you can still see that original ethnicity in their members. Major Bullah is an example, you’ve met him. Much of the NCR’s ruling class share that background.”

“How did two different tribes come out of the same vault?”

“At least four tribes we know of for sure came from Vault 15.” Ezekiel answered. “We’re not sure why, but it seems like Vault 15 was dangerously overpopulated, and due to a serious oversight, selected from four groups of roughly equal size with radically different belief systems. According to my research, the original four groups of Vault 15 were a gnostic cult, a group of pre-war foreigners called Sikhs, a group of militant atheists interested in the elimination of all religion, and a collection of social radicals formed around a vague spiritual movement, called, ‘the Hippies’.”

“...It sounds like whoever was in charge of screening the Vault’s applications was trying to start a civil war.”

“You wouldn’t be the first person to suspect that.” Ezekiel said. “Some of the Vaults seem to have worked perfectly and just as intended, while others were built with major defects and obvious oversights. It’s a topic that many Followers debate.” 

“So… I’m guessing the Sikhs went on to form Shady Sands and the NCR. Who are the Khans descended from?”

“The Hippies.”

Oof. Gross. “What about the other groups?”

He pushed the glasses up his nose. “We have no first hand accounts of exactly what happened inside Vault 15, but from what we gather, there were multiple phases of civil conflict. The first group exiled from the Vault were the congregation of a preacher named Jonathon Faust. He seems to have doubled down on the gnostic theology, portraying god as a jailor, and the Serpent from the Garden of Eden as a liberator and source of wisdom. About two hundred of them left or were exiled from the Vault together, and formed their own settlement South of Lost Hills, but they picked a fight with the Brotherhood of Steel, and were forced out of California into the Mojave.” At my questioning look, he quickly added, “The Brotherhood are another tribe, they worship technology and are very well armed.”

“I see. So the Vipers are descended from a pre-war cult?”

“Yes, but I don’t think they bear much resemblance to their original beliefs.”

“And what about the Militant Atheists?”

“They became the Jackals, the second group exiled from the vault.” Ezekiel sighed. “Unfortunately, I can’t tell you much about them. They’re the most hostile to outsiders, of any of the four tribes from Vault 15. They’ve been known to practice cannibalism, and file their teeth to points. I was never able to interview one of them.”

I cringed at the idea. “And how did they leave California?”

“That was the work of your people.” Ezekiel said, sounding regretful. “The Jackals were defeated in a war by the Khans, and all in all, are probably close to extinction by this point.”

“Good riddance!” A Khan called out, and I looked across to see that all the nearby Khans were listening in. “Got what they deserved. Coyotes are as bad as Fiends.”

Another guy snorted. “The Fiends are our customers.”

“Who are the Fiends?” I asked.

“Another tribe.” The Khan who had been listening in commented. “Basically animals. They’re all twitchy chem addicts. They kill and rob for caps.”

“Which they then spend on our chems.” Another Khan pointed out. “It’s a nice circle.”

Someone called from the back, “Guess that makes them better than Coyotes!” That drew a few chuckles from the group.

Oh, Verdammtes! No wonder the NCR were so determined to root us out. We weren’t just raiding and attacking them, but incentivising others to do so on our behalf as well!

Of course Being X would do this to me! 

Whatever! It wasn’t my problem! As soon as I had received the surgery from the Followers, I was leaving. I already had Papa Khan's permission so there was nothing to keep me here.

“My next question, why are bottle caps used as currency?”

One of the Khans opened his mouth to answer, then stopped. He looked at the other Khans, who all looked like they didn’t know either. As one we all looked to Ezekiel.

Ezekiel wilted under our collective gaze, scratching the back of his head. “Well, where to start? The first thing to understand is that every civilisation has developed currency in some form. It’s just useful to have a tradegood that won’t lose value, and can be transported in large quantities. Even mesolithic societies have been proven to trade with sea shells.”

“Yeah, but why caps?” A Khan insisted.

Ezekiel coughed. “I’m just making the point that if it wasn’t going to be caps, it was going to be something else. Now, as for caps in particular, they’re small, easily counted, easily transported and they’re made from aluminum so they don’t rust or rot. No one makes new aluminium or bottle caps anymore, so there’s a roughly fixed amount out there; all the features of a good currency. In particular in California, merchants from a large settlement called the Hub agreed to exchange water for caps at a fixed rate, which created a demand for caps and made them the de facto currency for the region until it was briefly replaced by the NCR Dollar, which could be exchanged for gold. Then in the NCR-Brotherhood War, the Brotherhood of Steel was able to capture their gold reserves, which caused the value of the currency to plummet, so a lot of people returned to the water backed currency of caps, particularly here in the east.”

Alright, so bottlecaps. It was in many ways a strange notion, but it also explained why I had a pocket full of them when I first woke up. What a shame I threw them away before I knew their value. That did raise a question, though. Just who were the NCR really to be creating an official currency and supplant the accepted one?

“How large is the NCR exactly?”

“Their latest census had them at a population of a million.” Ezekiel answered. “If true, that would make them far and away the largest power in the wasteland.”

So why exactly were the Khans trying to wage war on them?! I wanted to shout. Did a tribe of four hundred men seriously believe they could resist the might of a nation of more than a million?!

When I glanced back to see the other Khans’ reaction to this information, they had all gone quiet. Instead of curious or joking, they just looked sullen and resentful towards Ezekiel. Clearly they had no love for the bearer of bad news.

I turned to Ezekiel, then stepped in a little closer to ask him in a low voice. “Papa mentioned that the NCR massacred the Khans in the past?”

He hesitated. “Sort of. The previous two massacres were carried out by itinerant heros.” At my confused look he added, “Basically, both the Vault Dweller and the Chosen One were famous mercenaries who accrued a good reputation for their charitable work. Both were hired by the Tandi family, leading to the 2161 and 2241 massacres.”

…Was he seriously trying to suggest that in both cases a single individual was able to kill an entire tribe in the hundreds? No, definitely not. It must be that these were the leaders of a mercenary company, whose deeds had been mythologised. Although, 2241 was only thirty years ago. It was surprising that such an exaggerated reputation could build up so quickly. 

“What’s going on, Cyclops?” One the Khans called out, a woman with her arm in a sling. “You into that stringy punk or something?”

That drew a bunch of shouts and hollers from the pack.

Ezekiel looked embarrassed and I decided it was best to leave things there for now. I didn’t want the rest of the tribe to start bullying our doctor, so I gave him a smile to help understand I wasn’t embarrassed from associating with him, and backed away to join the rest of the Khans.

-----

For the rest of the journey, I was careful about how much time I spent with Ezekiel. I definitely still wanted to talk to him, he was the only historian I was likely to meet any time soon, but I only really got a chance to speak with him when we happened to pass by each other. 

With these brief conversations, I was able to put together a better understanding of the region and its situation. The short version is that the NCR were expanding in all directions simultaneously, pushing south into the Baja Peninsula, north into Oregon, and east into the Mojave all at once. Though it was undoubtedly the greatest nation in the Wasteland, with its only feasible rival being a luddite tribe to the East called Caesar’s Legion, into the Mojave the NCR were operating at the end of a long and overburdened supply chain. Just last year they’d very nearly lost the Hoover Dam to the luddites! 

It was a level of overreaching and incompetence that I found somewhat of a relief to learn about. If the NCR didn’t have the cooperation of the current master of New Vegas, they almost certainly wouldn’t be able to exert nearly as much influence over the Mojave. The current ruler of New Vegas was someone claiming to be Robert Edward House, a pre-war billionaire. Given that no one had ever met him in person and he operated his business entirely through a robot army, he was probably actually long dead. The entity claiming to be Mr House was probably some kind of AI based on his personality.

Either way, he was yet another power that was hostile to the Khans. Apparently we used to rule the strip ourselves based out of the old casino, Caesar’s Palace, no relation. We were forced out by House’s robots and a coalition of other tribes. The Followers had set up their operations inside a place called Mormon Fort, and apparently we used to be pretty good friends, though they were currently upset at us for taking the knowledge they shared with us and using it to manufacture chems.

Towards the end of the second day, I felt like I had really started to become firm friends with Ezekiel. His whole demeanor changed whenever we met. He’d smile, and talk energetically about the history of the postwar world and inquire about what I’d been up to during the day. Of course I encouraged him. There was little to no chance of me getting to enjoy similar conversations with the rest of my tribe.

“I admire your intelligence.” I told him plainly. “I’m enjoying talking with you.”

He seemed particularly pleased by such compliments.

-----

It took three days of travel before we arrived at the clinic. Normally it wouldn’t take so long, usually it could be done in two days, but many of us were walking injured. The Khans were nomads, well used to travelling on foot, so I’m sure if pressed and in better health they could have covered the distance much faster.

The Clinic itself was situated amidst the ruins of Las Vegas. The city proper was surrounded by a shoddily constructed wall, made of sheets of concrete rapidly propped up against a chain link fence. Apparently this barrier ran around the entirety of the city centre, with the outlying districts left largely to fend for themselves. That’s not to say East Side was entirely undefended. The NCR patrolled fairly regularly, and there were a number of caravan companies with their regional outposts nearby. 

Not too far from the clinic, just a mile or so up the road, was the Crimson Caravan’s walled compound and right across the street from that was a factory run by a group named the Gun Runners. Apparently they were the NCR military’s biggest supplier. They had factories back east that produced 9mm and 5.56 rifle rounds, which were by far the most abundant ammunition in the Mojave as a result. 

There were other caravans set up nearby as well, though none were nearly as big as the Crimson Caravan or as heavily defended. Cassidy Caravans, Happy Trails, Durable Dun and Griffin Wares among others all had refurbished some of the ruins of Old Vegas to trade goods hauled in from California. The Caravaners certainly weren’t happy to see us Khans around. They us with a stink eye that the tribe was happy to give right back.

The New Vegas Medical Clinic was apparently different compared to the other Followers outposts. It was specifically constructed as a profitable business for paying customers, to fund their charitable works elsewhere. Apparently the Followers built their entire organisation around a painfully shortsighted ideology of helping humanity in general, and so despite their impressive technical knowledge and strong internal structure, they were mostly quite poor and lacking in influence.

“If you moved entirely away from this wasteful ideology, you could be richer, more influential, and help more people. You have a valuable skill set, but by giving your services away you reduce the incentives for people to learn for themselves, while limiting the amount of people you can really help because you’re always running out of supplies. A well run business would result in a virtuous cycle of profits developing better products, those products would produce greater profits, and so on. More medicine for more people, and a better quality of life for you.”

None of the Followers I tried speaking to seemed at all receptive to the true value of the free market. If anything, they seemed passively hostile to me. It seemed that word had gotten around about my dispute with Dr Usanagi, and all the Followers treated me with what I came to realise was their business face. For non-members, the Followers spoke politely, formally, and kept very tight control of their emotions and expressions. Only a hint of their true feelings could be grasped from their eyes, and they mostly seemed to regard me with cold dislike.

Ezekiel was an exception. I don’t know if he was particularly interested in my ideas, but he was definitely excited to talk to me. He would often come by my tent whenever he was on his lunch break, bringing snacks with him. It also helped that he had access to the Follower’s library, and was more than willing to let me read some of their books.

Unfortunately, a lot of the records that had survived the apocalypse weren’t very impressive. For example, the only book left for Ezekiel to reference regarding pre-war Mongollians was called Pretty Pretty Horsies: A History of the Mongolian Empire. It seemed to have been written in an effort to get teenage girls interested in history, and I could recall facts about the Mongolians from my own memory that the book totally overlooked. Still, it was better than nothing.

This world really was in a sorry state of affairs.

“You know, if you like him, Papa might be happy to give him a chance.” One of the Khan women said to me. her name was Melbourne, I wasn’t sure why. She was here because her hand had been nearly destroyed by an NCR sniper. Though the Followers wouldn’t be able to fix all the nerve damage, they were able to reconstruct her hand to almost the state it had been in previously. 

Currently she was lounging in a deck chair next to me, while all the Khans hung out around a warm fire that we started in the yard using half a barrel with some holes in it as an embankment. Of course they didn’t have the courtesy to ask for permission before lighting it, but it was pleasant enough to gather around on the cold desert nights. They were all smoking as well, and despite myself I joined them. This tobacco addiction was harder to kick than I expected. The smell of the smoke was always just so unbearably tempting, particularly when paired with coffee or beer.

“I don’t think he’d do very well in the tribe.” I answered her, honestly. “Though his skills would be useful to have around.”

She blinked at me, then smirked. “Oh, that poor boy. You haven’t noticed yet?”

“Noticed what?”

“He likes you.”

One of the Khan men nodded, sagely. “You gotta stop leading him on, Cyclops.”

What did they mean by ‘leading him on?’ My English was getting better, but some of the phrases that didn’t have a literal meaning could confuse me. “My final surgery will be tomorrow. So you’ll have to give up on that name.”

“Well, what do you want us to call you instead?”

“What was my name before I was shot?” 

“You really don’t even remember that?” Melbourne said, disbelieving. “I’ve heard you talking with Ezekiel about all kinds of things I never even heard of, but you can’t remember your real name?”

“Exactly. Now please, what was my name?”

She stared at me for a few moments. “It’s like I don’t even know who you are anymore. Maggie, we called you Mags, because you always loaded the 9mm into Papa Khan’s magazines ever since you were nine.”

This tribe is awful. What the heck was a child of nine doing with live ammunition?! If I was just a little luckier, I might have been shot in the head sooner and woken up to my real memories a decade ago!

“Then just call me that.”

She shrugged. “Once you’ve been through a beatdown, you can choose your own name, anyway.”

“What is the beatdown?” I asked. “I know it’s some kind of initiation ritual.”

Melbourne raised an eyebrow. “Your boyfriend didn’t tell you about that? You want to be an adult with the tribe, then the tribe surrounds you and beats you. If you pass out, or cry out for them to stop before they’re done, then you fail.”

Oh, of course it was something that stupid. “What possible purpose could that achieve?”

“Keep out people who don’t really want it.” Melbourne answered. “To join the tribe, you gotta earn it. Every Khan knows that every other Khan can tough it out, even when things go bad.”

Thinking about it, I suppose the beatdown would do a lot to filter out people who only wanted to take advantage of the tribe’s resources. It allowed the tribe to expand its numbers by taking in outsiders, while ensuring those outsiders were at least somewhat committed. It also represented a degree of buy-in. Once you’ve been through the beatdown, you were less likely to leave the tribe because you had earned your place inside it.

“Well, I’m leaving the tribe anyway.”

Melbourne smirked at that.

“You think I’m not serious?”

“No, I think you mean it.” Melbourne shrugged. “But everyone says the same thing. They leave the tribe, thinking that they’ll be happier, but eventually you’ll realise the truth that I did. No one cares about Khans, but Khans. I’ve seen a dozen teens like you, run off to wander for a bit. Only one of them never came back, and it was because he got his skull caved in by a gang in Freeside.” 

I grimaced at that. There was probably a grain of truth in her words. If I travelled with gang colours people would obviously be as hostile to me as they were to the rest of the tribe. Once I left the hospital, I was going to have to get my hands on a change of clothes. The Khan Logo printed on the back of my vest would do me no favours.

“...Here.” Melbourne said, reaching over to her own bag. She unzipped it, and took out a small pistol with two magazines of 9mm rounds and offered them to me with one hand. “Don't worry, I keep it clean. If you’re going out by yourself, stay strapped.” 

It was an act of surprising generosity that I really hadn’t expected from a member of this miserable tribe.

-----

When the morning came around, I went in for my final surgery under Dr Usanagi’s knife. It took another day before she was finally willing to take the bandages off and I was able to get a look at my newly reconstructed eye.

“Why’s it blue?” I asked. It was really quite a striking shade of blue as well, almost turquoise. My other eye was a shade of faded green, almost brown, which I had assumed was my natural eye colour.

“Baby’s are often born with eyes of this shade that darken over time as they adjust to natural sunlight. Due to this eye being brand new, it’s reverted to the colour it was before the melanocytes in your eyes began producing melanin. It should darken over time, but adult eyes don’t adapt nearly as quickly as newborns. Your new eye will probably never be quite the same shade as the other.”

Ah, well. The effect was somewhat off-putting, but it was much better to have two working eyes then none at all. I was just about to leave when Dr Usanagi cleared her throat.

“Is there something else?” I asked her.

“As your Doctor, I have to recommend that you remain with your tribe.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“With your current impaired mental state, you would be extremely vulnerable going into the wasteland by yourself. I cannot in good conscience let you leave without at least warning you.”

Oh, she still believed I was a helpless invalid, even after everything I’d done. It was annoying, but at least she was acting as a doctor should.

“How did you learn about my plans?”

“Ezekiel has been very worried about you.”

Ah, I see. He was a good friend.

“Well, thank you, Doctor. I’ll take it under advisement.”

----

To avoid further awkwardness, I slipped out of the Clinic alone that night, and made my way alone to the bright lights of Freeside.

CoS 41

22 BBY

Obi-Wan hadn’t spoken to Duchess Satine in a long time. She hardly resembled the young woman from his memories, but he supposed she probably felt the same about him. Obi almost felt like his life Before Qui-Gon died was a different life altogether, lived by someone else that he hardly recognised. Other times, Obi-Wan still felt like he was the exact same young man, starving and confused in the swamps of Naboo, and not a day had passed. 

Was this how Yoda felt? Or Qui-Gon? The young looked to Obi-Wan for wisdom and guidance, and most of the time he felt like he had none to offer. He was just muddling through, making a mess of things as he went. That was why it was often Anakin who had to save him, the Chosen One with so much potential, while in contrast Obi-Wan felt stagnant. Was he really helping Anakin to reach his incredible potential? Or was he a weight strapped to his ankle?

Reaching out to the Senator for Mandalore secured Obi-Wan a meeting with the Duchess, which should help secure a few leads for the investigation. 

“So when do we go to see her?” Anakin asked, and Obi looked at his padawan. Did he really want to bring Anakin along to this, when it was already bound to be awkward at best, if not outright humiliating? Satine’s reaction to him yesterday showed that absence had clearly failed to make the heart grow fonder.

“I think we should aim to use our time more efficiently.” Obi-Wan said. “We’ll split up, and pursue different leads.”

Anakin smirked. “Master, if you want some alone time with a lady, I will have to inform Master Windu.”

Obi-Wan had to hide a wince at that. Obviously the boy was teasing, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t spread gossip if he wasn’t given a good reason not to.

“I was thinking that perhaps you could interview Senator Amidala.” Obi-Wan offered. “While I speak to the Mandalorians.”

Anakin immediately perked up at that. “To use our time efficiently.”

 Obi-Wan had to contain his own smile. “Yes, of course.”

Anakin hesitated for a moment. Then he said to Obi-Wan with a concerned look in his eyes. “Don’t let yourself get distracted though. These people almost killed a Senator, and we need to find them.”

Obi-Wan would have scoffed. Him? The one distracted? Anakin was the one who couldn’t hide his crush to save his own life! “Yes, of course. That goes for you as well. As much as you might enjoy catching up with the Senator, take your compad and be sure to take plenty of notes. Remember, if Mace asks us about the progress of the investigation, we will need something to show for ourselves.”

When Anakin left, Kenobi closed the door behind him, before taking out his own device. It took him a moment to look up the Mandalorian Senator’s office online, and he started to dial their number when he hesitated. With a sigh, he hit back and went to his list of personal contacts, before scrolling down to S, and finding Satine’s personal number, still right there.

Yes, officially he should be going through the proper channels for the investigation, but he was worried about how she could answer questions in an official capacity. Anything that she said could end up in public, making her reluctant to speak honestly about the people around her.

Maybe he should just call her privately.

Plus, he really hadn’t gotten a chance to speak with her at all for more than a decade.

In the end, he couldn’t quite bring himself to hit dial, so Instead he typed up a message to her. Is there a time and place to meet? We need to talk.

He put the device down and walked away from it, pacing back and forth for a few moments and getting his nerves back under control. You’re acting like a child. He told himself. You’re a Jedi Knight, investigating a crime. She probably barely thinks about you anymore than you thought about her.

Almost immediately Kenobi grimaced, because he often thought about Satine, and did so with a mix of regret and nostalgia. At the time, he’d already had a foot out of the Order. He was ready to leave, just hesitating on the threshold. All Satine would have had to do was ask, and he would have hung up his lightsaber.

Instead, she had become the Duchess of Mandalore, and Obi-Wan had gone back to Qui-Gon just long enough to see him get murdered.

His Holocom dinged with an incoming message, and Obi-Wan saw that Satine had responded. There was no date, just a time about an hour from now, and an address. Not giving himself time to think about it, Obi-Wan threw on his robe, and stepped outside to fight the Coruscant traffic. While his speeder was in the air, Obi-Wan slowly cued up in the lanes of traffic, focussing on his driving and keeping his mind from wandering as he carefully tried to release his feelings into the Force. Despite his best efforts, he found the worried knot in his stomach growing tighter and tighter as he came closer to the address.

He parked his car out front of a hotel, and was immediately invited inside by the droid chauffeur. Reception had been notified that he was coming, and a droid escorted Obi-Wan to the building’s top floor, where he could feel a Force Sensitive mind already waiting for him. Duchess Satine’s new Jedi protector no doubt, provided by the Indinoor Temple.

The woman who greeted him at the door had black hair, green eyes, and up close Obi-Wan realised she was younger than Anakin. The Indinoor Temple was awfully short staffed if a Padawan was all they could spare to protect the ruler of an entire sector. Then he noticed the durasteel Chain of Office around her neck, and he suddenly recalled that it signified she was a Knight.

He blinked at that, opening his mouth then closing it. She was far too young to be a Jedi Knight. In the Coruscant Temple they whispered that Dooku had raised his own daughter to the rank already, but Obi-Wan recalled nothing about some other prodigy. He raised his gaze from the ring on her chest to her face, and found her green eyes focussed on him with a cold, detached intensity that it took him a moment to place. Combat. He realised. Combat veterans had a gaze like that. 

What in the blazes were those maniacs up to out there? 

Coughing slightly to clear his throat, Obi-Wan stepped back and bowed, like he would to another Knight. It was awkward, given how young she was, but he wasn’t here to start a fight, just to talk to Satine.

After a long moment of silence, the young woman put her hands together and gave him a similar bow.

“I’m Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

“Jedi Knight Vai Victus.” She finally stepped aside, letting him through the door.

Obi-Wan walked down the hallways, feeling her stare boring a hole into the back of his neck as she followed behind him, before they arrived at the living room, where Satine was already reclining on a soft chair. She didn’t rise to greet him, but there was a steaming pot of tea on the table between them. She wasn’t dressed up in her usual ruling regalia, just wearing the robes without any of the jewelry or overwear. Despite the injuries she’d taken only a few days ago, the only hint that there was anything wrong was the faint blue glow coming from the centre of her pupils, which otherwise looked perfectly organic. Such subtle cybernetic work must have been very expensive…

“I’m glad to see you look well.” Obi-Wan said, and smiled at her. “Do you feel better?”

“I’m fine, Obi.” Satine replied. “Please, take a seat.”

Obi-Wan relaxed into the chair that was offered, while Vai hovered nearby, not overtly threatening, but not part of the conversation either. She never positioned herself in a place where she couldn’t immediately interpose herself between him and Satine.

“Would you like to sit with us?” He asked her.

“I’m fine, thank you.” Was her only answer.

“I promise you, I’m not likely to hurt the Duchess.”

Vai didn’t answer, she just continued watching him carefully.

“I hope you don’t think I’m behind the attack.” Obi-Wan said, bemused.

“If we did, I wouldn’t have invited you here.” Satine answered. “And we already have a pretty good idea about who’s responsible.”

“Someone from your own security team.” Obi-Wan suggested. “That bomb was planted while your vehicle was in the Senate Speeder Park.” It was an automated system, where speeders were stored by a mechanical conveyor that was inaccessible to the public. “Whoever planted the bomb would have needed your particular code, and given that your appearance in the Senate was unscheduled, would have needed to be close enough to take advantage of the opportunity.”

“Our thoughts exactly.” The Duchess nodded. “Until the leak is identified, I will not be staying with the Mandalorian embassy, nor will I be in contact with anyone from my security team.”

Obi-Wan agreed. “Well, I’ll need access to the Embassy if I’m to perform my investigation.”

Satine nodded, and handed him a code cylinder. As he looked at it, Obi-Wan became surprised as he realised this was her own personal device. This would give him access to her ships, her private computers, her messages, the embassy's network and probably a lot more besides. Looking at it in his hands, Obi-Wan felt relief at realizing she still trusted him so deeply.

He tucked the cylinder into his robe pocket. “In the hospital, you said you thought Grib Siv was behind this.” Obi-Wan said. “Do you still think that’s true?”

“Of course I do.” Satine scoffed. “They’ve been attacking us via proxy for years.”

“Why you, and not one of the other ORRA members?” Obi-Wan asked. 

“Because I’m the obvious point of vulnerability!” Satine replied, scowling. “I have no successor, and Mandalore is hardly stable at the best of times, and currently things are on the verge of disaster.”

Obi-Wan’s brow shot up, surprised. “What’s made Mandalore so unstable? Is resistance to the New Mandalorians growing?”

“Hardly growing when it’s the same as it was previously. We only ever ‘won’ the Mandalorian Civil War, in the sense that by the end none of the other clans felt strong enough to take power, and we were non threatening to the ones that remained. They accepted our rule over the planet, because they knew we wouldn’t be able to force our will onto the rest of the Sector. We don’t have a standing army, just a series of defence contracts with other clans, who after a few decades of peace, seem to be about ready to try another round of Civil War!” She sighed, glumly. “The government is wealthier than any of the Clans, but more unpopular than ever before, even among the New Mandalorians.”

Now that was surprising news to Obi-Wan. “I thought your economy was booming. What’s upsetting the New Mandalorians?”

“They want me to hold elections.” Satine replied.

“Well, what’s so wrong with that?”

“We can’t hold an election because no one will accept the outcome.” Satine answered. “Clan blood feuds are ancient, and feelings run deep. There’s no way someone will accept a government headed by a rival clan, because they know that if they had the chance, they would use such powers to persecute their rivals.”

“So what’s your plan?” Obi-Wan asked. “Just wait, and hope things change?”

“At the moment, I don’t see what else I can do.” Satine answered, sounding almost defeated.

Obi-Wan could see it was a terrible situation to be in for anyone. Knowing that if you didn’t do anything, everything you’d built would eventually burn down before you, but not seeing any way to save it. Any move she could make would only make the situation worse, so she was forced to sit still, watch, and wait, praying for someone or something else to save her.

“Have you considered creating an army for the New Mandalorians?”

Satine scowled at him, and he knew why. Pacifism was a principle that she strongly believed in, and she was ideologically opposed to standing armies. “The Hardliners will never accept it.” Satine replied. To Obi-Wan it had the ring of an excuse, but he didn’t say so aloud. “Perhaps if conflict does break out, I might be able to convince them to create a volunteer force.”

Far too little, far too late by the sounds of things.

He knew any further advice he had to offer would be unwelcome. Kenobi glanced over to Vai, who had an uncomfortable look on her face. Her mind was shielded, but she was also from the Indinoor Temple. She probably wasn’t happy with Satine spilling the ORRA’s secrets to him so candidly.

“Thank you for talking to me.” Obi-Wan said to her, standing up. “I’m going to head to the Mandalorian Embassy right away, and I’ll contact you once the assassin is in custody.”

“Please do, Obi.” She smiled at him, sadly. “It’s been good to see you again, despite the circumstances.”

Obi-Wan was escorted out by Vai, who closed the door behind him and locked it. It wasn’t quite his first interaction with someone from the Indinoor Temple, but he had the distinct impression that it didn’t go very well. As he walked to the lift he took out his holocom and called Anakin.

“Master?”

“I’ve just finished up here. Satine has granted me access to their embassy and its security systems.”

“Sounds promising.” Anakin shifted, slightly awkward. “Not much luck on my end.”

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. “Was the Senator uncooperative?” 

“She answered all my questions.” Anakin quickly replied.

“...But nothing else?” 

“...Yeah. Nothing else.” Anakin answered bitterly, looking down.

On the one hand, Obi-Wan could point out that the last time they spoke Anakin was nine and the princess was a fourteen year old in the middle of a war. On the other hand, Anakin was a young man coming to terms with the fact that his crush had almost no interest in him at all. 

“I’m sorry, Anakin.” Obi-Wan said. “Did you want me to come pick you up? Or did you want to meet me at the Mandalorian Embassy?”

“...I’ll meet you there.” Anakin decided after a long pause. “I think I’d like a moment to clear my head.”

“I understand. Take all the time you need.”

After hanging up, Obi-Wan walked to his speeder and jumped in to join the late morning traffic. He took a path straight to the embassy, and found his Padawan hadn’t arrived yet. The security was incredibly tight, but between his Jedi credentials, and the code cylinder given to him by Satine, the New Mandalorian guards let him through, though he got more than a few stink eyes. 

Things got tricky when Obi-Wan logged in and found himself looking at an unfamiliar operating system. He wasn’t computer illiterate, but it was hardly his area of expertise either. It took him a bit of searching to find who had access to Satine’s senatorial garage, then download the list. 

Only Satine’s personal aides and security would, and all of them had tags to show who entered and exited the Embassy. The only Mandalorians who had exited the embassy in the right time frame were travelling with Satine. Obi-Wan even reviewed the embassy’s security footage to confirm that no one had left unrecorded, and confirmed that a bomb check was performed when her speeder left the garage. 

Clearly the bomb was planted by someone in Satine’s personal retinue. No wonder she was hiding in a hotel room with her Padawan bodyguard. 

After copying all the files, Obi-Wan left the embassy to find his own Padawan waiting outside. 

“Find anything?” Anakin asked.

“I was able to narrow our list of suspects to her personal retinue.” 

“Do you have the data? Can I look?”

Obi-Wan handed Anakin his compad and hopped into the driver seat of the speeder. Anakin fell into the passenger seat, reading the files in silence as they drove to the embassy.

“This is odd.” Anakin said after a few minutes.

“What did you find?”

“Well, the embassy staff all have their own official mailing addresses. Their spam filters automatically clear every forty eight hours, but a woman named Vizbig cleared hers early, and she was the only one that did that.”

“Why’s that significant?” Obi-Wan asked.

“Well, she didn’t seem to realise that just because her spam filter is cleared, that doesn’t mean there’s not a record of the mail she received and accessed. The night before the bombing, Vizbig opened a spam email from a company based on Mandalore.”

It didn’t prove much. A company based on Mandalore was more likely to have found her email address than one from somewhere she’d never even been. “It does seem unusual.” Obi-Wan agreed. “But we still need hard evidence.”

Anakin put the compad down, clearly deep in thought.

“Something else on your mind?”

“...She asked about you.”

“Vizbig?” Obi-Wan turned to look at Anakin, bewildered.

“No, Padme.”

“Oh.” Obi-Wan looked back to the road. Was the boy feeling jealous because of that? Obi-Wan glanced over to see his Padawan’s gaze fixed ahead, trying to keep his face neutral, but obviously upset. 

It was lunch time now, and the airways were rapidly filling with other speeders as people hunted about for parking at their favourite restaurant or cafe, mixing with the delivery drivers to create a midday traffic jam. Obi-Wan sighed as his speeder came to a halt, and he was forced to come to terms with the fact that he could be stuck in this car for a long time to come.

“...Anakin, Satine and I didn’t get along at first.” Obi-Wan finally said. At the mention of the Duchess, Anakin turned in his seat, suddenly looking interested. “I didn’t get along with Master Qui-Gon very well, either, but Satine and I hated each other at first. We only came to think of each other fondly after… getting to understand each other. First we developed respect for eachother, then eventually admiration.”

“Then love?”

“...Yes, Anakin.” Obi-Wan sighed. “I was ready to leave the Order for her.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because she never asked me to.” Obi-Wan answered. “We’re getting off track. The point I’m making is that she won’t always look at you as she looks at you now. If you’re patient, and you give it time, you might one day find that you already have the respect and admiration of someone you never even considered before.”

Anakin considered for a long moment. Then he smirked. “So it’s okay to break the Jedi Code?”

Obi-Wan reached over to punch him in the shoulder. “You know what I mean. If you want to pursue a relationship outside the Order, you will have to leave the Order. But if that’s what you want, then… I’ll support you.”

“...Or I could just run off to join Dooku and his crazies.”

Obi-Wan barked a laugh. “Please. I’ll never live down the shame. How many children does he have now? A dozen?”

“Four.”

“Four!” Obi-Wan shook his head. “Disgraceful!” 

That got a chuckle from Anakin.

They flew the rest of the way to the Senate building in a more comfortable silence. Once the Senate Security recognised Obi-Wan’s credentials, they quickly gave him access to the security records they had. It took just a few minutes to confirm that someone had used Satine’s credentials to access the Senate garage. Whether they were stolen from her pocket or copied, Obi-Wan didn’t know, but a review of the footage from the Senate chamber showed Vizbig leaving by herself after whispering something to Satine.

“So it was definitely Vizbig.” Obi-Wan murmured. “We’ll put out a warrant for her arrest.”

“No need.” Anakin said, and turned around his compad to display a coroner’s report. “DNA test, and dental records confirm that Vizbig died in the blast.”

Obi-Wan blinked in shock. “...I guess she must have been a true believer.” Then he reconsidered. “Or perhaps she passed the card to someone else? She might not have known about the bomb.”

The two of them returned to the Mandalorian embassy, and searched Vizbig’s room. It was Anakin, who found a compartment hidden in the bottom of the dead Mandalorian’s wardrobe. Inside they found a blaster, and an empty metal box. After getting the box tested, they confirmed that traces of explosives were inside the box.

“They’ve planned this for a long time.” Obi-Wan murmured. “She’s been working with Satine for three years.”

“The mail she got from Mandalore must have been a signal.” Anakin said.

Obi-Wan nodded as he considered. “It seems like Senator Padme was wrong about the Trade Federation’s involvement.”

“We haven’t proven that there’s no connection.”

“No, but the evidence we do have points to internal Mandalorian affairs.”

Thinking back, Obi-Wan supposed that Padme’s bodyguard had realised the explosion was going to go off when she saw it in Vizbig’s mind.

“Why didn’t Knight Prialla tell us who the bomber was, then?” Obi-Wan pondered.

“...Probably because she doesn’t trust us. The Indinoor Temple thinks we’re all Sith puppets.” 

Obi-Wan sighed, shaking his head. It really was a shame that Dooku had led so many young Jedi astray, when his idea of a Temple localised to the struggling Outer Rim had been so promising. Instead, Dooku had poured all his efforts into crafting some kind of feudal empire, using a bizarre conspiracy theory about a Sith Cult operating on Coruscant that secretly controlled the Jedi Council.

“I’ll inform Satine of our findings, then I’ll put together a report for the Jedi Council.” Obi-Wan said. “While I’m doing that, why don’t you work on tracing the origins of that email?”

After dropping Anakin off at the Temple, Obi-Wan returned to the hotel Satine was hiding in. Knight Vai gave him the same cold response the second time, and he did his best to ignore her.

“Vizbig?” Satine looked shocked. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” 

“But she’s not even from a clan!” Satine insisted. “We did a background check on her. Both her parents were open supporters of the New Mandalorian movement. The firm that sent her was recommended to me by my own Prime Minister!”

Obi-Wan stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I see. How long have you been using this firm for?”

“Three years.”

“...Satine, I’m going to have to recommend that you don’t return to Mandalore.” Obi-Wan said. He glanced at Knight Vai. “Would the New Temple be able to offer her safety?”

“Of course.” She answered.

“Are you saying that Pre-Vizla is responsible?” Satine demanded.

“I haven’t confirmed that, but the timing is concerning.” Obi-Wan said. “I’ll be going to Mandalore next. What was the name of that company?”

“Concordia Services.”

Obi-Wan added that to his notes on his compad.

After returning to the Temple, Obi-Wan met up with Anakin. The two of them walked together towards Master Yoad’s private Chambers. “Were you able to trace that mailing address?”

“Yes. It comes from a company called-”

“Concordia Services?”

“That’s right.” Annakin frowned. “What are you thinking?”

“I think we need to go to Concordia.” 

Yoda was waiting for Obi-Wan inside his quarters, with Mace Windu there as well. Both of them bore grim expressions, like they were expecting Obi-Wan was about to deliver some terrible news.

“Our assassin died in the blast, evidently a true believer.” Obi-Wan said as handed the compad to Master Windu, who began reading. “She was in place for three years before attempting her attack. We believe she received the signal from a company called Concordia Services. Because Satine’s Prime Minister may also be implicated, I’ve recommended to her that she seek shelter with the Indinoor Temple.”

At the name the two of them looked at eachother.

“This bears all the signs of a Mandalorian Insurrectionist movement.” Windu remarked.

Both Anakin and Obi-Wan nodded in agreement.

“But I find the timing of this attack suspiscious. Trade Federation patrol ships are banned from Alliance space, and almost immediately after that the signal for this attack is sent. If the Trade Federation’s ships are kept from travelling the Hydian and the Perlemian Hyperlanes, they will be crippled.”

“If Mandalore descends into renewed Civil War, it could destabilise the O.R.R.A.” Obi-Wan added. “I see your point, but so far there’s no evidence of Trade Federation involvement.”

“Good. The last thing this Galaxy needs is a war between the Trade Federation and Dooku’s Alliance.” Windu frowned. “If Indinoor Jedi investigate this, and finds such a connection, it will mean a major war between two powers within the Republic.

“And we know they’ve already fabricated evidence against us.” Obi-Wan pointed out, which got a disgruntled look from Mace. Dooku’s baseless accusations against the Jedi Council had not gone over well. “Who’s to say they won’t do it again if they feel it’s in their interest?”

“A delicate balance.” Yoda rumpled. “Persuade Dooku to relent, we must. Prevent Mandalorian Civil War, we must.”

“But we can’t just violate their jursdiction.” Obi-Wan pointed out. “The last thing we want is them upsetting the other Force Orders again.”

“Obi-Wan, you have strong connections with the Duchess.” Mace Windu mused. “You could travel to Indinoor with the Duchess, and persuade Dooku to allow you and Anakin to join the investigation on Mandalore? He may look fondly on you because of your connection to Qui-Gon Jinn. The attack was here on Coruscant, so we have every reason to see this through. If you’re there, you can keep the Indinoor Temple honest.”

“Very well.” Obi-Wan bowed. “Anakin and I will get ready right away.”

They both bowed and walked out of the room together. Once the door closed behind them, Anakin finally spoke up. “Master?”

“Yes?”

“What do we do if we uncover a connection to the Trade Federation?” Anakin asked.

“...Then we better hope that Dooku will see reason.”

The dubious look Anakin sent him was matched by Obi-Wan’s own.

----

After Anakin finished packing his things, he went down to the senate garage and checked out a speeder. The sun had long set, and he knew the route to where he was going very well. A large penthouse apartment sat at the top of a skyrise, a veritable palace in the sky. Even at this late hour its many gardens, halls and garages were brightly lit. Anakin parked his speeder in the spot reserved for him, and entered inside. The walls were decorated with fine artefacts from Millennia past, and there was a smell of spices and incense in the air.

Stepping into the main living room, Anakin found one of the maids using a handheld appliance to suck dust from the top of the tv cabinet.

“You know mum, any droid could do that?”

Schmi jumped, turning to see Anakin. She broke into a smile at the sight of her son. “Well I have to do something around here. Besides, he says he likes the human touch.” She gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheeks.

“I’m just stopping by to let you know. I’ll be heading to the Outer Rim soon, so you probably won’t see me for a few weeks.”

“Oh, what for?”

“An investigation has led us out there.” He didn’t want her to worry, so he added, “Nothing too serious. We’re just going to the Temple on Indinoor.”

“Well, please be careful.”

“I will mum.”

“And listen to Obi-Wan! He’s there to keep you out of trouble.”

Just then the door from the garage opened, and Supreme Chancellor Palpatine entered the room. He was still wearing his formal robes, but he was already undoing a zip concealed beneath his collar. “Oh, young Skywalker! I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I just dropped by to visit my mother.”

“Of course, it’s no problem at all.” He smiled at the boy. “You know you’re welcome here at any time.”

“Thank you. But I was just about to leave.”

“Are you sure?” Palpatine came closer. “I’ve asked your mother to keep the kitchen warm for me, just in case of nights like this. I was about to sit down for dinner. If you like, you and your mother can join me.” He looked over to his maid. “Schmee, what have you prepared for us tonight?”

“Ah, well, you said you were interested to try something Tattooinian, so I’ve put together a seasoned slow roasted bantha shoulder, with some nice sweet fruits and sauces.”

“Oh, how very rich.” Palpatine smiled. “Come, sit, eat with us. I heard you were running around the Senate building today? Are you involved in the bombing investigation?”

“A bombing?” Schmi gasped.

Anakin sighed, realising that now he would have to stay for dinner. Ah well, it wasn’t so bad. He might end up staying up a little longer that night, and maybe Obi-Wan lecture him for being so tired come the morning, but he owed it to his mother, if not the Chancellor as well. After all, it was Palpatine’s generosity that got Schmi out of slavery, and a job on Coruscant.

He walked together with the two of them towards the kitchen, feeling the tension leave his body, as Chancellor Palpatine rested a warm hand on his shoulder, eyes gleaming.

Act 2: The Passage of Time

7 Years Later

22 BBY

The six Lucrehulks were ripped from hyperspace without any hint of a warning. On the bridge of the TDF Conference Call, Captain Bwell was so shocked at the speed of it that he dropped his caf stim. He gaped in astonishment out the viewscreen of his ship at the sudden appearance of real space. 

“What was that?!” He demanded, then grimaced, looking down where his hot beverage had stained the hem of his robes. Dismissing the spill from his mind, he turned to his helmsman, who looked as bewildered as he did. This early in the morning the two of them were the only ones on the bridge. The only reason Bwell himself had been up here was a fleeting desire to watch hyperspace with a hot drink in hand.

“Sir, we’ve hit a gravity well!” The Neimoidian technician shouted from his station.

Bwell blinked in bewilderment, unable to believe it. “We’re still on the Hydian! The whole point of a hyperlane is there are no gravity wells! Did we drift off course?”

The helmsman scrambled, opening the navicomputer and double checking his information. “No, sir. We’re still on the Hydian. The nearest star is light years away.”

“Then what gravity well did we hit?” Bwell demanded. He hurried over to the man’s station, leaving his now empty cup behind and leaning over the technicians shoulder. Who could only shrug in confusion.

“It’s not just us, sir. The entire fleet got pulled out as well.” The technician continued to check his sensors, until finally he said. “Here, sir. We’ve got… something.”

“Something? What something?”

“I don’t know.” He pushed a few more buttons, and brought the image up as a hologram. “It appears to be a ship, sir.”

Captain Bwell regarded the projected ship with confusion. It was a make and model he didn’t recognise at all, with an unusual shape. It had wings and thrusters, attached to a large blocky body, but what really made it strange was the four massive spheres constructed into its surface. It was painted black, and appeared to be unarmed.

“Did it get grabbed as well?”

“Uh… sir, it appears to be the source of the gravity well.” The technician answered. 

“What?” Bwell gaped. His mind raced, trying to understand what was happening. Eventually, he gave up. “Call up the rest of the bridge crew. I know it’s the night cycle, but call them up! I’ll contact the Commodore.”

“Yes sir.” The man replied, fingers flying across his terminal as he got to work.

Before he called his superior, Captain Bwell hurried to his personal quarters to replace his uniform. A report of an unkempt appearance on his record was the kind of thing that might get him passed over for promotion. He just stepped into his room and slipped off his robes, when he heard a loud metallic clang reverberating through the ship’s hull. It was so loud it left his ears ringing, and he already felt a headache coming on. The Captain’s Quarters were just a few corridors from the bridge, so he quickly swapped to his new uniform and sprinted back.

“What was that noise?” He demanded, and was glad to see a few more Nemoidians at their stations than just the technician. 

“We’re being boarded!” The technician pointed directly up. “A ship has attached itself directly to the hull above us!”

With a jolt that made his heart thud in his chest, Captain Bwell realised what was happening. This was an ambush. He’d never seen combat in his life, and now he was faced with an ambush. That ship out there was somehow able to create its own Gravity Well, and it had been used to drag them out of Hyperspace. Now they were being boarded.

Gaping, lips flapping, Captain Bwell rushed over to the holocom. “Commodore! Commodore, can you hear me?!” He demanded. 

The image projected on screen wasn’t the escort group’s commander, but an imposing figure covered head to toe in thick armour painted steel grey and blue. They were humanoid, and around their neck they had a black iron chain. In their hands they carried a short barreled blaster, with an underslung laserlight. 

A cold, professional voice that wasn’t quite perfect in basic said, “I am Commander Allarate. You’re ordered to power down, or you will be boarded.”

His throat suddenly feeling dry, Captain Bwell tried to think of something to say. 

“Sir!” The technician shouted. “Sir, they’re preparing to cut open the bridge! We’ll be spaced!” He wasn’t looking at the sensors as he said that, he was pointing with his hand to the ship’s front observation deck, where a number of similar armoured figures were using magnetic boots to surround the window. They were preparing what looked like cutting tools, and arraying themselves in place to prepare for a breach.

“W-wait!” Bwell gasped out. “Wait! Why are you doing this? This is the Hydian Way, you have no right to do this!”

Something about Allarate’s voice suggested dark amusement. “The Trade Federation Patrol Fleet has been barred from the Serenno Sector. This section of the Hydian runs through that territory. You're violating our sovereign territory, so I’m impounding your vessels.” 

 “You can’t just declare a piece of the Hydian as your own!” Bwell spat, bristling at the audacity of it.

“We’ll let the courts decide that one.” Commander Allarate replied. “Right now, you need to decide if you’ll surrender or be spaced.”

“Sir!” The technician shouted. “Sir, we need orders! I can deploy the vulture droids to the ship’s exterior, but I need your permission!” It was a worthless effort. All it would take is a single cut, and all of them would be dead men.

“Just wait until the Commodore hears about this!” Bwell snarled. 

Now Allarate actually chuckled. “Who’s comm do you think you called?” He moved a few steps over, until he was standing above a kneeling Nemoidian. Bwell experienced another shock as he recognised the Commodore, his command hat missing, and his robes torn open, as if someone ripped them apart to find any concealed weapons or comm devices. “Hey, Commodore. Got anything to say to Captain Bwell here before he does something stupid?”

“Bwell…” The Commodore muttered. “They’ve already got the fleet, man. You’re the last. Just surrender. You can say it was my order, and it won’t go into your performance review.”

“You hear that Bwell? Commodore is going to take the fall for you, won’t even affect your annual bonus.” The sneer in the man’s voice was palpable. “So what will it be, Bwell? You wanna go home with your pension intact? Or you wanna see what the vacuum feels like?”

The prideful part of Bwell’s mind blazed, furious that these humans would dare to try something like this to him, before the cold fear churning in his belly smothered the heat. He lowered his head, mind turning to his wife, and the time he would spend with her when he got back to Neimoidia. Whatever he thought of Serenno’s bizarre claim to owning a piece of a Great Hyperspace Lane, the company just wasn’t worth his life.

“Stand down.” He mumbled, before swallowing the lump from his throat and raising his voice to say again. “Stand down everyone!”

Allarate pressed a button on his comm device, and the team outside viewport ceased their preparations. “Wise decision, voidkin.”

-----

“Would the Senator for Naboo explain why the Chomel Sector continues to remain a member of an anti-democratic separatist movement?” Floating above the Senate chamber, the representative of Neimoidia bellowed so loudly that the entire chamber could hear, even over the dim murmuring of thousands of side conversations. “By giving a veneer of legitimacy to these traitors, the Senator for Naboo has allowed dangerous radicalism to fester in this very Senate!”

Vice Chancellor Mass Ameda stood up, and turned his horned head to look down to where Padme sat. “The Senator for Naboo has the floor. Thirty seconds to respond.”

Standing up, and ignoring the feeling of her stomach moving to her heels as her pod rushed upwards to float level with the Nemoidian. “The Senator for Nemoidia’s assertions are baseless. The Outer Rim Reform Alliance has always pursued a policy of decentralisation, perfectly in keeping with our Republic’s founding principles. Our policy proposals have always been reasonable, and moderate.”

“The Senator for the Trade Federation has a question for the Senator from Naboo.”

Mass Ameda pressed a button, and the pod for Nemoidia was replaced with an almost identical pod, though the questioner was a different individual. “Does the Senator for Naboo agree that Orra’s policy proposals have been demonstrated to promote privateering?”

“The Senator for Naboo has the floor. Thirty seconds to respond.”

“The Reform Alliance has done more to combat piracy and privateering in the last ten years than this Senate has in centuries.” Padme answered smoothly.

“The Senator for Axxila has a question.”

And on, and on it went. The senate session dragged on for hours, most questions aimed at Padme herself, or the Senator for Mandalore. It wasn’t just the Trade Federation and its cronies that were demanding to know why Serenno impounded their ships, but many Core Worlds as well. The Trade Federation escort ships were meant to ensure the hyperlanes remained open for goods to travel out of the Corporate Sector to the Core, and now those consumers were afraid of delays, supply shortages, and price hikes. Padme’s pod rose up and down so much that she started to feel dizzy as the hours wore on. 

After just three years in the Senate, Padme Amidala almost wished that she’d stayed a Queen. It would have been easy to do it. The office had no term limit. Padme could have reigned as Queen of Naboo until the day she died, wealthy and beloved by her people. Instead, she’d imposed term limits, and even made consecutive terms as King or Queen illegal! There had even been protesters, protesters! Crowds marched in the street of Naboo, demanding she abandon her reforms. Instead, Padme had remained steadfast with her principles, and now Naboo was a Republic in all but name. Against the objections of absolutely everyone, Queen Amidala had retired, and then ran a campaign to represent Naboo in the Senate.

Count Dooku, Duke Harad, and even Duchess Satine had advised her to continue as head of state. The first two, she’d expected; neither Harad, nor Dooku had an ounce of respect for the moral authority of Democracy, but Duchess Satine’s objections had surprised her. 

“Does the Senator for Naboo acknowledge the risk of Separatist ideology spreading through Reform Alliance?”

…Maybe Dooku was right about Democracy.

Pushing such thoughts from her mind, Padme swallowed a few headache pills and stood up once more to represent her people.

It was just another hour before finally the Senate session was closed. The constant motion of the pod left Padme barely able to keep her poise; she disguised her unsteady legs as a graceful glide as best she could, aided by an arm to hold from her jedi bodyguard, Knight Prialla.

On the way to her hover car, Padme was surprised to see Duchess Satine in person, walking towards her. Dressed in her finest regalia and accompanied by the Mandalorian Senator, at the sight of Padme, Satine hurried ahead of her bodyguards with a scowl. 

Padme had to stifle a groan as she realised that Satine was here for her. She liked the woman, genuinely, but right now she just wanted to go lay down somewhere until her stomach settled. The last thing she wanted was to get into an open ended discussion about policy, but she still forced herself to straighten up and be friendly with the head of state. It wouldn't be wise to risk offending her closest ally in the senate right now.

Padme and Satine had spent long hours discussing their beliefs and ideas, and working together to create an interest group in the Senate had been a pleasure, but Padme had no idea how the Duchess could possibly live as such a rank hypocrite. How could the woman claim to be a deep believer in democracy, yet refuse to hold any elections? 

Even Dooku, who openly despised democracy, actually held elections on Serenno. True, the Advisory technically had no authority other than to advise the Count, but at the very least it acted as a channel for the Will of the People to find the ear of their ruler. Duke Harad held elections on Raxus for the Parliament of Commons, and though he was a monarch, he was extremely involved in the Parliamentary system that governed his homeworld. He would often boast to the other heads of state, ‘I’m never more powerful than when my parliament is in session.’ It was an interesting system, one that had tempted Padme sorely, but in the end she had stuck by her principles and implemented a Republican system.

“I see that Dooku didn’t forewarn you of his plans either.” Satine began. “I know the man doesn’t believe in democracy, but he’s only going to make our fight in the Senate even more difficult with this!”

How could something that was already impossible possibly become more difficult? Padme didn’t want to think like that, she tried to stay positive, but her time as a senator had not been encouraging. Technically, political parties were banned from the senate, but the body was clearly divided along by a series of blocs with clear interests. Even if they had no formal political structure, they clearly had hierarchies and met out of hours to collaborate on their goals. In effect, the political parties still existed, they were just obscured from public view.

Then there was the class of unelected officials on Coruscant, the heads of the bureaus and the intelligence services, who could easily influence and direct senators to policies that suited their interests. Padme was pretty sure her conversations were being monitored by both Republic Military Intelligence and the Senate Bureau of Intelligence. It was probably why Dooku hadn’t seen fit to inform her, or Duchess Satine. 

“It will.” Padme agreed with Satine. “And it’s an issue that we should discuss with him together. If you’d like, we can ride together back to my residence, and speak privately there after a bug sweep.”

“That sounds like a fine idea.” Satine harrumphed, though not at Padme. “But we’ll take mine. I’m confident we’ll be able to talk privately on the way there.”

Padme nodded once, consenting. 

One of the Duchess’s guards pressed a button on his wrist pad, and the vehicle pulled up in front of them, driven only by a droid chauffeur.

Padme took one step towards the vehicle when she felt a hand seize the back of her robes. The world tilted up as she was violently thrown to the ground, and Prialla’s diminutive form covered her.

“Stay down!” The Jedi Knight screamed, and yanked the Duchess to the ground with the Force. 

There was a deafening crack of an explosion, and Padme threw her hands up to cover her eyes. Her ears rang as acrid black smoke hung thick in the air that made her eyes water. Looking around, she saw a fire burning from a hulk of metal on the Senate departure pad, and it took Padme a moment to realise it was Satine’s speeder. She blinked, trying to roll over, but was held in place by Prialla. Turning her head, Padme could see a misshapen heap of smouldering robes on the ground, and it took her a moment to realise that it was Satine. Her ceremonial outfit with its massive sleeves and long hem hid the extent of her injuries, though there was the stink of burning flesh in the air.

“Help her!” Padme gasped, bucking, trying to wriggle out from under her protector. “I’m fine, save Satine!”

Prialla gave her a once over, seeming to confirm she was okay in the Force before finally standing up. The explosion had been massive, and Satine’s Mandalorian guards had been standing in the brunt of it. Those closest to the blast were killed instantly, their broken bodies hurled away, but even those standing closest to Satine were either dead or dying.

The Kedi Knight ran over, and threw back the Duchess robes to reveal her face, pale with pain and shock where it wasn’t burned, her eyes bloodshot and unseeing, and blood pouring from her ears. Prialla reached down and ripped apart the Duchess's clothes, searching for injury, before finding a set of beskar rings beneath her clothes. Multiple pieces of shrapnel had embedded themselves in her armour, but none had pierced her.

Prialla placed her palm against Satine’s forehead then she turned to yell something to Padme, who couldn’t hear it. Padme blinked, dabbing at her ears to find blood running down her cheeks. 

“I can’t hear anything!” Padme gasped. “I’m deaf!”

Prialla said something else, but whatever it was, Padme was nearly frightened out of her skin by a hand on her shoulder. She spun on the spot to find the Senatorial Guard pouring out of an armoured vehicle, blasters raised as they rapidly secured the area. One of them was ushering her away, towards an ambulance. She followed his guiding hand, arriving where a medical droid immediately started running diagnostics on her. It was less than a minute before the droid had her strapped down in the back of the vehicle. Padme raised her head to see the doors being closed, and right before they closed,through the crack she glimpsed Prialla being handcuffed.

-----

Anakin didn’t like visiting hospitals generally, but this one in particular left him uncomfortable. The countless different needs of the thousands of different species of the Republic left the public health services woefully inadequate and overworked. The medical needs of a Gran had nothing in common with those of a Wookiee, but some near humans could make do with the same medicines in a pinch. Medications that worked on a human usually had a similar effect on Zabraks and Twi'leks, for example, but Coruscant was the most diverse world in the Galaxy. Even the most bizarre and exotic species would make their homes here, and so they often needed specialised hospitals to treat them. 

Sentient doctors just couldn’t possibly remember and master all the different needs of so many species, not when it took almost a decade of training to be confident in treating even one species. Medical droids with their vast data banks were manufactured cheaply, and so there was plenty of medical knowledge to go around, but access to the millions of different varieties of medicine needed to treat all illnesses was limited. Different species tended to create and patronise their own medical institutions, leaving public hospitals only for the desperate and poor.

Hospitals in the undercity were often filthy, crowded, and poorly maintained, with droids that operated on outdated knowledge, or were in dire need of a memory wipe and beginning to act strangely. Some of them were so bad that it could be argued staying away from them actually improved your chances of recovery. Anakin didn’t know if he believed that, but he did know that the Senatorial District Hospital wasn’t one of those.

Its halls gleamed. On every floor there were the squeaky beeps of cleaning droids, and even with the countless representatives of a thousand different species, the hospital was never short of the supplies it needed for treatment. On any floor, one could see a wookiee getting shaved in preparation for surgery, a gran bending over to give a smell sample from his glands, or even just a regular human boy getting his temperature checked.

The Senatorial District Hospital was in perfect order, because of course it was. On Tatooine, his mother and other humans would have had to make do with whatever medicines could be imported from traders, often getting ripped off or scammed. There was no way Senators would put up with that. Even if the undercity was burning, or the Outer Rim was choking on plague, there was no chance that such illustrious people would tolerate anything but the best treatment and services.

No wonder people didn’t believe in Democracy.

“Anakin, relax.” Obi-Wan murmured next to him, before the turbolift opened with a pleasant ding in front of them. He stepped inside, and Anakin followed him in. “I can hear your thoughts.”

“No you can’t.” Anakin replied, confident.

“I can see them on your face.” Obi-Wan replied.

Anakin grimaced at that, and tried to school his expression back to unaffected serenity. After a few moments of staring at his reflection in the elevator window, he gave up. “What about you, Master?”

Obi-Wan’s expression didn’t change at all, but there was a hint of warning in his voice. “What about me?”

“Are you okay, Master?”

“...Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“You and the Duchess have history, right?” Anakin asked, carefully. “They say you almost quit the Order for her.”

“Even in the Jedi Temple, nonsense spreads fast on loose lips.” Kenobi murmured, a hint of rapprochement in his voice. “You shouldn’t spend so much time listening to rumors.”

Anakin frowned at that, and ignored the slight sting of rejection he felt. He waited in silence as the elevator finally came to the top of the tower, and he stepped out, following after Obi-wan.

As they neared the door, Anakin spoke up again. “Master, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry, just to reassure.”

Obi-wan paused, looking back at his padawan. “I’m sorry, Anakin. I’m grateful for your concern.”

“Of course, Master.”

At last Obi-wan stepped through the door, and Anakin followed in behind him to see the woman that his Master was once rumoured to be in love with. She was blonde, though her hair had been shaved off for the sake of multiple surgeries. Both her eyes were cybernetic now, glassy surfaces with small apertures at their centre, which gleamed with a blue light. If you didn’t look at them too closely, or see them in the dark, you might think they were ordinary human eyes.  Even as she was sitting there in a medical robe, Satine held herself with a poise that spoke of aristocracy. The hem of the medical robe was just low enough to expose the tip of a surgical scar, just at her collar bone.

“Jedi Knight, Kenobi.” Satine said to him, coolly. “Are you here to apologise?”

Anakin shot Obi-wan a look at that, and his Master looked as lost as he felt. “Apologise for what, My Lady?”

Satine sniffed. “I’m the Duchess of Mandalore, now, Obi-wan. I wasn’t even a Lady when I was on the run with you, I was Your Highness. Now I’m to be addressed as ‘Your Majesty’.”

Already Anakin was reeling back on his heels, trying to understand what Satine was so upset about. It couldn’t be the title, she was upset before Kenobi even opened his mouth. Did she expect them to bow to her? Like this?

“My royal etiquette will need some brushing up, I’m afraid.” Kenobi admitted. “But I don’t believe I’ve done anything I need to apologise for.”

“Other than arresting the woman who saved my life?” Satine replied. 

“The Senatorial Guard arrested her.” Kenobi replied. “And the Jedi Temple was quick to investigate, and clear her of all charges.”

“After she was paraded through the streets in handcuffs!” Satine growled back. “As far as half of Coruscant is still concerned, Prialla was the bomber!”

“It was very unfortunate.” Kenobi agreed. “And not something that I, or the Jedi Temple are responsible for, Your Majesty.”

“Is that so?” Satine replied, archly. “Well, if that will be all, I’ll be leaving Coruscant shortly and returning to my homeworld. I’m cleared to leave now.”

“Yes, of course.” Kenobi answered. “We won’t try to keep you here, but the Council has assigned us to investigate this attack, and we’ve wanted to speak to you for days now.”

“Well I suppose that explains why you couldn’t wait until I was ready to receive you.” Satine replied. “So until I am ready to receive you, I won’t be answering any questions. Now if you’ll excuse me, Master Jedi, I believe my new bodyguard will be arriving soon.”

She would be arriving soon. Anakin could feel the mind of a trained Force User rising up the elevator towards them, and he could feel it probing him as well.

Kenobi regarded the Duchess with irritation poorly hidden behind his mask of serenity. “Your help will be invaluable in catching the one responsible for this attack. You might have crucial information for us, and delaying to provide it could give the attacker time to escape.”

“I highly doubt that the Viceroy of the Trade Federation is going to run away anytime soon.” Satine replied.

Annakin and Obi-wan exchanged a look. “You believe Grib Siv to be responsible?”

“Of course he is.” Satine replied. “Let’s not fool ourselves. The Trade Federation has funded the Black Sun syndicate, and already sent a Sith Assassin after the Outer Rim Reform Alliance before. These brazen attacks will continue until he is dealt with, though in the meantime I’m sure you’ll do an excellent job tracking down his new proxy, whoever that might be.” From the hallways behind the two jedi, there was the sound of a distant ding as the elevator opened. “Ah, now I can finally get out of these blasted hospital sheets and into something more comfortable. Will that be all, Master Jedi?”

Kenobi regarded her for a few moments, before finally nodding. “We’ll speak again later, when you’re ready to receive us.”

Another woman with a lightsaber on her hip pusher her way past the two of them, carrying a bag of clothes. The Jedi Knight gave the two of them a little shooing gesture, and Anakin and Kenobi left the room while she lowered the curtains and closed the door so the Duchess could get dressed in privacy.

The two Jedi rode the turbolift back down to the lobby in silence, only broken when Anakin asked, “So… her, huh?”

Kenobi only gave his padawan a glare, and Anakin had to fight back a smile.

Finally the elevator let them back out into the hospital lobby, and the two of them went to leave, only for Anakin to pause in shock at the sight of Padme Amidala, waiting just inside the lobby for her friend. The face that had been in his dreams for years leapt at Anakin, like a slap to his cheek, and he felt a strange tightness in his chest just seeing her again.

“Anakin?” Kenobi asked. 

He blinked, looking away from her, where she was regarding him with a confused expression. He had been staring, he realised.

“Uh, what?”

Kenobi arched an eyebrow at him, before turning to regard the Senator. “Your Majesty, it’s good to see you again.”

“I’ve given up my royal title.” She smiled as she answered, as though she’d had to explain this several times before. “But it’s good to see you too, Knight Kenobi.” Anakin felt a surprising burn of jealousy, before she then turned to him. “And Anakin, you’ve grown up so much!”

Anakin felt a bizarre mix of emotions, happy that she remembered him, grateful that she smiled at him, but frustrated that she still remembered him as a child first. “Yes, Your Majesty. I have.”

“Senator Padme, would you be able to arrange a time for us to interview you?” Kenobi interrupted, and Anakin had to hold back his resentment. “We’re investigating the attack.”

“Of course, call at any time and we’ll make a space in our schedule.” Padme agreed, and took out her holocom. With just a few presses, Kenobi’s device chimed with her number.

Now Anakin wanted a holocom of his own just so he could have her number on it.

“Thank you, Senator. We’ll be seeing you.” Obi-wan said.

“Of course. And good luck with your investigation, Anakin.”

Anakin blinked. “Yes. Thank you, Padme. Good luck to you too.”

The two Jedi stepped out onto the street, and began to walk away together. They were only a few paces away, when Kenobi looked at his Padawan, laughter glimmering in his eyes, “So. Her?”

CoS 39

29 BBY

The demon was waiting outside the window, and if Madalee looked at it, it would get her. Red skinned, and covered in spikes, the demon sneered at her, unlatching the window slowly. It was coming through the window, creeping up to her bed, but if she screamed it would hurt her again.

She tried not to move or make a sound, but the snot in her nose made her breath whistle and bubble each time she exhaled. The demon was coming through the window, and it was going to see she was awake and it was going to get her. It was standing over her bed now, and she was too scared to turn or look at it, and she knew it would hurt her again. She wanted to call for mommy, but was too scared to move. If mommy came the demon was just going to get her too. 

The demon touched her shoulder, and Madalee couldn’t stop herself. She screamed and thrashed, working her sheets into a bundle as warm fluid ran down her leg. “Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me! Mommy! Mommy!”

The demon's hands grabbed her, pulling her close, and Madalee couldn’t fight it. It was so strong, pulling her to it, and crushing her to its chest. She screamed, and screamed, until finally she gave up. She trembled in the demon's arms, until slowly she heard her own name.

“Madalee, it’s okay. I’m here, it’s okay.”

She rubbed at her eyes, clearing her gaze just enough to see that it wasn’t the demon holding her, but daddy. A sob escaped her, then she clung to him, burying her head in his chest. “It was the demon. He came back.”

“...It wasn’t the demon, it was just me.” Daddy said, but he was wrong. It was the demon, standing over her bed, every night.

“He’s coming back. The demon’s coming back.” She drew in a long shuddering breath. “He always comes back.”

He stroked the back of her head, until finally the trembling stopped. “Are you ready to get changed? You’re wet.”

Madalee swallowed. “Can you stay here?”

Daddy looked down at her again, he looked unhappy. Angry, but Madalee didn’t think he was angry at her. “Yes, I can stay here while you get changed.”

Madalee changed her pajama’s and underwear, then watched as her father lifted the bedsheets up with the Force, and replaced them with fresh ones from the closet. He took the wet clothes and sheets, and passed them to a droid waiting in the hallway.

“Can you stay here?” She asked again.

“You need to go back to bed, Madalee.” 

“The demon will come back.” She sniffled. “I want to stay with you.”

“...I can take you to your mother.”

Madalee shook her head. “...Mommy can’t fight the demon.” She didn’t know how she knew that, but somehow she could just tell. “Please, daddy.”

He stared at her for a long time, before finally sighing. “Alright. You can stay with me, but tonight only.”

Her breath caught with excitement, and he scooped her up to rest her against his hip. He carried her down the hall, past a pair of armoured House Guard. They both stopped to salute her father, and Madalee copied the gesture back to them.

Out one of the windows they passed, Madalee saw the increased numbers patrol the grounds beyond the window, illuminating the hall in the glow of speeder headlights. She swallowed, pulling closer to her father as she imaged the demon crawling over the side of the palace again.

The spare bedroom her father was using was simple, with a large single bed, and no decorations. His sheets were made of the same shiny, smooth cloth as his pajamas, and he lay her down before laying on his back next to her. 

“Comfortable?” He asked.

She nodded.

“Good. Now close your eyes.” He instructed her, and when she did she felt him lay back down as well.

Slowly she began to drift to sleep, and as she did she felt Ideon’s mind with hers, just as sleepy. He must have woken up as well, because right now he was going to sleep with Mommy. They both drifted off around the same time. The last thing she felt was her father shifting slightly, the tension leaving his muscles as he finally relaxed as well.

———

If nothing else, Tan’ya was at least glad the trip to the New Temple had left her with a lightsaber she could legally use. The ancient sith’s saber was at last locked away in her father’s vault. Maybe one day it would find a place as part of a history museum exhibit when suspicion towards her family had died down.

The ship that she and Asajj shared had only just landed last night, well past midnight, so the two of them went to bed straight away. When Tan’ya woke up in the morning, she immediately felt her father in the force, out in the Palace grounds, working on his forms. Tan’ya poked her head out her window to look, and realised she was mistaken. He wasn’t working on them, he was demonstrating them for Madalee. Her sister was standing there in a very small set of training robes, clutching the young Tirra’taka to her chest.

Well, Tan’ya supposed now was as good of a time as any to talk to her father. She ducked into her bathroom to wash her face, and for a moment she was about to jump from her window, but caught herself before doing it. So soon after Maul’s failed assassination the House Guard were on high alert. Jumping from the window might save her a few minutes of walking, but it was a foolish way to get shot.

After taking the long way down the central staircase to the ground floor and out to the garden, Tan’ya strolled over to where her Father just finished explaining Form 1. From the expression on Madalee’s face, Tan’ya found herself doubting the child had really understood. 

“Perhaps Madalee needs another year or two before she starts her Jedi training?” Tan’ya suggested.

“No, I want to!” Madalee interrupted, insistent.

“She’s been unsettled lately.” Dooku explained. “I thought that at the very least with something to work on, she might regain some confidence.” 

Somehow, Tan’ya doubted that it would work, but she also doubted her father had much experience with toddlers. For that matter, she didn’t either, so maybe it would prove to be exactly what Madalee would need?

“Don’t keep us in suspense.” Dooku continued, looking to Tan’ya’s new lightsaber.

She took the weapon out, holding it out for her father to see. Unusually for a lightsaber, it had a circular guard, and was coloured black with sacanium durasteel to help represent her connection to her homeworld. It had a curved handle, like her father’s saber, and when she ignited the blade, it burned with a bright golden light.

“It’s a fine weapon.” Dooku said, gazing upon it. 

“Can I hold it?” Madalee asked, eyes wide. The scars on her face were less prominent after being treated with bacta, but only slightly so. Her left cheek and chin were peppered with burns, cuts from the surgery to remove the pellets, and pock like bullet wounds. Worse still, she was noticeably missing teeth. Even at her young age, Madalee noticed Tan’ya staring at her scars, and turned away sharply. Marmaidu the dragon seemed to immediately realise what was wrong, and wiggled up her neck to lay flat again her cheek, blocking Tan’ya’s view. 

Swallowing sharply, Tan’ya looked away, and when she glanced she saw that her father’s guilty expression matched her own. 

“I’m sorry, Madalee.” Tan’ya said. “I didn’t mean to stare.”

Madalee nodded once, but didn’t answer, running her hand down Marmaidu’s ridged spine. 

“Uh…” With a few movements, Tan’ya removed the powerpack from her lightsaber, and handed the deactivated blade to her sister. “You wanted to look at this?”

The hands that had been stroking the dragon stopped, and Madalee reached out to hold the lightsaber. For a brief moment she seemed to struggle with the weight, and the dragon had to crawl out of her hand and curl around her neck so she could hold the weapon with both arms. After a few moments of examining it, Madalee practiced swinging it in a clumsy replication of the forms her father had just shown her. After a few swings a smile crept over her face, and even if it was gap toothed, Tan’ya was happy to see it.

“Very good.” Dooku said after a moment, watching his daughter play with the weapon. He turned to look at Tan’ya. “She’s been having severe nightmares for some time.”

“Can’t you calm her mind with the Force?”

There was a long awkward pause, and Tan’ya only briefly glimpsed a pained expression on her father’s face. “I have been unable to.” At last he admitted. 

It took Tan’ya a moment to puzzle out why. If his own mind was unsettled by fear for his daughter’s wellbeing or hate and anger towards Sidious, then he would only be adding fuel to the fire by linking their feelings. 

“The power of the Dark Side comes with a high price.” Dooku rumbled at last.

To that, Tan’ya didn’t know what to say. She had used the Dark Side herself in the battle against Maul, but the subtle power it had to change your own thoughts and perceptions overtime was clearly dangerous. Tan’ya had already concluded that like the Type 95, it was to be used sparingly if it was to be used at all. 

They practiced together outside for the next hour. Neither Dooku nor Tan’ya got much done individually, mostly focussed on helping Madalee grasp the basics. At least she seemed to enjoy it, especially when she got a chance to play with a real lightsaber. Shortly after they started Commander Hoves arrived, and waited nearby for a pause in the lesson to speak with Tan’ya and Dooku.

When the Count waved him over, Hoves approached and made a deep bow. “Your Majesty, it’s a relief to see Madalee doing well.”

“It is.” Dooku agreed. “Did you have something for me? Normally issues concerning the House Guard would be handled by my daughter.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Hoves paused, before adding. “I approach you, seeking to speak openly about a matter of some concern to your people… though it may be a sensitive issue.”

That got Tan’ya feeling curious. Normally, if there was anything like a sensitive issue, she would be the first one informed, and then she would be the one to bring it to Dooku. 

“Go ahead.” Dooku said.

“To be frank, the people of Serenno are worried about the… assassin. Rumor has escaped about his dark powers, and it's feared that if his soul isn’t dealt with properly, he could menace Serenno for some time.”

“That’s it?” Dooku’s brows came together. 

“Normally I would just have the body taken from the morgue without bothering either of you.” Hoves said, quickly. “But in this case, the body of the assassin is being used as evidence in diplomatic affairs. I didn’t want to remove it without first being certain that it was no longer of concern to you.”

Dooku stared at the man, clearly somewhat annoyed. “I’m not inclined to give the monster a proper burial.”

“Oh, no, of course, your Majesty. The most powerful of the Voidkin, don’t truly die the way they should.” Hoves explained. “The fear is that if allowed to go free, his soul might haunt this world for generations to come. He is to be imprisoned in the Cold Grove.” Those last two words were said in Serenoan, and it took Tan’ya a moment to parse out their meaning.

Tan’ya spoke up. “What is the Cold Grove?”

It turned out to be almost exactly what was described. More than a hundred kilometres beyond the Capital, nestled deep in a lush mountain valley, was a grove of reek trees. Tan’ya only vaguely remembered hearing about the species from her excursion to a lumber yard in the jungle years prior, but as the speeder landed, she saw the twisted, knotted trunks of countless trees contorted into damaged forms, with golden brown leaves clustered in fan like bunches on warped branches. There was a distinctive chill in the air, that had brought up a thin layer of fog which gave the grove an eerie atmosphere, and it took Tan’ya a moment to realise the trees were active in the Force.

Each tree was crying out in agony, as they had been tapped like a sugar maple to slowly drip their sap into buckets set to hang below the weeping wounds. The air reeked like a mixture of licorice and pus that was absolutely nauseating. She quickly took the small tab of lozenge that one of the guards offered her, and soon her sense of taste and smell faded away, numbed by the medicine.

“These are Uneti trees. I recognise them from the tree on Coruscant.” Dooku said, looking around at the grove. “Or at least, they’re some variety of them.”

“We call them reek trees.” Hoves explained. 

“Stinky trees.” Madalee said, pinching her nose. 

“That’s a good translation.” Hoves agreed with a nod. “We don’t know their exact origin, but they were brought here by the voidkin in our ancient history. The wood is strong, and valuable, but we would never allow the Cold Grove to be cut down.” He led the way forward, and Tan’ya’s family followed behind him. It wasn’t just the three of them, Athemeene, Ideon and Kenth were all present. Kenth was on the planet because Dooku had recalled him to Serenno to make sure that all would understand the family’s new rule.

‘No one of the House of Serenno is to be without a Jedi Guardian, going forward.’ Not even their homeworld, surrounded by the House Guard, had been shown to be safe. Every single member of the family was to be with a Jedi from now on. Travelling with Kenth had been three Jedi from the New Temple. Because Ideon was too young to be by himself, he and Athemeene would share one guardian, while Kenth and Madalee would each get one of their own. Asajj was charged with Tan’ya’s safety.

Most surprising of all was that Vai, the Mandalorian girl, was with them now as well, following along awkwardly behind Dooku, who had charged her with remaining by his side. There was something strange about how Dooku was treating her. At first Tan’ya had thought Vai was going to be adopted into the family as a reward for saving Athemeene’s life, but now it seemed like something else was afoot. 

At the base of the oldest and largest of the trees, Hoves bent down to rub some dirt away from a bronze plate that had been embossed into the base of the tree. Tan’ya lent forward to read it, seeing Serennoan writing. 

“Addmerra Darmahss.” She read aloud, confused. None of the words had any meaning in any language she knew. “Is it a name?” She asked.

“Yes. You know him as Darth Malus.” Hoves answered. “Admiral of the Black Knights.”

He was the Sith who first conquered Serenno, one and a half thousand years ago. In the history of the Galaxy, he wasn’t even a footnote, a mere admiral in the service of the much more famous Underking, who Tan’ya was pretty sure never actually led a fleet into battle. Even to the short lived Sith Order of the Black Knights, the conquest and subjugation of a medieval world like Serenno wouldn’t even be worth more than a mention.

“So he’s buried here.” Tan’ya said.

“Yes.” Hoves agreed. “To keep the whisper of the vile-ones from tormenting the innocent, they are imprisoned here. When Darth Maul is buried, he will be placed here with a sprig of stinky tree in his heart. The tree will feed off his soul for all eternity, punishing him, and keeping him from doing harm to the innocent ever again.”

“What do you collect the sap for?” Athemeene asked, looking like she didn’t quite approve of the practice. 

“It is used to make a chewable cube that when eaten makes your mouth black.” Hoves explained. “Soldiers use it when going to war. Every village will draw from their own stinky tree.”

Curious, Tan’ya wandered forward alone, looking for plaques in each of the trees. Many of them were names she didn’t recognise at all, on trees that appeared newer and smaller than the one that was feeding on Darth Malus. They bore the names of more recent, secular rulers of Serenno. Finally, at the furthest edge of the grove were the two smallest trees, barely more than saplings. Their name plates read, Kun Gora, and Kun Ramil. Count Gora and Count Ramil. 

When Dooku saw the trees, he turned with an arched eyebrow towards Hoves. “Do you intend to bury me here as well?”

Hoves looked scandalised at the idea. “Of course not, Your Majesty. This is a place for those who have committed grave crimes against our people. You have saved us from tyranny, and brought law and peace.”

It was almost like the ancient Roman practice of damning or deifying each emperor once they died. It was a kind of final justice the people were able to inflict on tyrants after death.

“You say each village has its own tree?”

“Where a murderer or raider is buried.”

Or a bad chieftain, Tan’ya assumed. She shivered, trying to ignore the damp cold feeling of the fog on her cheek. As Tan’ya looked around, she finally saw a name that caused her to raise an eyebrow. Darkymas.

“Look, Darth Chymus.” Tan’ya pointed it out to her father. He was the Sith whose notes she had been able to read, excavated from the old ruins. He had actually been alive, hidden away in a safe room for more than a thousand years until he was killed by Mace Windu. “This must be his body double.” Tan’ya speculated.

Dooku frowned, considering it. “I’ll instruct Narec to petition the Jedi to release his body to us.” When she shot him a surprised look, he added with a wry smile, “We wouldn’t want him to evade our laws.”

Slowly, the family congregated back near the speeder, after satisfying their curiosity. The Cold Grove was beautiful, in its own twisted, and haunted way. As they started to get back into their speeder, Dooku lingered for a moment with Tan’ya as he surveyed the area. His eyes lingered for the longest time on the largest tree in the centre of the grove, before turning towards his children. His gaze went from Ideon in Athemeene’s arms, to Madalee, then Kenth, before finally he made eye contact with Tan’ya.

He swallowed once, before finally looking at his wife. Athemeene gazed at Dooku impassively, showing neither favor nor hatred. 

“...I can’t regret what I’ve done.” Dooku finally said. “Even with all my mistakes, even with the evil I’ve brought upon this family… I wouldn’t have any of you, if I hadn’t made them. Athemeene, I can’t ask you to forgive me, or to ever trust me again, but please. Have faith in this.” He indicated his children. “Have faith in something greater than ourselves.”

The suddenness of Dooku’s passionate words caught Tan’ya completely by surprise. She found herself exchanging an awkward look with Vai, who looked almost equally as uncomfortable.

Tears seemed to well in Athemeene’s eyes, and she tried to wipe them away, but it didn’t seem to work. Not sure what to do, Tan’ya offered her a handkerchief, but found her mother holding her wrist. She didn’t resist as Athemeene pulled her in close and hugged her tight, shuddering. Tan’ya swallowed a strange lump that seemed to appear in her throat, which only grew worse as Ideon started crying as well, and was joined by Madalee and Kenth. Athemeene buried her face in Tan’ya’s shoulder, and began weeping, shuddering and hiccuping. 

The outpouring of emotion even caused the Force to swell. For a moment the mists of the Cold Grove were pushed back, and sunlight broke through from above. 

The whole thing was so melodramatically embarrassing, that Tan’ya couldn’t meet Vai’s gaze. No doubt the stoic Mandalorian was equally mortified.

“I can’t protect you.” Athemeene whispered to Tan’ya. “Not anymore. Even this young, you’re so grown up. Please, just remember. I believe in you. Always.”

Okay, but please get a hold of yourself.

Finally the sappy waterworks were over, and at last the family was ready to leave again. Dooku and Athemeene sat together, leaning into each other as she clung to his arm and rested her head on his shoulder.

All together, the family flew away from the cold graveyard of dead tyrants, back to the warmth of their home where for a time, the pressures of the Galaxy would not rest so heavily on their shoulders. 

End of Episode 1

The Count of Serenno will continue in Episode 2. The Attack of the Clones.

A Young Girl's Saga on the New Vegas Steppe Chapter 3

I entered the Command tent to find the negotiations already under way. Papa Khan had apparently only brought two of his advisors with him, both were women. One had messy blonde locks cut to length just above her chin, the other was dark skinned with the most absurd hair I had ever seen in any of my lives. Her head was shaved at the top, but the sides were styled into a set of spiky wings, with a ponytail at the back. It clearly took a great amount of effort but looked hideous.

Between his two advisors and Papa Khan’s ridiculous horned helmet, the tribe's team of negotiators looked like a set of extras from a low budget Fist of the North star adaptation. It was embarrassing to even be associated with them. All of them were armed, though not at all uniformly. Among them they had a grime covered, homemade submachine gun, a bolt action rifle with its stock held together by a thick bundle of tape, and a sawn-off double barreled shotgun. 

By comparison, the NCR soldiers were all in uniform and had 9mm pistols in their hip holsters. Outside the tent, all the men in the camp had semi automatic rifles and body armor. The contrast in professionalism and equipment was apparent to even a rank outsider like me.

When I stepped inside, the three Khans looked at me with varying reactions. I must assume that this body must have had some kind of involvement with them prior to current events because the dark skinned one in particular looked angered by my injury. She probably expected me to escort the civilians away safely, and was upset at the evidence of my failure.

“See?” The Major said. “She’s fine. Her injury has been treated, and she was able to walk here on her own.”

Papa Khan was watching me for a moment, then he flashed me some kind of hand signal. I had absolutely no idea what it meant, the gesture involved touching his thumb to his ring finger. All I could do was shrug, to convey to him that I didn’t understand, but then he nodded grimly, frowning.

Wait, what? I opened my mouth to speak, but Major Bullah interrupted. 

“Enough. Let’s get to business here.” Evidently, Major Bullah saw the interaction, his scowl deepening. “Now, the NCR is ready to accept your surrender.”

“I never offered my surrender.” Papa Khan countered.

“Let me finish.” Bullah cut across him. “The NCR is prepared to offer you a conditional surrender. If you lay down your arms, none of you will have to face prison or a court. You’ll be transported back west, and get the chance to start your lives anew. You may even be able to become citizens.”

“We’re not surrendering.” Papa Khan replied, dismissing the notion outright. “We’re prepared to offer the NCR a ceasefire, if they agree to leave Bitter Springs, and pay for the treatment of our injured.”

The officers standing on the NCR side of the table scoffed, looking upset bordering on offended. I didn’t blame them. From the brief look I’d gotten at Major Bullah’s documents, the Khans had been raiding and attacking their citizens and supply lines for years. Likely they were all hoping to see the Khans destroyed, even if they themselves weren’t eager to die in the attempt.

“The Khans are in no position to offer anyone a ceasefire.” Major Bullah stated flatly. “This is your one chance to surrender peacefully, and the best deal I can offer you.”

I highly doubted he could offer it. Nothing in his orders that I’d read had given him permission to override his superiors here in the Mojave, let alone the politicians, bureaucrats and courts back west. He might think he was offering us amnesty for our crimes, but all it would take was a single judge who refused to go along with that then we would all face a firing line.

No, breaking up and dispersing the Khans was definitely against my interests. Unfortunately, Papa Khan was being just as unreasonable. Despite my best efforts to give him an advantage, he was stubbornly refusing to admit that he and his people had been thoroughly defeated. The NCR fully had the capacity to destroy him, they would just prefer not to due to the cost.

“I’m sorry.” I spoke up, smiling to both men who suddenly looked at me. “This all seems like it's going to get a bit complicated. Why don’t we all take a seat, and write out our demands before we get lost?”

Major Bullah opened his mouth to object, but then closed it when he looked at Khan. Finally, he nodded, and a corporal was sent to find chairs for everyone. I sat down, grabbing a pencil and some paper, quickly drawing up two columns, one for the NCR’s demands, and one for the Khans.

“So, what are your demands?” I asked Bullah.

“...The Khans are to surrender to the NCR.” He said at last, wearily watching me for some kind of trick, but it was Papa who objected loudly.

“We’ll never surrender to you child murdering dogs!” He snarled, pounding his fist.

“Papa, wait!” I raised my voice, and he paused, looking like he was a moment from launching into another tirade. “We can debate the points of each demand later, but let's just get them listed out first.” Without giving him a chance to restart, I looked back to Bullah. “Anything else?”

He paused for a second, searching in his mind, before coming up short.

“Let me give you a moment to think.” I turned. “Okay. Now, Papa, what are our demands?”

“...That the NCR leaves Bitter Springs. That they pay for the treatment of our injured, and that the murderers who took the lives of our children face justice.”

“Okay.” I calmly listed each point off one by one in the Khans column. “Now, I can’t help but note that none of these demands are mutually exclusive. Would you be willing to surrender to the NCR in exchange for this?”

“No.” Papa spat. “I will not let my people be scattered to the winds by them.”

I agreed completely, and added that the Khans must remain together and self governing to our demands Column. I turned back to Major Bullah. “And you? Any further demands?”

He looked like he was certain I was playing a trick on him, one that he hadn’t figured out yet.

“Well then, it seems we’re at an impasse. The tribe won’t survive if it surrenders to the NCR.” I explained, calmly. “Is the NCR willing to reduce its demands upon the Khans? A step down from surrender, perhaps?”

Major Bullah looked annoyed, before finally saying, “The NCR is willing to accept a Khan resettlement West of the Colorado.”

I looked to Papa, who made eye contact with me for a second and winked, before suddenly growling out, “We won’t let you push us out of our home again! First the vault, and now this?! I’d rather die!”

What did he think he was doing? The NCR would throw us out at this rate!

I decided to try and move on, before the NCR could object too strongly. “How far to the West?”

Major Bullah kept quiet for a few moments. “Red Rock Valley.”

The Khan woman with the hideous hair hissed.

I didn’t know enough about the area nearby to know anything about the place, but just the name didn’t sound particularly promising. Whatever, I wasn’t planning to stay there long, anyway. Once these negotiations were concluded, I would be free to plot my own defection from the Khans and pursue a more civilised lifestyle elsewhere. For now, it was in my interests to persuade my fellows to go to Red Rock. Maybe if I could drag a few more concessions out of Bullah, they would be willing to buy into it. 

“What are the exact boundaries of Red Rock Valley?” I demanded. “Do you have a map you can show us?”

“That’s military information.”

“Well, why would we agree to go there if we don’t even know where it is?”

“Because we’ll kill you all if you don’t.” One of the NCR officer’s spat, though he shut his mouth when Major Bullah turned in his chair to face him.

“You’ll try.” Papa Khan growled.

“Please, Major Bullah.” I said, raising my hands. “Be reasonable. If you wish to relocate us to Red Rock Valley, we should know something about it before we agree.”

Major Bullah hesitated, before nodding. “Find an unmarked map, one we can draw on.”

It wasn’t long until what looked like a very crude map of the region was left on the table for us. It didn’t have any NCR military bases or outposts marked, it only had the roads, tribal borders, and approximate geographic features of the landscape.

Staring at it, I assumed that the valley they wanted to send us to was unoccupied by any other group. It was good that we wouldn’t have to fight anyone for it, but the fact that no one else wanted it wasn’t a good sign.

“There’s a creek that runs down from the mountains, so you’ll have fresh water.” Bullah promised.

“And food?” One of Papa’s advisors asked. “Machine parts? Ammo? There’s nothing else out there but rocks!”

“What’s this town, here?” I asked, pointing to a spot indicated on the map. “Bonnie Springs?”

“A prewar town.” Major Bullah shrugged. “It’s basically abandoned now, ground water is too irradiated for people to live there.”

That sounded awful. Looking over at the rest of the Khans, I could see they felt the same way. Red Rock Valley sounded like a death trap, and they wouldn’t agree to anything unless the NCR was prepared to offer more. The problem was that the NCR wouldn’t surrender anywhere that they saw as valuable. Maybe if I could talk Major Bullah into a few more concessions, then Papa and the others would be willing to accept that deal.

“How about this?” I began. “The Khan’s don’t surrender, but in exchange for leaving Bitter Springs, you will concede Red Rock Valley and Bonny Springs to the Great Khans in perpetuity.” One glance over made it clear that Papa Khan wasn’t interested, so I tried to sweeten the deal a bit more. “We’ll also take… Route 161? We can also put in place a peace treaty, to keep your men from taking potshots at us, and we’ll stop raiding NCR Caravans on our end.”

“What do you mean, you’ll take 161?” Major Bullah frowned. “There’s tribals in those hills-”

“So you’re not using it.” I smiled at him. “Look, we need some way to make a living, or we might resort back to caravan raids or who knows what else? I think it’s in the NCR’s best interest to not only move us away from their camps and objectives, but to try and help us settle and become productive. Besides, after what you’ve done, I think some compensation is owed.”

“And the NCR will pay for the treatment of our injured by the Followers of the Apocalypse.” Papa interrupted, leaning forward. “I don’t trust your doctors.”

“Right, we will need treatment for our wounded, after all.” I pointed out. “In the end, you accomplish your objective, and it won’t cost you hundreds of men.”

“Thousands.” Papa corrected.

What an incredible optimist he was.

Someone leaned over and whispered something into Major Bullah’s ear, and he grimaced. He whispered something back, nodding, before looking towards our side of the table. “We can agree to your demands, resettlement, medical treatment, route 161, all of it, but you have to agree to surrender.”

“We’re not surrendering to you!” Papa snarled!

Shit, just when we were so close to a deal.

“Why won’t a ceasefire work?” I asked.

“Because you were militarily defeated.” Major Bullah replied. “And I won’t accept anything less than the truth.”

It was an odd demand. The terms of the deal didn’t change, but agreement on what it was called was important enough for him to risk blowing it up? I didn’t know much about his commanding general, Oliver if I recall, but I suspect he wouldn’t accept anything less than a win on his record.

I leant over to Papa and whispered, “His commanding Officer, Oliver, probably wants a win for the newspapers back in California. We can get more out of him if we agree to it.”

Papa Khan considered Oliver, thinking. The other woman, the blonde one, suddenly leaned over. “Get him to let us trade with the NCR.”

“What?” Papa demanded.

“If we can get a trade deal out of them, we won’t have to pay bribes or smugglers anymore if we can just sell legally through the front door.” The blonde woman insisted. “We need something to offset our losses from raiding.”

I leaned back, and turned to Bullah. “We want market access to the NCR.”

“What?!” He exploded, rising to his feet. “We’re not going to give you free reign to push your poison on NCR Citizens!”

“Now, hold on!” The woman to the left of Papa raised her voice. “Oh, don’t give me that! I know your boys use Psycho when they go into combat. Why not buy from us here in the Mojave, instead of carting it in from California?”

“The NCR already has arrangements with New Reno.” Bullah replied. “We’re not interested in jeopardizing those for a handful of combat stimulants.”

“What about alcohol?” I suggested. “New Reno can’t have a monopoly on that, or tobacco.”

“There’s no way I’m going to be able to persuade my superiors to let Khan caravans in through the front door.” Bullah said, firmly. “Enough of your product makes its way West already, without giving you guys new smuggling routes.”

Damn it. Looking at the faces of the other Khans, it seemed clear to me that they wanted to push for more, but they just didn’t know what. What could I get from the NCR, that would make the Khan’s accept admitting to a surrender? I just didn’t know enough about the area to guess, all I could see were the names of some towns and roads on maps.

“Major Bullah.You don’t want us raiding, and you don’t want us selling chems, but you won’t even trade with us legitimately. You have to see that if you abandon us in a barren canyon, we’re just gonna go back to raiding in the end. Without something to base our economy off we’ll just end up back at this table in a few years.”

Major Bullah frowned at that. For a moment, it seemed like he was about to accept my point, when a woman who had been sitting to his right spoke up. “You can’t just raid our caravans, kill and rape our women, andpoison our children for decades then expect us to just let you walk away.”

“You want to talk about the things we’ve done?” Papa Khan stood up, chair scraping behind him. “How about the massacre of 2241? Or 2161? Those were the mercenaries your ancestors hired!”

“You were raiding us!” She spat back. “In 2161 you were holding Tandi hostage! The Tandi!”

“Alright! Hold up!” I raised my voice, interposing myself between the two parties. “It seems like tempers are flaring, so why don’t we just take a quick recess-”

“No.” Major Bullah cut in firmly. “You can surrender on these terms, or we’re going in. I’ve already given you Redrock Canyon, Bonnie Springs and highway 161.”

Damn it. Looking back at Papa Khan, I could see that his blood was up, and he was about ready to die for his honor. “The right to work?” I said, instead.

“What?” Bullah demanded.

“We’ve got, uh, good fighting men and women among the Khans. You can, of course, search us for illegal goods, but if you agree to issue us visas, and as long as we present a passport, is there any reason that Khans couldn’t find opportunities for legitimate work inside the NCR and across New Vegas?”

He considered the idea, and leaned back to speak with the others. They exchanged a few words quickly, which I was only able to pick out, “-break them up-” before finally Bullah turned to face us.

“I might be able to sell that back in Shady Sands.” He finally allowed. “Though I’ll warn you, if any of your Khans are caught in a square mile of any drug bust, then they’re definitely going straight to jail, and no Jury will let them go, guilty or not.”

Papa Khan leaned closer to me. “That’s worthless, who would want to work for the NCR?”

“No one, but it gives Khans a way to travel openly.” I whispered back. “You’ll have an easier time making business arrangements back west, and who knows? Maybe even starting a security firm would be profitable? The point is it's a way for us to travel out and around without getting shot on sight.” And it would hopefully make it easier for me to leave the Khans.

They didn’t look happy with it, Papa or either of his advisors, but at last he nodded once, long and slow. 

I didn’t give him a chance to change his mind and think about it further. I quickly scribbled out a document of conditional surrender. In summary, the terms that we agreed were: 

-surrender to the NCR and be resettled, 

-stop raiding NCR caravans,

In exchange we would receive:

-Two days to gather our things, 

-medical treatment for the wounded provided by the Followers and paid for by the NCR, 

-the right to receive NCR work visas as long as we obeyed their laws

-Red Rock Canyon, Bonnie Springs, and the length of Highway 161, but terminating just before Good Springs.

All in all, it was far better than the Khans deserved by the sounds of things.

----

“There she is.” Papa Khan rumbled, pulling me aside a day later. The rest of the tribe was about ready to move West, but I and the rest of the wounded would instead be escorted South, to a place called the New Vegas Medical Clinic. 

Packing had been a frustrating experience, not knowing what was mine, and not having much left of my depth perception as well. I genuinely couldn’t wait for the chance to have my eye replaced, just so it meant I would keep missing the things I was grabbing for. 

Even worse, among the things the other Khans had told me were mine, I discovered half a pack of cigarettes. It seemed that before I recovered my memories, I was a smoker. In the day since the negotiations were settled, I’d experienced a growing headache from the nicotine withdrawal. A headache that grew sharply worse as Papa Khan took out a pack of cigars and offered me one.

“Here.” He grunted.

Somehow, in that moment, it felt impossible to refuse. I was deeply reluctant to continue a bad smoking habit, but my hands were well practiced at lighting the thing, and I felt almost instant relief as I held the warm smoke in my lungs. In the Empire I’d hated the smell of these damn things, but in that moment it was an incredible sensation. When I breathed the smoke out through my nose, I felt my headache leave almost immediately.

Damn it. I was already completely addicted. My lungs were ruined.

I restrained a sigh as I looked at Papa's face, and he was looking out over his camp with a dark expression. “Dr Usanagi came to see me.” He said at last. “She says your memories are gone.”

I winced at that. I opened my mouth to say something in my defence, but he continued over me.

“In a way I envy you.” He took a long drag on his own cigar. “You don’t have to know what you’ve lost. Your brother hasn’t spoken a word since the massacre.”

“Papa, I should have told you.”

He shook his head. “I thought you were acting odd. Bold, even. It was good. What we needed at that moment, though it came at a terrible price.”

We stood there in silence for a while after, smoking together in silence and watching the sun shadows stretch as the sun slowly set over the Western horizon. The cigar in my hand slowly burned down to the butt, and with practiced ease I crushed the embers beneath my bootheel.

“You don’t know us anymore.” Papa Khan finally said. “You’re on your way to the clinic, and there’s nothing keeping you from keeping on going. Just ditch your colours and wander all the way to forever. I’d be tempted if I were you.”

“...You won’t be mad?”

“I’ll miss you, you little mole rat.” He grunted, throwing his left arm around my shoulder and pulling me into an uncomfortably close hug. I felt a few drops fall into my hair, and I realised it was his tears. “Whatever you do, know your ma and pa would be proud of you.” I held my breath at the smell of sweaty leather, as he kissed the top of my head before letting go. Turning around, he strode away, back towards the camp to continue preparations.

I watched him leave, feeling strangely conflicted. It was true that the Khans represented a dying enterprise, outgunned and doomed in the long run. However, it was difficult to imagine joining a company at the same rank I clearly already had here. As bad as the Khans' situation was, maybe it could be turned around with some firm leadership?

At the very least, I seem to have been left with an open ended invitation. What harm could there be in spending a few months getting to know my new world and the people in it, before settling on a future to pursue?

CoS Chapter 38

29 BBY

Lothal was much the same as Asajj remembered it, bucolic and charming. The sparsely populated world had a single city with a population greater than a million, its agrarian people spread out over vast distances, working golden fields and guiding giant herds across the warm, verdant landscape. The herd beasts outnumbered the population, who’s highest concern in the Galaxy was meaningless disputes with their local councils about matters so inane that they were utterly incomprehensible to offworlders like her. Sat in the shadow of Mon Cal, and supplying that heavily populated ocean world with excess foodstuffs, Lothal was one of the safest and most peaceful planets in the entire Outer Rim. 

Asajj couldn’t help but wonder why the ancient Jedi had chosen to build their Way Temple here? Was it just because of the world’s Force Nexus, or maybe it meant that the Jedi were once much more present throughout the Galaxy? Either way, it was a huge commitment of resources for a world that had never been at the centre of anything. The Way Temple itself was disguised as a large natural stone formation, which made it seem almost like a bunker of some kind. Had the Jedi planned to come and hide here if the Sith won some ancient war?

“This is it.” Asajj said, slowing the speeder down and parking it in the shadow of the Temple to shelter it from the blazing heat of the high summer sun. She turned in her seat to look at Tan’ya. “Nervous?” 

The youngling gave the large rock formation an annoyed look. “We came all the way here for this?”

The journey here from Serenno had been a long one, down the Hydian to the Salin Corridor, all the way across to the Perlemmian, up almost to the end of the Perlemean, before turning off in the direction of Mon Cal. They were practically in Wild Space, but for the tiny little hyperlane of Prousley’s Rim Run, that connected the few sparsely populated and remote sectors close to the Galaxy’s edge. The journey had taken an entire week, which was time Tan’ya was itching to get back to Serenno, to continue her work with the military. 

Asajj could sympathise, but this was too important to ignore. She would rather be at the New Temple, or on Phindar, winning over a few more Younglings for the school or a few more Knights to train them. In this case, Asajj had decided it was best to lead by example. All those Younglings would have to become Padawans one day, and Asajj would do her best to be a good role model by training Tan’ya into a fine Jedi. The Knight’s of the New Temple couldn’t just be the rejects of other Orders, they had to be able to train and prepare the next generation as well. 

“The Temple will only reveal itself to a pair, the Padawan and their Master.” Asajj smiled, hopping out of the speeder, and after a few moments Tan’ya jumped out behind her. “Help me raise it up.”

Working together, the two of them were easily able to lift the stone formations up from the ground. What once looked like nothing but a solid rock had lifted to reveal a single entrance, with darkness beyond. The Temple settled into place, a staircase coming to a stop right before the two of them.

Remembering her time in the Temple, Asajj cast a sympathetic glance at Tan’ya. “The Jedi who built this aren’t like the ones on Coruscant.” She explained as they walked up the steps, her leading the way. “It will test you, and it was, uh… it was a lot. You need to overcome the Dark Side, to leave.”

“What does that mean?” Tan’ya demanded.

Asajj fell silent as they stepped through the archway into the central chamber, and Tan’ya blinked in surprise at the body of an ancient Jedi, sitting cross legged with his back to the entrance. “It means that I will wait here for you, until you return.” Asajj answered softly, gathering up the nervous butterfly in her own stomach, before breathing out to let it go. The Light Side washed over her, and she sat down next to the desiccated corpse. “I will be communing with the Force, which will allow you to take the test. If you do not succeed, then I will remain here until I die.”

“This is barbaric.” Tan’ya muttered.

“...It’s your choice whether to continue or not,” Asajj explained. “If you don’t think you have what it takes to become a Jedi, then we can go home and I can talk to your Father.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it.” Tan’ya grumbled. “What does it mean to overcome the Dark Side?”

“Fear, Anger, and Hate.” Asajj said. “You have to overcome these things or we will remain here forever. The Force knows what’s in your heart, and what’s in your memories. Don’t think you can trick it.”

Tan’ya considered the gateway for a long time. Though she didn’t lower her mental shields, it was clear she was nervous, which surprised Asajj. She’d never seen the girl scared before, Tan’ya was always energetic and eager to learn, involving herself in any system she came across.

“It’s okay to be nervous.” Asajj said.

“...It knows what’s in my mind?”

“Yes.”

“...Will it share that with you?”

“No.” 

Now Asajj was curious about what was inside Tan’ya’s mind that she was worried about sharing. It wasn’t her business to pry, but she didn’t think Tan’ya could have any dark secrets, given her relatively sheltered upbringing.

“What did it show you?” Tan’ya asked Asajj.

“It’s a little private.” Asajj replied. “...It was scenes from my past. When I was most afraid, and angry. When I came here, I remembered nothing of the one I hated most, but the Temple showed me. When I was sold into slavery, my people made me drink a potion that blocked my memories so I couldn’t share any of my people’s secrets. But the Force lifted that veil, and revealed to me the one who had betrayed me. Talzin.”

Tan’ya considered Asajj for a while. “...Alright. I can do this.” She said.

Asajj watched as the young Padawan squared her shoulders, and walked forward through the stone arch. It was a few moments before she disappeared out of view, when Asajj closed her eyes, began to meditate, and lost herself to the currents of the Force.

----

AD 1987 

Showa Era

A young boy sat alone in a large apartment, cross legged before the television. On the screen, Goku climbed up the long pillar to Corrin’s tower, and the boy couldn’t suppress his hunger much longer. Despite the excitement on screen, he kept glancing at the clock on the wall, thinking of his father. 

It was already 6:30, but he was still hoping his dad would make it home that night, with a bag of convenience store bentos for the both of them to share. It didn’t have to be much, but anything would do. With careful steps, the boy stood up and walked towards the phone hanging on the wall, looking at the notepad beneath it where his father’s number was written beneath the words: EMERGENCIES ONLY.

The boy picked up the phone, looking at the numbers on the pad, before deciding against it. He sighed, hung up, and went into the kitchen. He took out a meal from the freezer, and heated it up in the microwave, before sitting down to eat it in front of the TV. He kept watching the television, while glancing at the time, hoping his father would be home soon. Eventually the episode ended, and with no sign of his father, the boy gave up. He turned off the tv, threw the food wrappers into the bin, and ran into his room.

As he lay in bed, he bitterly reflected on the truth. It didn’t matter what promises his father made, the man was too weak to keep them. Whether it was being on time, coming to a birthday, or even making time to call, the boy’s father would always be under his manager’s thumb. The man would work a ninety hour week, most of it unpaid overtime, and never once would he utter a word of complaint to his boss, all in the vein hope of a promotion that would never come. Even if the promotion did come, the hours he worked would only increase.

The boy would know, because when he grew up, he would inflict the same fate on those beneath him. Shaming, bullying, name calling, peer pressure, anything to keep himself above the office drone class. When finally the position opened up in HR, the chance to hold the whip hand over even the floor managers, he jumped at the chance. These hierarchies didn’t reward hard work, they punished it with more work. The way to rise through the ranks was to not think, to not feel, but to jump at opportunities, and push aside those in front of you.

Don’t grow attached. Don’t look at names. Focus on yourself. Focus on things you can control. That was how he did it. How he would do it. How he would avoid the pathetic fate of his worthless father.

The boy rolled over onto his side, staring at his own reflection in his bedroom window. In the distance he saw the train rolling out of station, and remembered it was where he would meet his own fate. Murdered, by a man whose name he didn’t remember.

He swallowed nervously, rolling back over to look up at his roof.

His dream was to retire into peace and comfort, but instead he would be condemned to an eternity of war and toil. Whether it was this first life, clawing for each and every promotion, taking credit for the work of others and foisting his duties onto the weak willed, or the second where an entire world was committed to a pointless war just to punish him for speaking the truth.

It was even worse, in his third life. It wouldn’t just be a world, or a nation in battle with another, but a Galaxy of trillions of sentients, all setting themselves against his future family. What was the point of it all? Why keep fighting when it would only be taken away?

Why did it matter if her family was dragged away in chains to become hostages and puppets? Why should she care if the 203rd was slaughtered? 

Why would he care if his father never came home? It was foolish to hope the man would ever grow a spine. That he would stand proud, stand tall, and demand time off to be with his family. And there was no way that his father would ever quit, when he was so pathetically broken.

No, he wouldn’t be like that useless man. He wouldn’t back down, or surrender, or give up. He had a dream, a vision of peace, of security. A chance to be better, and do better.

The boy would not give up, just because his father had. If only he’d known as a youth what he learned as an adult later in life. If he could just talk with his father, explain to the dead eyed office drone that he was doing nothing, achieving only his own suffering. That maybe the man didn’t have what it took to rise through the ranks, but he did have his own potential, talents that he earned with hard work. Maybe the man could be happier with a smaller apartment, running his own business, setting his own hours. Working less, making less, but at least spending time with his son.

Could the boy convince him of that? Was it too late to change?

Swallowing down the nervous lump in his throat, the boy stood and came back out to the living room. Surprised at his own nervousness, he picked up the phone, and dialled. The sound of ringing from outside the door caused the boy to look up. Surprised, he watched as the lock turned, and his father stepped through the door.

“Son?” The man blinked, taking off his glasses, and rubbing the indentations at the top of his nose. Beneath his eyes black bags hung, and he stunk of freshly applied deodorant, trying to hide the smell of cigarettes. “You’re still up?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m still up, and we need to talk.” The boy replied. “You’re killing yourself for nothing, and I’m not going to stand by and watch it happen anymore.”

----

Unified Year 1927

Rain pelted Tanya Degeurechaff, thick droplets spattering off her already soaking flight suit to drip down to the waves crashing beneath her. The seas rolled in the storm, dark undulating masses of waves pounding and moving, as if eager to claim her should she fall. 

Beneath her, a tiny set of lights were just barely visible as it rolled and bobbed with the waves. Behind her, what remained of her Airborne Division flew behind her in a loose formation, only visible to each other at all thanks to the glow of their computation orbs.

“Major, we need to land!” Her radio crackled.

She considered the idea, then decided against it. They shouldn’t be too far from shore at this point, with just a few hours of extra flying, they could find somewhere to recuperate in the Empire. Conditions were unpleasant, and even dangerous, but they should have enough mana to make it.

Besides, what if that was an enemy ship? All it would take is a single radio transmission to doom them all.

“We don’t know if that’s one of ours.” She answered. “Keep flying.”

“I don’t think we’re gonna make it, Ma’am!”

“We’re not far now.” Tanya replied, feeling her temper rising, but keeping her voice calm. “If that’s an enemy ship, they could call the Albish mages down on us. We have to keep going.”

She waited for a reply, but there was none. It seemed like the conversation was over, when all of a sudden one of the lights floating behind her broke formation and swooped down towards the ship.

“Get back in formation!” Tanya barked through the radio. “Soldier! That’s an order!”

The man didn’t reply though.

There was a long silence, as the group waited to find out if the ship represented their salvation or their doom. Tanya felt her own heart thudding against her breast as she realised that this stupid fool of a soldier had probably damned them all. 

“It’s the Kriegsmarine!” The soldier called over the radio, relief and joy in his voice. “Guys, we can shelter here!”

Tanya snarled some curses to herself, half wishing that the man was dead for his foolishness, but also knowing that he might just have saved them. 

Defeat became inevitable when the Allied Kingdom finally announced their entrance to the war. Even before that, the Kaiser’s enemies were all being funded by the island kingdom, and there were plenty of Albish mages serving as volunteers among the Francois and the Russy. The Kaiser was slowly ground down by a war on two fronts, and it became clearer and clearer that victory was improbable at best. The already bleak situation was made worse by the Royal Navy’s blockade, starving the warmachine of vital resources at a crucial moment. 

So a plan was hatched, a desperate one. If the Kriegsmarine could encircle a small part of the Royal Navy, and sink it, then return to port safely, the Albish would be forced to reconsider their blockade. The obvious problem was that the Albish Navy was more than twice the size of the Imperial one, and Albish spies were spread all through the Empire. It seemed just as likely that instead of a portion of the Albish Navy being destroyed, it would be the Kriegsmarine getting sent to the bottom of the ocean.

It was the kind of operation that if successful, would at best buy the Empire more time, and at worst, would see it defeated completely. When presented with the plan, Tanya had advised against the operation. 

The Albish Navy had always been that nation’s military priority, and their Marine Mage Division had been untouched by the entirety of the war. Though the marine mages were inexperienced, they would be fighting in numbers that the Kaiser couldn’t hope to match without sacrificing his other fronts. It would take a miracle for the Imperials to win.

Well, that ended up being what high command had demanded of her, and now here she was miracle-less. The first part of the plan, encircling and destroying a portion of the Royal Navy, had gone smoothly, but it wasn’t long at all until it became clear that the Royal Navy was now encircling the entire Kriegsmarine!

What followed was chaos, and panic. Ship batteries lit up the night as swarms of mages exchanged fire above the fleet. Tanya and her men hadn’t been able to support the battling ships much, because they were desperately trying to survive an enemy force that was better equipped for naval operations and outnumbered them by a significant margin. Finally the Admiral had given the order to make a breakout attempt, aiming to rally once they got closer to the Empire, and Tanya had ordered her mages to follow her as she punched her way through mage marines to freedom.

Now, as her exhausted and weary men began to set down on what seemed like a small Imperial destroyer, Tanya finally had a chance to count what remained of her men. It didn’t take long.

Of every ten mages who had followed her out that night, only three were still alive. Tanya grit her teeth, cursing the Kaiser in her mind, cursing the Admiral who oversaw this disaster, cursing herself for not refusing the order, even if it meant getting shot. 

Her cursing came to a sudden halt, when she finally found Viktoria, her left leg missing beneath the knee. Somehow she’d managed to wrap a tourniquet on the injury and keep fighting, the bleeding slowed by the freezing air high above the Atlantic Ocean. 

Tanya hurried over to her. “Lieutenant.” She said, and tried to shake her shoulder. Viktoria was pale, and shivering. Cold from a mixture of blood loss and a wet flight suit. “Get her below deck!” Tanya yelled! “Find her somewhere warm!”

Some of the burlier mages buried to follow her orders, as a voice said, “It’s a good thing I dropped down to check the ship.”

Tanya spun on the spot, her eyes locking on a fresh faced young teen, barely fifteen. He was new to the airborne, so much so that Tanya didn’t even remember his name at that moment.

Seeing the expression on Tanya’s face, the teen added, “The Lieutenant wouldn’t have been able to fly much longer, if I didn’t check. Sir.”

Without even thinking, her hand undied the clip on her pistol holster, and the soldier gaped as she drew on him.

“How many times do you fools have to ruin everything!” She snarled. “You won’t listen! You never listen! No matter how blindingly obvious the truth is, no matter what reason or logic would dictate, you just do as you please and drag me down to hell with you!” 

“Major, I-”

“Shut up!” She snarled at him. “I should shoot you! It would be pointless, it would achieve nothing, but for a moment at least I would draw the satisfaction of making a fool suffer the consequences of his impulsive actions!”

She pointed the pistol at him, feeling the weight of it in her hands, but after a moment she lowered the gun. “This is it, Gentlemen. Tonight we’ve lost the war. The naval blockade will slowly choke our industries down to nothing, as our people starve and the enemy armies slowly draw closer and closer Baerun. Russy soldiers will rape the women and plunder all of value, while the Francois will impose all blame for the war on us. Some of you here will even be made to stand trial, for the same crimes that our enemies committed against us.”

“None of this is your fault, or mine. Like me, you’ve all done your utmost on every occasion. Delivering victory after impossible victory, time and time again, only for the incompetence of other men to condemn us all to this miserable fate. I had a perfect, unbroken streak of victories under my belt, and for the first time I have what is a clear, indisputable loss to be tallied against me at the last moment. How can I pretend that it doesn't annoy me?”

She looked around her, at the strange, unmoving faces of all her men. They weren’t real. They were merely projections conjured up by the Temple. With a snarl Tanya pitched the pistol overboard.

----

Unified Year 1937

A bag of groceries in hand, Tanya paused at the crosswalk as she watched the traffic lights change from yellow to red. There wasn’t even a second between arriving at this scene, and recognising where she was. This was the Gulf Coast of the Unified States, the state of Tehas. Beautiful, sunny, and booming ever since the end of the Great War. 

It hadn’t been hard for Tanya to escape the lengthy postwar trials based on the simple argument she was a child, and never anything but a helpless conscript under other men’s thumbs. Moving to the Unified States had been the obvious choice, rather than risk getting caught in some kind of repeat of the Weimar Republic. Tanya read the news often, and it didn’t seem like post war Germania had fared very well after having its Kaiser deposed and a Republic instituted at the end of a bayonet.  

These days, Tanya was working for an engineering firm, putting herself through university while participating in research, designing and improving computation orbs for mages. Despite everything that had happened, a bright future awaited her. The workload was hard, but it wouldn’t be too long until she finally had the life of peace and prosperity that she’d dreamed of since childhood.

Except she knew that wouldn’t be the case. Tanya turned around, putting her back to the road and looking across the sidewalk at what she knew was coming. A familiar face, seen only a few times in battlefield situations, mouth twisted up in a hateful sneer as she pointed a small revolver at Tanya. This wasn’t how it happened in real life, Tanya had been crossing a sidewalk when she was shot in the back, but in this vision she was able to turn and look upon her murderer.

Mary looked gaunt, haggard, and her once pretty features had been ruined by a broken nose and a handful of missing teeth. How did she get here? How far had she traveled to find Tanya? How had she tracked her down? Tanya didn’t know, maybe the Force didn’t either, but here Mary was in this stupid vision, finally ready to sate her obsession for revenge. 

Grimacing and rolling her eyes, Tanya grunted with pain as she was shot and fell onto her back. She lay there bleeding out, glaring up at the fading sky.

“So that’s it then?” She demanded. “You expect me to overcome my hate for the woman that killed me? Is that it?”

There was no answer.

“Fear, then anger, and now hate? You expect me to forgive her? The problem is I never hated her. She was pathetic, self-destructive, a secondary cause. Nothing but a puppet of Being X. I don’t hate Mary, I promise. Can we finally move on from these worthless visions?”

Again there was no answer. Tanya sat up, looking around at the crowd of spectators who’d formed around her, many looking shocked and horrified, as they were all frozen in place. Beyond them, Mary was frozen as she exalted triumphantly, throwing both hands up in the air even as she was being wrestled to the ground by a pair of bystanders.

“Pathetic.” A voice replied, a familiar, grinding, alien voice. Tanya turned, to see one of the onlookers had spoken, his lips moving even as the rest of him was frozen in place. “You’re still nothing but a selfish murderer in the end. Even as you face justice for your actions, you think my servant requires your forgiveness.”

“Being X!” Tanya snarled. “It’s about time you showed your…” She trailed off. “Oh, that’s clever. You almost had me going there, Temple. For a moment I believed that might be the real Being X.”

“Oh, blasphemous wretch.” The fake Being X snarled, now from the mouth of a woman, covering her eyes and nearly fainting from the blood. “What do you think this Temple is? A god in its own right? It was never anything but a channel for the Force.”

“No, I don’t believe you.” Tanya replied. “This is just a vision. The only thing in here that’s real is me.”

“That’s just another way to proclaim yourself a god.” Being X answered, speaking now from the mouth of a passing taxi driver. “You really don’t think much at all about things that don’t concern you. The Force, an omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent being, that guides all living things? That’s just another word for God, another one of my many names. Allah, Jehovah, Yahweh, Sol Invictus, or Deus. The list goes on, and on. I am, that I am, and what you name me is irrelevant. You’re here in my Temple, dedicated to me.”

“Liar.” Tanya answered. “You were never a god. You’re just the devil, here to torment me.”

“Call me what you like, it means the same thing. I’m here to extract my due from you. How did Palpatine take control of the Senate? I gave him the power he needed. Why did your father decide to get married so late in life? Because I planted the idea in his head. Why would Maul target your family? Because I fanned the flames of revenge in his heart.”

“How dare you!” Tanya snarled, grimacing at the pain her bullet wound cause. With agonising slowness, she forced herself to her feet, ignoring the hot fluid seeping down the front of her shirt. She pointed her finger at him, accusing. “You sent the assassin! Not me! You shot me in the back! Not Mary. You pushed me in front of a train! You started a World War! You’re going to start a Galactic War? WHY?! Because I won’t pretend to owe you reverence?!”

Suddenly Mary herself surged forward, effortlessly breaking free of the men holding her in place, her eyes glowing gold. With unnatural strength she seized Tanya’s throat, and lifted her into the air, screaming in that eldritch voice, “You will bow down and worship me, even if it takes a million lifetimes, and countless loved ones. You will break! I have an eternity to torment you!”

“No you don’t.” Tanya laughed, wincing at the pain as her body was jostled. “The first time we met, all it took was one insult for you to lose patience with me. You don’t have an eternity, you have until you give up.”

Being X’s puppet froze.

“You won’t defeat me, because at your heart, you’re weak. Soft. You can’t accept hardship, or face even a hint of pushback. You just whine and whine about how the universe is unfair, without even an ounce of the willpower it would take to change yourself, to fix the situation you created. All that power, but it’s still not enough, right?” Tanya chuckled. 

Stunned, Being X dropped her. “Shut up!” Mary’s face snarled. “Don’t talk to your creator like that!” 

“You’re not my creator!” Tanya laughed. “You never could be! You’re not god! I said it the first time I met you, I wasn’t fooled. A real god, one who could have made the universe billions of years ago, painstakingly placing every atom and molecule, defining every one of the countless parameters of the laws of physics, who watched over it all, carefully nudging it hear and there, to finally give birth to mankind from the seed of apes? That could never be you. You are, and always have been nothing but a liar, trying to take credit for the work of your betters. If god exists, he could never be a lying parasite like you.”

Finally, Tanya looked the stunned puppet in the face. “You’re not worthy of my hatred. I will handle the threat that you represent, dismiss you from my mind, then move on.”

29 BBY

Tan’ya opened her eyes, looking around to find herself standing in the doorframe she’d just passed through a moment ago. She felt hungry, like hours had passed instead of seconds.

Sitting cross legged before her, Asajj also opened her eyes, looking up to see her new Padawan return. “You did it!” Standing up slowly, Asajj winced and grabbed her stomach. “How long did it take? I’m starving.”

“I don’t know.” Tan’ya replied, reaching for holocom, but finding something else in her pocket. When she took it out, sitting in her hands was a golden gem the size of a walnut.

----

“Master, I’ve found her where you said she’d be, but…”

“But what?” 

“She’s not… doing well.”

That was an understatement. The Undercity orphan was living in a filthy alleyway, with duracrete slugs crawling over the walls and stone mites growing from every crack. Conduit worms had completely encased the nearby wiring, parasitically feeding off the areas of electricity, and draining the overhead bulb that should have illuminated the alleyway of its power. The foul smell of the breeding insects had the acolyte glad he was wearing a breathing mask, for what little protection it offered.

This far into the Undercity, the air was hazy with fumes. Normally plasma gas would burn without leaving a scent, but a bad fuel line could mix in all kinds of other stuff, leaving everything down here choked with poisonous smoke.

The orphan girl seemed to recognise that at least somewhat. The rag she had wrapped around her face smelled of urine, and her decrepit little hideout was littered with food scraps she’d managed to steal. For a bed she’d managed to drag away a shipping pallet to keep her off the ground, and line it with a collection of missing clothes. She was filthy, and her breath whistled in her lungs from obvious damage.

“She’s not in great condition, Master.” The acolyte said. “Are you sure she’s the one you want?”

“Yes. She has a potential that no one else has seen.” There was a pause, then the Master added, “Show her to me.”

The patrolmen leaned closer, taking the orphan into the radius of his glowing holocom. Its blue light reflected off her large, pale eyes, as she fearfully huddled deeper into the alley’s corner. 

“Are you hurt, little one?” The Master asked.

“You shouldn’t help.” Mary whimpered, eyes falling to the floor. “There’s something wrong with me. I didn’t mean to kill them, but… I was so scared, and angry.” She swallowed once, raising her eyes to look at the Master. “I’m a monster.”

The Master’s eyes seemed to gleam brighter. “What’s your name, little one?”

She looked stunned by the question. It took a long time for her to answer, as though until that moment she hadn’t spoken with anyone since the minute her parents died. “...Mary.” She swallowed, then answered. “My name is Mary.” 

“....Goooood.”

Chapter 38

In progress chapter for those who want to follow the writing as it progresses. I've decided to leave commenting open, for anyone who spots a mistake to let me know.

A Change of Plans: New Chapter 37

I uploaded chapter 37 here for you my supporters about a month ago, and immediatley began work on chapter 38. Since then I've come to the conclusion the timeskip in Chapter 37 is just a bit too abrupt, even if I think the chapter itself is decent. I've decided I want to move Chapter 37 forward to become Chapter 40, and write a few more intervening chapters to help tie off some loose ends, and set up the timeskip a bit better.

Please find below the new Chapter 37, and let me know what you think. All feedback is appreciated.
---

BBY 29

When Silas arrived at Serenno, he gasped at the feeling of the Force that surrounded the planet. He felt his grandson instinctively press closer into his side out of fear, and he put a hand on the boy’s head. It was like the planet was suddenly soaked in a cold mist, the usual warmth and life of the Force made quiet with a sinister chill. 

Dooku had said that an assassin had attacked, but he failed to mention that it was a powerful darksider. A very powerful one, if they could disrupt the entirety of the nearby Force. He’d never been to a hub of the Dark Side before, but he had visited Coruscant, and the sensation reminded him of that, though less stale. How the Coruscant Jedi could stand it, he didn’t know.

The ship’s ramp lowered, and waiting for him on the tarmac was a team of House Guards. Jedi Knight Asajj stood behind them, not there to make the arrest herself, but clearly to lend support if it was needed. 

“Jedi Master Sturn, we’re here to place you under arrest for dereliction of duty.” The leader said, and Sturn recognised the voice of Colonel Gon Seith, though he was wearing a helmet.

“Of course, I surrender.” He stepped away from Yash, but his grandson clung fearfully to his side. “Yash, you have to let go.” But the boy who had just been kidnapped in the middle of the night was completely unwilling to leave his grandfather’s side. “What will happen to Yash?” He asked Gon.

“...If you hand over your lightsaber, we can let him ride with you.” Gon said. “We’ll keep him safe until the Green Jedi arrange for someone to come pick him up.”

The promises were reassuring, Sturn knew Gon to be an honourable man, even if he kept his mind shielded. All the House Guards did, and all of them were carrying scatterguns at their side. They really seemed like they were preparing to fight even the Jedi if they had to.

Sturn handed over his lightsaber, and accepted the sacanium manacles they slapped onto his wrists. Yash remained nervously glued to his side, even as the speeder they were in transported them to the city barracks. 

In comparison to the elite, disciplined and obviously highly trained House Guards, Serenno’s Armed Regulars were a much less impressive sight. They only had laminated breastplates and helmets that revealed their faces, and otherwise moved about in khaki colored clothes that covered their arms and legs. They were only equipped with blaster rifles and pistols, and none of them knew how to shield their minds. Still, they all seemed focused, moving about their various tasks, and shared a burning undercurrent of resentment. The recent assassination attempt was a fresh wound in their minds, and more than one dreamed of going to Coruscant to take revenge. That surprised Sturn. All of them seemed to regard the enemy assassin as an agent of the Republic, who they regarded with fear and distrust. 

It wasn’t long until the House Guard separated him from Yash, the boy looking over his shoulder fearfully as he was led to the canteen to get a full meal under the watchful eye of a smiling woman in uniform.

Expecting to be taken to his cell, Sturn was surprised when he was instead led straight to the commander’s office. Seated behind the desk was Serenno’s ranking military commander, Tan’ya, and her father looming behind her shoulder. The two of them presented a unified front, minds closed and regarding him with the same expression of anger thinly restrained only by an aristocratic facade.

On this planet, Dooku’s word was law. In most mid-sized towns and villages across Serenno, local nobility and custom decided punishments. In the larger cities, there were courts and judges to litigate cases, but the Count had all the authority needed to declare Sturn guilty and sentence him however he pleased, no judge or jury needed.

Steeling himself, Sturn stood straighter, calling on the Force to resist his own sense of fear. “I’m here to accept any punishment. Do whatever you have to. Shoot me if you must.”

“Oh, how very noble of you.” Dooku caustically drawled. “It must be comforting to think that you can abandon your duty to my family, and then because we shoot you, that means you’ve made amends.”

“Do you really think for a second that your own life is worth the same as Madalee’s? Or Athemeenes?” Tanya demanded. 

“How about Yash?” Sturn replied. “What’s he worth?”

Tanya bristled at that. “Even if the assassin was on the call, you could have signalled one of the House Guard. Instead you panicked and ran, abandoning your duty in the middle of a coordinated attack. You have no excuses.”

Sturn doubted that he could have made a signal with his hands that the kidnapper wouldn’t have seen. However, there really wasn’t a point in making that argument right now. “You’re right. I have no excuse. Now do whatever you have to.”

The two of them looked at each other, and Tanya’s lip curled in distaste. 

Dooku reached to his own belt, and took out a lightsaber with a long handle that he offered to Sturn. The Green Jedi blinked, shocked that they were handing him a weapon. He glanced at the two of them, briefly considering then dismissing the notion that they wanted some excuse to shoot him. Reaching out slowly, Sturn laid his fingers over the hilt, then gasped at the feeling of cold that radiated through the Force. Closing his hand around the weapon, he drew it back and thumbed the activator. The room was filled with a glow of red light, as a Sith lightsaber ignited before him, and Sturn blinked in shock at the blade, not quite believing what he was seeing.

“Did this come from the ruin?” He asked, looking at Tanya, despite knowing in his bones that wasn’t the case. The leather on the grip was brand new, the hilt gleaming with fresh polish. “The assassin?” Sturn demanded, wide eyed. “The assassin was a Sith?” 

“A Sith assassin was dispatched to kill my family.” Dooku confirmed. “And was almost certainly behind the attack on the Correllian Temple.” 

Sturn gaped, disbelieving. “The Sith are extinct!” He protested, and even as he said it, he already felt himself not believing it.

“They were extinct.” Tanya corrected him. “But Sith philosophy has only ever been a response to Jedi philosophy. Maybe our current strain of Sith are descended from the original species, or maybe not, but all it would take to recreate them is a single defecting Jedi.”

“Why are they targeting your family?” Sturn demanded. “Do you have something to do with this?”

Dooku frowned, turning his head to make eye contact with his daughter. She nodded once, as if encouraging him to continue, before with a sigh, the Count looked back to Sturn. “They attempted to recruit me. Not overtly, not at first, but they recognised my dissatisfaction with the Republic, and sought for me to join them. Of course I didn’t know they were Sith at the time, but eventually I pulled away when it became apparent who I was dealing with, and now Dark Side assassins are targeting my friends and family.”

“No…” Sturn breathed out. “No, if the Sith were active, the Coruscant Temple would have warned us.”

 “It is unwise to rely on the Jedi Council for much at all.” Dooku sniffed contemptuously. “They are totally blind to the fact that our present Supreme Chancellor Palpatine is a puppet of the Sith, as is much of the Senate. It was Palpatine himself who attempted to recruit me into their secret cause with promises of power.”

“No, you can’t prove any of this.” Sturn interrupted, even as his mind raced. The idea was so terrible that he couldn’t even consider it. The Supreme Chancellor working for the Sith? “I don’t believe you. This kyber crystal easily could have come from the ruin you unearthed, and the lightsaber could have been made in the last few hours.”

Dooku took out his compad, and pressed a few buttons. “I’m going to make available to you footage from the Sith’s attack. We also have his body in our morgue, so that you can inspect it yourself under supervision.”

“We’ll also provide a copy of this conversation to you, when you leave.” Tan’ya added. “You may need to refer to it later.”

“Refer to it later?” Sturn blinked, staring in disbelief at the two of them. “For what?”

“For when you report to the Green Jedi Council.” Tanya replied. 

Sturn froze at that. What these two were saying was completely insane, but any report he made to the Temple on Corellia would absolutely have to include a copy of this conversation. “I thought you were going to shoot me.” He murmured.

“Our military law would demand nothing less in response to desertion.” Tanya glared at him. “However, surviving what is to come requires compromises. So instead, we will put Serenno’s wellbeing before its law.”

“This era of peace is rapidly coming to an end.” Dooku explained, his stern tone seeming cordial compared to his daughter’s icy venom. “The Sith have evolved, but the Jedi on Coruscant remain stagnant and willingly blind. They take younglings in as infants, just to prevent them from developing even the potential to touch the Dark Side. They are like a man who eats spoiled food because he cut off his nose and can’t smell the rot. ” He met Sturn’s gaze, pinning him in place with a glare. “You’ve been to Coruscant. I’m sure you’ve felt the Dark Side growing in strength there. They can’t even feel that the world they live on has become an open wound in the Galaxy’s centre.”

“Okay, hold on.” Sturn held out a hand, struggling to keep up. “So there’s a Sith faction on Coruscant manipulating the Senate. Have you tried warning them?”

There was a flash of anger behind Dooku’s eyes, before he concealed it. “I’ve been warning them of the coming darkness for years. Sifo had a prophecy on the very subject. They’ve declared Anakin Skywalker the chosen one. A Jedi Master has been assassinated by a Sith.” Dooku answered. “If even that wasn’t enough, I have told Padme Amidala about Chancellor Palpatine, and she has told them. Now the Council won’t even take my calls anymore. They are beyond help.”

“Well, I’m sure relations are difficult between you, but if they knew, there’s no way they’d do nothing.”

“They are willfully blind, and they will not change their ways.” Dooku dismissed. “Tell them everything I’ve said, if you like. You will get no further than I have.”

Sturn stopped. “So… You’ve chosen to spare my life because you believe I can convince the Green Jedi of your theory. Even if I don’t believe it?”

Tan’ya answered. “You believe that we believe. You will present our evidence to the Green Jedi, and then they will investigate. With luck, they will see what we see.” 

“But it’s all just speculation. Without anything to prove Sith involvement, this is all just wild conspiracy theories.”

“We know the Sith were directly involved in the Invasion of Naboo.” Dooku said. “They made two attempts at eliminating Queen Padme Amidala. The one who would have benefited the most if they succeeded was Palpatine, who even despite their failure was able to maneuver himself into the role of Supreme Chancellor.” 

“I don’t think it at all strange that a politician would use a crisis to their advantage.” Sturn countered.

“By itself, no, but in conjunction with the fact he tried to recruit me to his secret cause with promises of power, and then when I refused my family was attacked by a Sith?”

“The only evidence you’ve given me is a red lightsaber!” Sturn objected. “There has to be another explanation then the Republic has been taken over by the Sith!”

“In the meantime,” Tan’ya added, “we’ll be contacting the other Orders. Only once a consensus is reached will we finally be able to do something about this madness.”

Dooku pushed a button and a number of House Guards entered the room behind Sturn. Without hesitation, they immediately seized his arms and painfully jerked them behind his back, before slapping durasteel cuffs onto his wrists.

“I thought you said you were sending me back to Corellia!” Sturn gasped.

Dooku drew himself up, walking around the table to stand before Sturn directly. “We are, but you are guilty of dereliction of duty, Sturn. We’re not sending you back there the way you came, piloting your own vessel and sitting proud at the bridge of a ship. We’re deporting you back to Corellia. On the way there you will be branded as a criminal, and exiled. If you ever return to Serenno, you will be executed. This is mercy, and you would be wise to remember it as such.” Dooku then turned his back on the man. “Now take him away.”

Watching Sturn dragged away from the meeting, Tanya found herself with mixed feelings about the man. His abhorrent abandonment of his duty at the worst possible moment had damn near killed her family, and her. At the same time, he seemed so hopelessly naive, Tanya almost didn’t know what to make of him. He grew up in Corellia, the Garden of the Republic. He fully believed in the ideals of the Republic, and yet somehow he didn’t seem to realise that by rendering aid to an Outer Rim Autocrat, he was betraying those ideals. 

In the end, she would be glad to never have to see him again. 

The logic behind showing him mercy was simple. On Coruscant, there were more than ten thousand Jedi ready to lay down their lives in defence of Supreme Chancellor Palpatine, while the New Temple was just starting to close in on two hundred. That was only if you included the various Teepo Paladins, Atlesian Jedi, Green Jedi and the like that hadn’t yet fully committed to joining, but had at least stuck around.

All this was to say that if the Coruscant Jedi fully committed themselves to crushing the New Temple, a coalition of lesser orders would be their only hope of victory.

“I don’t like this.” Dooku murmured.

“A basic rule of PR is that if you’re not actively communicating with your audience, someone else is.” Tanya replied, eyes locked on the door Sturn has been just dragged through. “Palpatine is going to be doing his best to discredit you, and by extension our alliance, if he isn’t doing so already. That’s not even mentioning the risk of your secret getting out. We need to get ahead of the scandal, and have our version of events circulating among Galaxy's political circles. Besides, what better way to discredit the Supreme Chancellor than with something somewhat close to the truth?”

Dooku regarded her, and Tan’ya felt his gaze on the back of her neck, but chose to ignore it. After what he’d done, it would be ridiculous for him to try and argue with her proposed strategy. The man had just about done his best to work Serenno into an unwinnable corner through nothing but stubborn pride! Only now, after an assassin had almost killed his family, was he finally able to admit to his role in an insane conspiracy that was doomed to fail, and take everyone associated down with it!

The convoluted layers of this self proclaimed Sith Lord’s plan were so absurd as to make Tan’ya howl with laughter, if not for the fact that when, not if, when it was found out by the Jedi, she would find herself caught in the fallout.

A single Sith Lord, maybe with a few assassins to call on, seriously thought he would be able to overcome the ten thousand strong force of the Jedi that were a literal city block away from him? It was only down to the intervention of Being X that this Lord Sidious had gone undetected for so long, and thank goodness for that, because it gave Tan’ya a chance to drag her father out of the scandal!

Once the lesser orders began to investigate, they would draw the attention and scrutiny of the Coruscant Temple towards Palpatine. Once the Jedi Council realised who he was, the Dark Lord of the Sith was a dead man. However powerful he might be, he stood no chance against the ten thousand strong horde of Jedi zealots that would soon kick his door down.

“It won’t work.” Dooku rumbled.

Tan’ya blinked, turning to look at him. “Once the Jedi Council sees the truth, they will take action.”

“They will never see the truth.” Dooku replied. 

“What makes you so sure?” 

“Yoda was the most stubborn fool I had ever known, until one day he was finally surpassed in that regard by a padawan named Mace Windu.”

It wasn’t that Tan’ya doubted the sincerity of his words, but she suspected the two of them would say the same thing about her father. 

Either way, the presence or absence of a Sith Lord was irrelevant. Nothing would ultimately change the course of the Republic, or avert Being X’s obvious plans. Serenno and the rest of the Outer Rim were growing in power, and with demand from the increasingly decadent core far outstripping supply, some form of civil unrest was inevitable. As Coreworld markets destabilized, the Senate would find the distant upstarts the perfect scapegoat of public’s ire, and war would break out. 

In simple terms, the Outer Rim Alliance and the New Temple stood no chance. Though most of the Outer Rim possessed much more martial cultures then the Core, and many had experienced combat more recently, effective military tactics could and would be learned by any society exposed to conflict for long enough. The Core enjoyed a major economic advantage, as well as being vastly more industrialised, with a much larger population. It might take a while to find its stride, but a fully mobilised Republic was an unstoppable juggernaut that had crushed half a dozen Sith Empires, as many Mandalorian Crusades, the Kingdom of Xim, and countless other Galactic upstarts besides. 

The thought of it left her stomach roiling with anxiety.

But that was the most insidious part of Being X’s plan, wasn’t it? She could walk out the door in a heartbeat with a fortune all her own just from accessing public funds. Of course she would never be a trillionaire, or even a billionaire, but she could certainly live in comfort far away from the concerns of a burning Galaxy. But he had placed her somewhere she would inherit countless responsibilities, and to see such potential for her world and its people, all just to force her into a corner. If the goal was to retire into comfort, there was absolutely nothing preventing Tan’ya from doing that at this exact moment. 

The only problem was she didn’t want to. Serenno had such potential, its people hardworking and with a long history and rich traditions. They weren’t thieves or robbers, bandits or slavers, just ordinary folk who had been subjugated under the heels of first the Sith, then later the Senate for almost their entire history. Tan’ya could feel something here, a shape waiting just below the surface whose face she had only just begun to reveal. 

She didn’t want to leave Serenno, she wanted to build a legacy here.

“Alright.” Tan’ya breathed out. “Now we need to prepare a briefing for the other Force Orders. First we-”

“Daughter, stop.” Dooku interrupted her. “I can manage them myself, I’m perfectly experienced in matters of diplomacy. I have another task for you.”

Tan’ya paused, trying to think of what he could be referring to, but coming up short. “What are you thinking of?”

“If the Sith are going to target my friends and family, then I will need to be sure they are protected. From now on, Athemeene, Kenth, Madalee and Ideon will all travel with me whenever they’re not at the New Temple, but your work is far too important to disrupt. You need to learn to defend yourself, and you need a guardian who can teach you. One that I approve of, one that we can trust. Asajj is the only option. You will become her Padawan.”

Tan’ya frowned, annoyed, though she understood his reasoning. The recent attack had highlighted the vulnerability of the entire family, and if the Sith were going to continue targeting them, she would need to be able to defend herself. Still, she resented the idea of continuing deeper into the Jedi cult. Was there no way she could study the Force in a secular capacity?

She filed that idea away for the future. A secular school for the Force.

“I see you don’t like the idea. You would rather continue with your other projects…” Dooku smiled, then the expression on his face froze, and a look of worry replaced it.. “But daughter, I know you used the Dark Side here.”

“Of course I did!” Tan’ya defended herself. “It was that or death!” 

“I agree. I’m glad that you did, because you’re still alive. However, the Dark Side is not without its risks. Imagine a black hole. You can observe it from a distance safely, and you can even come close enough to feel its tug, but eventually a threshold is crossed, and escape is impossible. It’s good that in this case, the Dark Side was able to save you, but if you do not master the Force, and do not learn to fight without relying on it as a crutch, it will consume you.”

“But haven’t you used the Dark Side?” Tan’ya asked.

“Yes… and look where that’s brought us.”

Tan’ya supposed she could see his point. “Very well. I’ll call Asajj right away.”

“And I’ll prepare a diplomatic package for every Force Order.”

“Including Coruscant?”

Dooku gave her a long-suffering expression.

“Father, you need to send this to Coruscant as well.”

“They won’t believe any of it.”

“Maybe not.” Tan’ya agreed. “But we can’t have them thinking we’re trying to build a coalition against them.”

“That’s exactly what we’re trying to do.”

“Which is exactly why we can’t have them thinking that.”

“...Very well.” Dooku at last ground out. “I’ll send… Ky, I suppose. Perhaps he’ll have the patience to talk to those fools, because the Force knows I do not.”

Blood of the Grail: Prologue

Petrus knew he was in trouble the moment he saw the four barbarians with his own eyes. Unlike him, they were men of the West; pale and hairy, with sunken blue eyes and filthy, matted brown hair. Behind him stood a young lad with a spear, but all of them were armed, with hands resting on the swords at their belts. Petrus could feel the gaze on the back of his back, raising gooseflesh all over his body. At a nod from the oldest one with greys in his beard, the door slowly creaked shut, before the latch was bolted into place with a heavy clunk. 

Petrus licked his lips and swallowed, his throat feeling parched all of a sudden. The sun was at its peak, and even indoors his armpits were damp with sweat. The curtains were drawn, and the air was stifling with the sour odor of four men who had been trapped inside a room for many days, and he wondered how long they’d been hiding down here. Between him and the three was a worn table, no chairs and no plates.

Lord, what am I doing here? His stomach roiled as they all stared at him for a dozen heartbeats, before finally he broke the silence. “I’m Petrus.” He introduced himself. “Odger said you all had something to sell?”

The greybeard stepped forward. “You have the silver?” With just those three words, Petrus felt his anxiety grow worse. They spoke with a thick accent and odd pronunciations. This clearly wasn’t his native language, and Petrus prayed that he wouldn’t die from a miscommunication.

“No.” He answered, honestly.

Immediately, the man changed his stance, leaning forward and unsheathing his knife to show an inch of steel with his right hand. “You think you can buy without paying?!” He snarled, and the youth at the door hissed. Petrus glanced back at him, seeing the boy warning with a finger to his lips that the others should keep their voice low.

“I don’t know you.” Petrus explained, turning back to face the leader. He kept his voice soft, just above a whisper. “You could try to rob me.” He hesitated, before adding, “Sorry, but you are thieves.”

The men exchanged looks, and the greybeard gave him an offended glare. “We are not.” He declared, though there was a note of uncertainty in his voice.

“My friend, if what you were trying to sell belonged to you then you wouldn’t have called for me.”

The leader’s lips twisted into a grimace, but he didn’t try to argue again. “What about the silver?” He demanded. 

“I won’t bring it to a first meeting.” Petrus explained. “If I’d worked with you before, then perhaps I might trust you, but today, I will see what you have and offer you a price. If that price isn’t high enough for you, I could try and arrange a buyer who can offer more. Finally, if neither of those are suitable, we could consider ransoming the item back to the original owner. Otherwise we go our separate ways, and forget all about eachother.” He held out his hands, feeling enough confidence returning that he gave them a genial smile. “Please, I’m a professional.”

The western men frowned at each other, before taking a step back. For a few long moments they huddled and spoke to each other in their native tongue, gesturing animatedly as they jabbered. When they reached some kind of agreement, their leader turned and said, “We will show you, and you will give us a price.” After Petrus nodded, the man moved to the back of the room. From an old brown vase he took out a bundle of cloth with great care. Slowly, he unfurled it on the table, and the fence was able to see what was stolen.

It took him a few moment’s to recognise what was there, but when he did he staggered back as if someone had struck him. There were ten glass phials, stopped with cork and wax, each filled with blood and crudely stuffed into the slits of a leather belt that had been turned into a bandolier. Petrus raised his gaze, staring in disbelief at these barbarians who had dared to lay their hands on something like this.

“No…” He uttered, breathing out. “No, this can’t be real…”

Their leader growled like a beast, finally leaning forward so Petrus could see the resentful fire burning in his eyes, and smell the rotten stink of his breath. “It was taken from Prince Baldwin’s tent. During the sacking, his guards abandoned their post to claim plunder. The only one inside was his camp-bride.” He sneered. “She cried out, but many were screaming that day. We took these from the prince’s chest, and left no one to share the tale. You must have heard that the Prince’s tent was plundered, now the whole city knows what was stolen. We’ve been hiding down here this whole time as the streets were searched and word was passed around. Everyone who leaves the city is being searched now, and if we’re caught with this we’ll all burn.”

Petrus believed the story, and he felt the butterflies stir in his stomach again. “I can’t sell these.” He explained. “Everyone will know what they are.”

“Ransom.” The man breathed out. “We can ransom it back to the Prince.”

It was an idea so crazy that Petrus had to hold back a laugh. “Please.” He begged. “Please, understand. We can’t ransom this. The Prince will make any promise, and then slaughter us all.”

The westerner scowled. “Well, if you can’t sell them, and if you won’t try to ransom them, we have no use for you.” He looked at the lad guarding the door, and raised a hand to his throat. 

“W-wait!” Petrus spluttered. “Hold on.” His mind raced as he spoke, thoughts tumbling from his lips as he made them. “These are- I can’t sell them now! But maybe, in ten years, I can sell them then. I can bury them, and dig them up, and sell them for a profit then. I can get you silver now.”

“How much?”

Petrus hesitated, considering the question. He was a fence, that was how he made his living. He couldn’t spend every coin he had on something that wouldn’t pay off for a decade or more. “I can get you…” He swallowed, thinking hard, desperately trying to do the talleys in his head, but aware that if he gave a number too low, these men would cut his throat. “I can give you fifty silver pieces.”

One of the men snorted in disbelief, shaking his head and uttering a curse in his tongue. 

“These are worth a kingdom! Tens of thousands of silver pieces at least!” The leader snarled. He reached across the table, ignoring the lad at the door trying to hush him. Snatching Petrus's collar, he dragged him close enough that the fence could make out the black teeth from the white in his mouth. “Fifty pieces? And you say we’re thieves!”

“No!” Petrus murmured. “Please! Think! How can I pay more for something that I won’t see a return on for a decade? There isn’t a fence in the world who has a thousand silver, let alone ten!”

“I’ll think on it as I flay you alive, scum!” 

“Alvaric, stop!” The lad at the door barked, speaking Petrus’s tongue perfectly. “Have you gone mad? We’ve been trapped here for a week! We’ll never make it home at this rate! Just take the price, and let’s leave this cursed city.”

“A mere fifty pieces!” Alvaric snapped. “That’s nothing!”

“On the farm I’d be lucky to see two pieces of silver in a good year!” The lad replied. “With a dozen pieces, I’ll be able to buy the farm for myself! Let’s just take it and go!”

“A farm?!” Alvaric roared. “A farm?! I could be living in a palace! I could have everything I ever wanted, for me and my grandchildren’s grandchildren, and you think I’ll just go home?!”

The touch of cold steel to Petrus's neck made him draw his breath sharply. He looked down without moving his head to see a dagger held at his neck, Alvaric’s spidery hands shaking with rage.

“I can’t go home!” Alvaric’s bellowed, so loud that Petrus's ears rang. Tears glistened in the man’s eyes. “I’ve known hunger so great that I ate boot leather to sate it! My throat was so parched that I drank piss to wet it! I cut the throats of sick and dying brothers and called it mercy! You think that’s worth a dozen pieces?!”

“P-please!” Petrus begged. “Please, put the knife down!”

But Alvaric didn’t even seem to hear him… He clenched his eyes shut, sobbing. 

“Alvaric, you’ll damn us all!”

“I’m already damned!” The man snarled, and drew the blade back.

The pain forced a sharp gasp from Petrus, as an arc of his own blood sprayed out before him. He clutched at his neck, feeling his own hot essence running over his hands. He tried to swallow the blood filling his stomach, but he was drowning in it. Head spinning, he fell to his knees, desperately trying to breath. I’m dying. He realised through the panic. I’m a dead man.

Above him the lad lashed out, impaling Alvaric with the tip of his spear. The other two men leapt at him, taking out their own blades even as he tipped the table over to slow them. The phials fell to the floor, but none broke. Petrus didn’t have the strength to stay on his knees. He collapsed face first into the dirt, choking as the spreading pool of crimson filled his own eyes and blinded him. 

CoS 37

The new chapter, I have begun progress on. Feedback is appreciated. And yes, 22 BBY is the year that the Clone Wars canonically started.

Intermission Chapter 36.1

BBY 29

It was late in the afternoon when Obi-wan Kenobi first received the call, and only a few minutes after that he rushed off to find the Grandmaster. With a cup of tea in hand, Yoda was relaxing in his private chambers as he felt Obi-wan hurrying to see him. The orthodox Padawan had become an orthodox knight, and Yoda knew Kenobi wouldn’t have been so impatient if the situation wasn’t important.

“Master Yoda!” He let himself inside, and then paused with a slightly guilty expression at the realisation that he was clearly interrupting. “I apologise, but this is urgent.”

“Go ahead, young Kenobi.” Yoda assured him.

“I just received a call from an old friend, Guerra Derida, and he wanted to know why he and the rest of the Council of Phindar were being taken into custody by a Jedi Knight!” Obi-wan raised his voice in astonishment. “Master, Dooku has led an invasion of the Phindar sector! He’s sent Knight Ventress to round up the planet’s leadership!”

A small, tired and selfish part of Yoda didn’t want to hear about this at all. It simply wanted to go to bed, and pretend it knew nothing. With a grunt of exertion, Yoda pushed himself to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane and wincing as his ancient bones ground together.

“Go inform Master Windu.” Yoda ordered. “An emergency meeting of the Council will be convened.”

Whatever temptations Yoda might have felt for his bed were put far from his mind when he climbed onto his repulsorlift chair, and rode it up to the Council Chambers. It wasn’t long at all until the rest of the Council joined him there, Master Windu striding into the room first with a dark scowl on his face. The man had his mind shielded as firmly as any Yoda had ever known, but he knew Windu regretted his decision all those years ago. He had voted to establish the New Temple along with several other masters after being made promises by Dooku, and clearly felt betrayed now more than ever.

As the other Masters began to arrive, Windu leaned over in his seat to Yoda. “Do you think this is connected to the Sith?”

Yoda wished he could say that he thought it wasn’t. He wished that he still trusted his former padawan, but to do so would be naive. The Sith had returned, that much was certain. The arm and lightsaber Kenobi had taken confirmed he was a Nightbrother of Dathomir, and where there was one there was likely others. It seemed that Dathomir had become the recruiting ground for a new generation of Sith, explaining why the Jedi had never been able to locate powerful Force Sensitives on that world, despite the frequent appearance of weaker ones.  

This new sect of Sith, whoever they were, would see the breaking away of the New Temple as an opportunity. Whatever Dooku’s hopes for the New Temple, and his plans to pacify the Outer Rim, basic tactics were to divide and conquer your enemy. 

To make matters worse, Dooku refused to reduce the age at which he recruited new Jedi. It left his order vulnerable to infiltration. That boy had always been ambitious and determined to see things done his way, Yoda thought. How resilient would Dooku be to the whispered promises of a Sith? It was all too easy to imagine a scenario where Dooku, long embittered against the Republic, was turned into a pawn in a dark game to divide and conquer. Even the boy’s growing rivalry with the Trade Federation was fraught with the potential to turn into a confrontation with the Republic, and that was even when assuming no Sith involvement.

Even so, it was simply possible that Dooku had made his move on Phindar simply out of feudal ambitions. During the Dark Age, Jedi Lords were perfectly willing to go to war with each other or neutral systems if they felt they had to. At the end of the day, whatever his Jedi training, the man was a Count now. It would be foolish to believe he wouldn’t act like it, even without Sith involvement. 

All these thoughts passed through Yoda’s mind as Windu watched him. 

In the end, whatever his speculations, Yoda couldn’t answer. He just didn’t know. 

“Clouded, the matter is.” He rumpled, leaning back into his chair, and Windu did the same as the rest of the Jedi Council sat down.

With everyone assembled, the meeting began. Windu explained the situation, and the rest of the Council received the news calmly. After that, just as they began to discuss responses, the holoprojector in the centre of the room chimed. 

Windu quickly glanced at who was calling, his scowl deepening. “Master Dooku is trying to reach us.”

Ki Adi Mundi was the first to respond. “Most likely, he realises he’s gotten himself in trouble with the Senate, and is trying to persuade us to go along with his annexation.”

Yaddle said, “Please. We all know Dooku wouldn’t do something so drastic without good reason.”

“We did know him once.” Ki Adi countered. “But he’s changed.”

That got everyone nodding, though Yaddle frowned with unspoken disagreement.

“Whatever he’s calling for, to speak to him at this time might suggest that we support his current actions.” Windu said. “Our role is to mediate an end to conflict. Whatever Dooku’s issues with Phindar, we can’t be trusted to be peacemakers if we treat him with favor. We cannot afford the appearance of collusion.”

There was a round of nods, and Yoda saw that the Council were already in agreement. “Very well.” He said.

After muting the call, the Council let Dooku try to call a few more times as they resolved a course of action. The first thing to do was to send a Jedi team to Phindar to assess what exactly was happening there, and what could be done about it. Once they had determined who the aggrieved parties were, and what the cause of the fighting was, they would attempt to negotiate a settlement.

Yoda went to bed that night, and considered calling Dooku personally, but held himself back from doing so. Windu was right. The Jedi must remain apart from the cut and thrust of local politics. They couldn’t be dragged down by personal connections. He meditated before bed, casting his mind out to find Dooku stressed and worried as he rushed back to Serenno, but Yoda had expected as much and withdrew himself before he was noticed. When he did go to sleep, he dreamed of nothing and rested comfortably.

---

Anakin thought that in some ways Coruscant was almost the same as Tatooine. There were big differences too, like it was never quite as warm, though the nights were just as cold. Even just a normal city street made the noisiest festival in Mos Esper seem like nothing. No dune songs, but always the woosh of passing traffic.

The people were the same though, the way they thought. A lot of people were miserable, struggling to make it through the hour or the day, and they did that by not thinking about anyone else. They shut down that little voice inside themselves that told them they were being rude, or hiding the truth. There was no need for right or wrong when you were caught in a sandstorm. Anakin didn’t blame them, he did the same thing.

When he was grown he wouldn’t have to turn a blind eye. When he was older, and stronger, he wouldn’t look away from the unhappy people, he’d just do something about it. No one would be able to stop him.

“Anakin.” Master Yoda’s voice rang out sharply. “Clear your mind.”

Right, meditation. Anakin breathed out, trying again to focus his thoughts. Or unfocus them.

Whatever.

Meditation didn’t come to him easily. There were always so many people moving about, thinking and discussing billions of different things, and machines were everywhere. Amazing ones that he’d never even seen or heard of before, that could do things he never even knew needed doing. Floating billboards that did nothing but show advertisements, holorecorders that could alter the sounds they recorded, and best of all, the holonet! The holonet in particular was shiny! Everything was on the holonet.

“Anakin.” Master Yoda warned. “You must make your mind still.”

Right. Still.

He could do still.

“On Tatooine, there were days of rest, hm?” Yoda asked. “With your mind, show me those days of peace.”

Anakin frowned. When he was a slave on Tatooine, there were no days of rest. Even on race days, which all the free sentients took to watch the circuit, slaves were still expected to stay busy because there was always work to be done.

The only days Anakin wasn’t rushing about trying to get everything done before the sun rose was when there was a sandstorm. Then everyone had to shelter indoors.

“Tell me about those days, hm? The sandstorms.”

Well, the sandstorms were dangerous. No one could travel in them, they’d be blinded and getting lost could be deadly, so there wasn’t much to be done. Watto would call the slaves inside, and power down the droids, before shuttering all the hatches and sealing all the doors. If there was cleaning to be done then of course they would do that, but if the storm lasted for more than a few hours they would run out of work. Watto would slink off to his room to grumble and sulk about the wasted hours, while Anakin would sit in the cool shelter with his mother, listening to the sounds of the wind rushing past outside. 

Some of the slaves would tell stories to each other quietly, but Anakin preferred to stay in his room, reading manuals under his bed sheets. Sometimes he wouldn’t even do that. He’d just sit, and listen to the storm passing by.

“That’s it, Anakin. Good.” Yoda murmured. “Share your sound. Clear your mind.”

The sound was something he knew, something familiar. He relaxed into it, the gentle rushing of winds against the strong walls of his home. The breath of his mother as she slept through the long nights. Though there were sounds everywhere, none of it could distract him from his own overwhelming sense of boredom.

Yoda sighed, and Anakin could feel the old man’s gaze on the back of his neck.

But it was true. Meditation was boring. Instead of doing something useful the point was to sit there and do as little as possible. To even stop thinking, and just feel the Force. The problem was Anakin had always felt the Force, even from before he could remember. The worst part was that Yoda insisted he needed remedial classes to catch up with the other Younglings, but Anakin knew he was already ahead of them.

“Ahead in some things.” Yoda harrumphed. “But in others far behind. Great your powers are, but lacking in humility.”

Anakin sighed, shielding his mind again.

When he left home he’d been excited to become a Jedi under Master Qui-Gon Jinn. He knew he might have to catch up to the other younglings, and at first it seemed fair enough, but after two years, when he was already first in every class, he couldn’t understand why Master Yoda still insisted. In just a few months the Younglings would start to get nominated as Padwans by interested Masters, and Anakin already knew who was going to be his. Knight Kenobi had made no secret of his desire to train Anakin, and out of respect for Master Jinn’s memory, no one would contest his claim. So Anakin had no fear at all of being passed over, and he absolutely did not need remedial lessons anymore.

He was frustrated, and he could tell Yoda was too.

He bet the ‘other’ Chosen One didn’t get treated like this. She was actually trusted by the adults around her, given all kinds of positions in governance if rumor was to be believed. Supposedly she was even leading fleets into battle and raising entire armies!

Meanwhile even Watto had respected Anakin more than Yoda did. Sure he was a slave, but he at least Watto trusted him to fix and build things. Instead of teaching Anakin new things or even giving him things to do, Yoda kept him here under his thumb, wasting time. Was this punishment? Anakin couldn’t even think of what he’d done wrong. When he was finally a Padawan, he hoped that at last he would get away from the old goblin.

Suddenly, Yoda’s frown deepened, and for a brief moment Anakin worried he’d let his mental shields drop, but assured himself they were firmly in place after a moment. “What’s wrong?” He began to ask, but the Grandmaster just silenced him with a wave of his hand.

The Grandmaster’s holocom let out a tone, and he answered it. “Yes?”

“Grandmaster, the Supreme Chancellor is here.” The mask of a Sentinel was projected. “He wishes to see you.”

Yoda nodded, then turned in his chair to regard Anakin. “Go, you may.”

“What does the Supreme Chancellor want to talk about?”

“Go.” Yoda repeated, and pressed a switch on his chair. It floated out the doorway towards the turbolift.

With a sigh, the young boy followed behind. He rode down with the Jedi Master, who said nothing at all as he stared at the doors, a grim look on his wizened features. They waited in silence for almost a minute until finally they made it to the Main Floor, where the Supreme Chancellor was waiting for the Grandmaster. He was a friendly looking older man in the grand robes of his office with grey hair and clear blue eyes. The Supreme Chancellor was a famous face, one that Anakin immediately recognised from the Holonet. He spoke with the same aristocratic accent that Queen Padme had, though she sounded much more stern then he did.

Yoda floated forward, not even bothering to introduce Anakin, who started to walk away, when suddenly the Chancellor spoke up. “Hello there, young man. And who might you be?”

So shocked that he was being spoken to, Anakin looked about to see if there was another young man nearby that the Chancellor could be referring to. “Uh, Anakin. Mister Chancellor.”

“Mister Chancellor indeed!” The old man chortled. “Please, my name is Sheev Palpatine. No need to stand on formality.”

Anakin blinked, staring at him for a moment, still wondering why he was even being spoken to.

“Oh, I’m sorry Master Yoda.” The Chancellor said to the Grandmaster. “I didn’t mean to derail you, I do so enjoy a chance to speak with the Padawans.”

“I’m not a Padawan yet.” Anakin said.

“Really?” Sheev gasped. “And why not? Just by the look of you I can see a young man ready for anything in the Galaxy.”

Grandmaster Yoda interrupted. “Youngling Anakin may be a Padawan soon, but Youngling now he is, and soon his curfew will be.” 

“Oh, come now, Master.” Chancellor Palpatine smiled, easily. “The boy surely doesn’t need a strict curfew. Why, on Naboo I was allowed to roam the streets of Theed at his age, and the Jedi Temple is surely safer than that. You have to give the boy some freedom or of course he’ll rebel.”

“Consider your advice, I will.” Yoda said. “Speak more in my office, perhaps.”

“Yes, lead the way.” The two old men left together, entering the Turbolift. As the doors closed, Yoda gave Anakin a stern glare, while Palpatine smiled at him encouragingly.

With a sigh, Anakin went to find his creche and his bed, not wanting the Grandmaster to find another excuse to lecture him.

---

Quinlan Vos was sleeping deeply when he received a knock on his door. Rubbing his eyes, and sitting up, he saw the silhouette of someone through the frosted glass pane, standing just outside. He stood up, wondering when he’d agreed to be part of the Jedi Quick Reaction team, before remembering that he hadn’t. Why was someone waking him up at this hour? What time was it?

His compad had told him that it was just past midnight, and that Master Yoda had tried to call him twice. Quickly pulling on his robe, Vos lightly stepped over to the door and opened it with a wave.

“Apologies for the late hour.” Master Windu told him, and he looked about as tired as Vos felt. “Master Yoda and I wish to speak to you in his chambers.”

“Important news, I take it?” Vos asked, stifling a yawn. Without waiting for an answer, he tugged his lightsaber over to his belt and quickly slipped on his boots.

Yoda’s chambers? Vos frowned to himself as the Turbolift took him and Windu up the tower. That was unusual. Normally if he was being assigned a mission, it would happen in the Council Chamber. Something strange was afoot if Windu and Yoda wanted to speak with him privately.

Inside Master Yoda’s chambers, they found the little green man sitting cross legged with a grim face, his brows drawn together and his lips turned down.

“Did you bring your compad or your holocom?” Windu asked Vos.

“Just the holocom.”

“Turn it off, please.”

Surprised at the sudden need for secrecy, Vos did so, gazing at the two Masters and wondering what this could be about.

“A great thing, I must ask of you.” Yoda began.

“A secret mission that no one can know about.” Windu added. “Which you can refuse if you choose.”

“What about the Council?” Vos asked. 

The Jedi Master simply shook his head, and Vos made no effort to hide his surprise. Windu was among the most procedural and Orthodox of all Jedi. For him to call on Vos to do something that even the Council couldn’t know about was shocking.

“Alright. I’ll hear it.” Vos said after a moment’s pause.

“The New Temple has become dangerously erratic.” Mace Windu said. Then he added in a low tone, almost like he was ashamed to say it. “We would like you to join it, and report on its activities.”

Mind racing, Vos considered the man’s words. “We’re spying on the other Orders now?”

Neither of the two masters looked happy with the idea, but neither of them tried to deny the accusation.

“...I might be more willing if I knew what’s really going on here.” Vos finally said. “Because this isn’t just about Phindar. Neither of you cared enough for the planet to dispatch a Jedi when it was run by the Syndicate, and I doubt either of you care all too much for it now.”

The two exchanged another annoyed look at that. “We’re concerned about the potential target the New Temple could be for Sith infiltration.”

Now that was a hell of an admission. The Main Temple didn’t spy on the Green Jedi, the Teepo Paladins, or even the non-jedi sects like the Matukai. It wasn’t that Jedi didn’t go undercover on occasion if they might have to infiltrate a criminal syndicate, but doing so to another Temple was unheard of. Though if the Sith had returned, and the Galaxy was once more at risk of being plunged into chaos…

Not to mention Vos had those same concerns. The Sith choosing to take out Sifo Dyas, Dooku unearthing a Sith ruin on his homeworld, and the remaining mystery about what exactly was going on with Ky Narec and Asajj Ventress all had Vos eyeing the New Temple. There was plenty there to be worried about.

“I’d be willing.” Vos answered. “But I need to know. Is this actually, about the Sith, or was this something Palpatine asked for?”

The look the two gave each other confirmed for Vos he hit the nail right on the head. 

“Palpatine has his own concerns about the New Temple.” Windu answered, diplomatically. “The Trade Federation is looking to the Senate for a bailout, and Senator Palpatine is concerned about an outbreak of war in the Outer Rim while they’re weakened.”

The Fed needed a bailout? Vos almost didn’t believe it. They controlled a huge swathe of Trade Routes, and had thousands of planets paying into their security services. Not to mention they controlled the entire Corporate Sector. How could such a massive business be failing to turn a profit?

He’d have to look into that one on his own time. He supposed that if nothing else, the Trade Federation would have to have massive overheads when it came to maintaining their empire. 

“The Trade Federation has done much to embitter the people of the Outer and Mid rims against the Republic. The New Temple could easily serve as the lynchpin of a Seperatist movement.” Windu explained. 

“Such feelings were used by the Sith.” Yoda rumpled. “The New Sith Wars started that way.”

“So you’re worried that the Sith are going to take an interest in the New Temple.” That was if they hadn’t already, which Vos was pretty sure they had. It would explain a few things.

“Palpatine had information for us.” Mace continued. “Republic Intelligence has been keeping an eye on House Serenno. An informant has reported that a Sith Assassin struck at the Palace while Dooku was away.”

Vos eyebrows shot up. “What happened to the family?”

“We’re still waiting for more information.” Windu explained. “We believe that the girl’s tutor, Green Jedi Master Sturn, was able to slay the assassin.”

Well that was a relief to hear. However snooty that Princess was, it would be horrible if a Youngling was hurt or killed.

“If Dooku’s family had died, the grief could have pushed him to the Dark Side.” Vos murmured. Wasn’t that a nightmarish idea? Dooku was one of the most powerful Jedi, and even Yoda with all his eight hundred years had never met a better duelist. It would be almost as bad as the defections of Revan and Darth Ruin.

Windu nodded in agreement. “Our thoughts, exactly. For the sake of the Republic, and the Jedi, we are asking you to defect to the New Temple. Your already known to… not quite fit in with the rest of the Jedi. Your criticisms of the Council have been public for some time.”

“Look, I just want the Council to pull it’s head of its backside.’’ Vos snorted. “We could be doing a lot better.”

“Never doubted your loyalty, have we.” Yoda said, in a grave tone. “Entrusted with this mission, you are.”

He would have been perfectly willing to go along with it, but there was one final concern he had. “What about Aayla?” Vos asked. “She’s not ready to be a Knight, yet.”

“If you agree to this mission, you won’t be able to bring her with you.” Windu said. “I will take her on as my Padawan for the remainder of her training.”

Now that stung a little. Aayla was a good kid, and being abandoned by her Master was going to hurt. This was a secret mission, so he couldn’t tell her that he was really going undercover. Even so, more important than any one Padawan's feelings was the future of the Galaxy. As long as the Sith were out there, hidden, and planning their return, everyone everywhere was in danger, and that included Aayla.

With a sigh, Vos nodded his head. “I’ll do it.”

---

Sturn finally found his grandson Yash, abandoned in the streets of Celanon.  The only thing allowed him to find the boy was their connection in the Force. When Yash recognised Sturn, he wrapped his arms around his grandfather and bawled his eyes out. 

The blood on his scalp had scabbed over into brown chunks in his hair. The boy was barefoot in the streets during what seemed like a spring thaw, with cold slush everywhere. His lips were blue, and Sturn took his time carefully checking the boy's toes to make sure he wouldn’t lose any to the cold. Yash was hungry, filthy, and looked like any other child abandoned on the streets. Seeing his own flesh and blood treated like this, Sturn felt an anger stirring in his heart like nothing he’d ever felt before.

Where was that kidnapper? Had he really just abandoned the boy in some alley? 

Sturn searched with his mind, but found the monster nowhere. Gritting his teeth, he lifted the boy up and hurried him back to his ship. The uncaring crowds of the city street didn’t even glance at him, and the port authorities only barely questioned him. What an absolute cesspool. Didn’t they care for each other at all? On Corellia, if anyone saw a child wandering alone in such a state they would immediately call CorSec.

Back in his ship, Sturn got Yash cleaned up and bundled into a blanket at the center console. He was able to feed the boy a few ration bars and get him a warm cup of hot chocolate to sip while he called the boy’s father. Yash was the only one who had gone missing in the explosion on Correllia, and the entirety of the Green Jedi had been searching frantically for the youngling.

“No ransom? Then what did he want?!” Sturn’s son demanded, furious. “Then what was this about!?”

“I don’t know, son.” Sturn answered. “I just don’t know.”

Finally, with his ship headed back towards Corellia, Sturn ducked into a side room. With the kidnapper keeping him on the line, Sturn hadn’t been able to answer any of the numerous calls people had made to him until he got to Celanon. There were a multitude of calls from Serenno, and even one from Dooku.

He was probably furious at Sturn.

With a sigh, Sturn mentally prepared himself to get reamed out by his boss.

The phone only rang once, before Dooku answered, and immediately Sturn could see something was wrong. Dooku didn’t look angry, he looked murderous. Even through the blue of the holocom, his eyes blazed with fire.

“Where are you?” Dooku demanded in his aristocratic bass.

“Celanon.” Sturn answered immediately. “I apologise, but my grandson was kidnapped. I had to collect him from here, or he would have been killed.”

The expression on Dooku’s face seemed to grow even darker. “I see. You didn’t think to inform any of my men?”

“The kidnapper was on the call! If I hung up or stopped to talk, he would have killed Yash.”

“...In your absence, an assassin has attacked the Palace.”

The stomach seemed to fall from Sturn’s body. Real horror raised the hairs on the back of his neck. “Oh, Force spare us, no! Is Tan’ya okay? Is everyone safe?”

“All of them have been injured.” Dooku replied. “Though Tan’ya was barely able to slay the assassin with the help of the House Guard.” 

Relief washed over Sturn, and he looked up with thoughts of thanks for the Force. “Dooku, I’m so sorry-”

“You abandoned your post.” Dooku interrupted. 

“I know, but-”

“My entire family is on the verge of death because of you.” Dooku’s voice was level, but he sounded like if he was standing in front of Sturn they would already be fighting to the death.

Sturn swallowed, looking down at the floor. Finally, he answered. “What else was I supposed to do?” He asked.

“You abandoned your duty!” Dooku thundered.

“I did… But you know as well as I do, Count, that a man’s first duty is to his family before anything else.” Sturn said, in a quiet voice. “If it was your child in danger, you would have dropped anything to save them as well.”

Dooku drew in breath, ready to shout, but stopped himself. His expression changed, going from anger, to reluctant agreement, before finally settling on carefully schooled neutrality. “Is your grandson safe?” 

“Yes. He’s here with me.”

“...Good.” 

With that, Dooku hung up. 

Four hours later, while Yash was sleeping and Sturn was nervously pacing, he received a call from his son again.

“Father, I just thought you should know that CorSec just got an extradition request for you. The Government of Serenno is demanding you return there to face a tribunal. You’ve been charged with dereliction of duty.”

“...Do you know the potential sentence?” Sturn asked after a moment.

“No, but in most places a charge like that would be punishable by death. I can speak with CorSec, we can deny this request.”

Putting his head in his hands, Sturn hesitated to answer. 

“Dad?”

“Just… let me think about it, son.”

“What’s there to think about?” He demanded incredulously. “You can't seriously be thinking of going back to that kriffing mudhole! Not when they want to kill you!”

Staring at his feet, Sturn thought of Athemeene, injured and near death, and his stomach churned. Little Madalee as well. Tan’ya, who has such great potential, whose life was almost cut short by an assassin’s blade. Someone had to be punished.

“Dad!”

“A man’s first duty is to family, son.” Sturn finally answered. “But… there are other things worth dying for as well.” With that he hung up, and went back to check on Yash. He lingered in the doorway, watching the young boy’s chest rise and fall, before returning to the bridge.

Opening up the navicomputer, he changed his destination from Corellia to Serenno, and punched in the confirmation.

Cry Havok 01 The Ring Valley

Chieftain Wilburh was just not the man he used to be. Once he was mighty, effortlessly striding ahead of his people, long legs, strong shoulders and a booming laugh to mark him out as their champion. Years of hard riding, wrestling rams, drawing a bowstring, and fighting off roamers and northerners who wished to rob his people had made him powerful. A great man he was, beloved by his people.

Now his once clear eyes were milky, and he pretended to hear what people said to him as often as not. His surefootedness was gone as he hobbled about with a cane, and he couldn’t carry great weights anymore, not without hurting his back. To ride, someone else would need to lead his horse, lest he ride his beast over a crevice.

The only thing he had left that was still strong was his grip, his iron claws. His withered hands and long calloused fingers that could once hold a bucking ram’s head into the dirt could still make other men wince when he squeezed their hands firmly.

His people didn’t wish to dishonour him, but now they asked less of him than they ever had before. More and more, others looked to Wilburh’s son to lead them. Wilburh the Elder was just too hard to reach, didn’t understand what was said to him, and his commands were nonsensical. Even with him refusing to step down and pass the mantle on to his firstborn, leadership seemed to flow in that direction.

As the chieftain of the tribe, the only thing Wilburh could still do was give blessings to the newborns. Upon their birth, every child of the tribe would be brought to the chieftain, who would beseech the Lord to bless the child. Unless he was away or in battle, then the chief priest would substitute, Wilburh had blessed every child born in the entire tribe.

On this day, a child was born to his tribe, to his only daughter. A grandchild, how wonderful! Wilburh loved his grandchildren, though he struggled to remember their names at times.

“A boy or girl?” He asked, straining to hear the explanation from… Actually, he didn’t recognise the lad. Was this one of his siblings? Oh well, no matter. He heard the name Edwine, so he knew it was a boy. “Yes, Edwine. A strong name for a strong boy. Take me there now.”

Wilburh struggled to move these days, and he was carried along by his… grandchild? Young friend? Or was it his nephew? Yes, that was it. His nephew helped Wilburh find his way to the house. It was often hard to navigate the village these days, he thought.

The smell helped him find the right place, though. The pungent smell of new birth was thick in the air as Wilburh came in, water of the womb and faeces. The young boy was wailing loudly, which helped guide Wilburh to him as his already hazy vision blurred further with tears of joy.

Water dripped down the old man’s face as he held the baby, and he lifted him up in trembling hands. He felt the blessing coming, one that he was sure wasn’t from him. It came from above, a powerful oath that burst forth from his lips.

“Oh Lord, our father above, I beseech thee to bless this child. May thee help him to grow, so that he will stand tall among the great men of this Earth. Help build him up as a warrior, not falling to any traps and snares before him. May he be as mighty as ten men, so that through him our people may be protected, made mighty among all the tribes of the Earth. Amen.”

Lowering the child, he passed him back to the mother and smiled. “I’m sure Our Lord will be with him.”

Then he turned and hobbled out of the tent, feeling weaker than he had in some time.

Only after he was gone, did the shocked mother of the child look to her husband and say, “The blind fool was holding her! He didn’t even bless my boy!” 

She looked down to her newborn twins, Wilmur and Eadlin, the boy sleeping peacefully against her breast while the girl was still crying loudly.

“Go get the Priest.” Her husband ordered the nursemaid. “We’ll get him to give proper blessings to our children.”

She looked scandalised. “A blessing can’t be undone-”

“Go!” The husband demanded, and the woman scurried off.

The Priest did finally come, and he did give different blessings to each babe as directed. That didn’t change what had been done, and word quickly spread through the valley. 

So it was that Eadlin Twice Blessed grew up among her tribe, alongside her brother Wilmur the Usurped. Among their people, one would simply be known by their father’s name until they had done something to earn one of their own. The children’s own father was known to all as Cuthburt, son of Eckburt.

The story of Eadlin and Wilmur’s strange birth had spread quickly throughout the valley. Before they’d even learned their own names, people spoke of them as Twice Blessed and Usurped. A strange birth, that would create a strange pair, or so it was said.

Their mother was Withburga, known by many as the most beautiful woman in the valley, though they also said she knew it well. Withburga was not blessed with the gentle demeanor of a good woman, but a haughtiness that spoke of her spoiled upbringing. The chieftain Wilburh had never been able to raise a hand to his beautiful daughter, and had always sought her affection with showers of gifts. Spoiled and demanding, people had always expected Withburga to leave the valley one day, seeking a pampered life among the cities of the South, but had all been surprised when she fell hopelessly in love with Cuthbert. 

Though he was a few years younger than her, he was fleet of foot and sharp of eye. He enjoyed time alone, hunting among the woods, where he developed an eye for the natural splendour of the valley. Though he was skilled with the bow and spear, even occasionally winning the village’s quarter-staff competitions, what caught Withburga’s eye was his gift with a brush.

At his fifteenth winter, Cuthbert had run away from his father and the village, to seek fame in the South. He returned, five winters later, a changed man. Gone was the young man consumed by ambition and wanderlust, and in his place was someone quieter, who always advised caution. Though he still engaged in manly conduct with the rest of the village men, hunting for sport and drinking merrily, he brought with him a handful of paint brushes and colours that he used to decorate wood blocks. He painted distant places, soaring peaks, ice swept winter plains, burning deserts and distant cities full of strange people. The colours he brought home with him eventually ran out, and he began to paint with the more limited range of local ochres. Even with his smaller palette, the great foreign vistas he produced were of breathtaking beauty.

The women of the village would pay a handsome price to decorate their house with one of his beautiful wood blocks, and no one fancied them more than Withburga. He caught her eye when she was in her twenty-second winter season, and considered far too old to be unmarried by the rest of the village. Her biting tongue and spoiled demeanor had scared off all other suitors, and her father’s blind love for his daughter ensured he would never marry her to one she didn’t love. In Cuthbert’s arts, she saw a kindred soul, caught up in wanderlust and seeking splendor, and so had spent so much time with him as to set all the village tongues to wagging. The owners of these tongues were soon to feel great satisfaction, when Cuthbert asked the Chieftain for his only daughter’s hand in marriage. The question had to be repeated a few times to make sure he understood, but eventually the old Chieftain happily agreed after he was reminded of their names and promised a place of honour at the wedding.

All this is to say, Cuthbert and Withburga were already known as a strange pair, before the odd circumstances of the twin’s birth became well known. 

Eadlin Twice Blessed was an energetic young girl, and even at an early age she displayed none of the shyness one would expect from the very young. If her mother wasn’t watching little Eadlin would happily toddle out the family’s front door to chatter to anyone who passed by outside. Though there were many who thought it was quite charming, others saw it as very strange.

In direct contrast, Wilmur was a much moodier child. By his fifth season, he was known for his sudden and terrible tantrums. He would scream so loudly that his face turned red, and would strike any other child his age who refused to play with him as he wanted.

‘He takes after his mother far too much.’ Or so it was said by many. ‘The time will come when he chooses to leave the village, or he’ll be chased out.’

Another thing about the two that surprised no one at all, was that even at an early age they bickered constantly. Of course they would, with their strange birth setting them at odds with each other. 

They were both energetic children, charging about the place to play made up games of heroes and distant princesses, but it was a strange vision of the princess who stole the hero’s improvised sword while he chased after her, red-faced. It seemed he couldn’t go anywhere without his sister racing him to it first, and the two were never hard to find in the village. One only needed to keep an ear out for the sound of bickering.

The only time the two seemed to quiet was when their father worked at his art. Just like their mother, they were fascinated to see what he could do with wood blocks and ochre. Starting with a stick of ash, he would sketch out something from his memories, before taking up his brush and filling it in with his colours. Though he promised them it was half imagination, for them he crafted breathtaking images of fearsome fighters, magnificent maidens, distant deserts, and soaring cities with great walls and crowded market streets. It seemed that their father had travelled the whole world to the two, though he promised he’d never seen anything but a fraction of it. 

Among the many things he painted, one place stood out among the others, The City, the greatest in all the world; Helenople. Traders and goods from every corner under the skies flowed there, and its vast population defied belief. It was said that a million lived inside it, a number that the two children could scarcely comprehend, even by their tenth winter. The village they grew up in had just two hundred and eleven people, including the two of them, and among all of the people of Rindaenu there were maybe a few thousand. A city of a million was unimaginable, but for the crowds their father painted bustling through marketplaces and glorious military parades of soldiers clad in glittering armor. Even among those armies of shining heroes, there were strange men of barbaric countenance, standing taller than the others and carrying cruelly curved axes. There were even a few faces that their mother recognised among them.

Some people from the village did go to Helenopolis and joined the Auxiliary Theme, where they became soldiers fighting for the Emperor himself. The most elite among the Auxiliary Theme could even become his bodyguards, the fearsome Varengians.

Most terrible of all the things their father painted was the eastern barbarians. The devil worshipping madmen from beyond the farthest places Cuthbert had traveled often wore thick white gowns and head dresses to protect themselves from the sun, and carried great curved swords as they smoked foul herbs that rendered their compassion dull to the violence they would bring to innocent people. On only a few occasions did their father paint these wicked invaders, his hand steady as he did it, but he would sit down afterwards and tremble. There was even a night when he awoke everyone, waking up and yelling with fright, blindly stumbling through their small cabin in search for a weapon.

“They’re through the gate!” He yelled. “Arm yourselves! Flee with the children!”

It wasn’t just the children that gave their family a loud reputation. Though only the neighbours had been awoken by the commotion, before the sun had reached its peak, the entire village had learned about it, and many a joke was made at Cuthbert’s expense.

It was just after the time of the children’s tenth winter that a new priest came to the valley. He trundled into town leading a donkey-drawn buggy. Against all expectations of an educated gentleman of the cloth, the villagers didn’t see someone overweight, soft or elderly riding in the back, but a hearty and hale man walking alongside it. This new priest wore the white collar of the church, but he stood straight with wide shoulders, veiny forearms and calluses on his hands. He’d grown out his long black beard, as was expected for members of the priesthood, but outside of his uniform no one would have expected this man in the prime of life to be anything but a bold adventurer. The only hint of infirmness was a touch of grey hair at his temples.

He waved to greet them unashamedly, striding forward through the slush of spring to shake the hands of what would soon be the whole village.

“Greetings! Greetings all!” His brown eyes glittered with joy, and his proud voice boomed so loudly, that even folk at the other end of town poked their heads out to see what the commotion was. “My name is Domnius, and I was born in the walls of Hagiopolis itself! It’s wonderful to meet you all. I was sent here as a missionary, to help the aging Father Petrus with his good work in bringing the good word to pagans.”

He certainly didn’t speak with the gentle discretion of one trained by the church.

“Pagans?” Old lady Eadgifu croaked. “What pagans? There’s never been a pagan among the Rindaenu, not even before we settled these lands.”

Domnius brows shot up, confused. “Are you sure? Not even one?”

“No, not even one.” Chieftain Wilbur the Younger answered. “And you’ve caused great offense by saying so.”

“Oh.” Domnius looked befuddled. “But where are the pagans, then? I had heard that you were all barbarians.”

Wilbur scoffed at that, shaking his head at this foolish stranger who had such confidence and so few wits. “We are now the Rindaenu, but once we were called Saxxe. We were driven from our ancient home by pagans, and granted these lands by the Emperor himself in Helenopolis.”

“That’s right. We’re loyal servants of Emperor Alexius, you blind fool!” Eadgifu lectured, poking at the stranger with her cane.

Domnius blinked, scratching his head awkwardly. “Emperor Alexius died a decade ago. His old chief bodyguard, Zeno, is the new emperor.”

This news caused a commotion among the assembled people.

Wilbur stared at the stranger for a moment, before reaching out to shake his hand. “It seems you’re not the only one here who needs shed his wrong notions. Come, have a drink and a talk with us, and we’ll learn of you the outside world, and you’ll learn of us the people you’re here to minister to.”

“That sounds like a fine idea!” Domnius laughed. “Please, let's all turn in and get out of this awful cold!”

In the coming days, Domnius learned a lot about the Rindaenu, and as he did, so did the children of the valley. Curious about this dark haired stranger from far away lands, children would often crowd around to gawk at him, struggling to pick the words from his distant accent. They overheard the talk the Chieftain and other men of the village had with him, listening with divided attention to the history and story of their own people. Most surprising of all, was that among the children of the village, the normally loud and restless Eadlin and Wilmur would sit with rapt attention.

“Our people, the Rindaenu, are descended from the Saxxe. Far to the West, sheltered by the endless storms of the Setting Sea is our island home, Saxxeland, or in the tongue of the Emperor, the Land of Painted Men. It’s the largest island in the world, fertile and fair, covered in green from shore to shore with gentle slopes and rich fields. If you go north, deeper into the valley, some of the Rindaenu will only speak Saxxeton, our original tongue. If you wish to be a minister to our people, you will have to learn it.”

“Can I learn it, too?” Eadlin asked, interrupting. 

“You can learn it with me!” Domnius barked, laughing out loud. “Though I warn you, lass, it’s not easy to learn a new tongue. You’ll have to stick with it even when its dull.”

“What languages do you speak?” Young Wilmur asked, staring at the foreign man intently.

Again, Domnius chuckled. “Why don’t we just start with Saxxeton, and if the two of you can master that alongside me, I might be able to share with you a few other things I know.” He looked back up to the Chieftain. “Sorry, please have patience for the children.”

Wilburh waved it away, taking another sip from his ale, and wondering why Domnius was the one giving apology. Domnius was a guest, so it should really be up to Cuthbert and Withburga to keep their rambunctious children from making trouble, but here they were a burden to their uncle.

Enjoying another sip of the warm ale, Wilburh considered the priest in front of him. He eyed the calluses on Domnius’s palms, and the way his right hand would always return to his side, as if seeking something to rest on.

“When did you seek the cloth?” Wilburh asked, after a moment of thought. “You were a warrior, once.”

For a brief moment, Domnius was stunned into befuddlement, before he burst into laughter. “Yes, I suppose all can see it.” He held out his large hand, clenching and releasing it. “These are not hands known for their penmanship. I was a Templar, you see. I mean not to boast, but as a young man I thought myself the greatest warrior in all the world, and even now I think there are few men who could best me with a sword or lance. I was even famous for a time.” Staring into the fire for a long moment, Domnius eventually sighed. “But I did put away my stirrups, and did take up the cloth.” He touched the white collar around his neck, obviously not quite comfortable with the weight. “Then I requested dangerous work, far away from home. I thought that perhaps the pagans might respect a man of my bearing, listen to the True Religion from the lips of a warrior.”

Wilburh snorted. 

“I’ve heard, yes I’ve heard. You say there are no pagans here.” Then Domnius smirked. “But perhaps I’ll get lucky and find one hidden amongst you.”

Domnius did not find any among them. Rather than stop in the village, the first thing he did was journey the length of the entire Rindaenu. He learned that the name meant Ring Valley in Saxxe, as he began putting his mind to mastering the tongue.

For the start of his journey, Domnius traveled North West, guided along the path by Cuthbert, who knew the valley as well as anyone from his lonely wandering and hunting in the forests and hills. Surprising everyone in the village, both Eadlin and Wilmur joined him in his quest, and to be honest they were all grateful to be relieved of the two children for a time. 

The Ring Valley itself was vast, circling right around the base of the Hollow Peak mountain. It was shielded from the icy winds of the north by the vastness of the Borda Mountains, which could only be travelled by an experienced guide in Summer and early Autumn. During the winter the mountains would be blanketed in thick snows, and during Spring, the melting would cause the countless rivers and streams to run wild, making crossings impossible. Amidst the low lying foothills and peaks, a handful of the Rindaenu had settled, herding goats and horses, but the further North one went, the fewer people they would find. Eventually, if one didn’t get lost, they could pass the Borda Mountains and come to the Great Steppe, where the Northman practiced their foul false religion.

Occasionally, small bands of Northman tried to raid South across the mountains, but it was a difficult journey to make, and they were met with fierce resistance every time.

“No raider can be allowed to escape.” Cuthbert explained, a distant look in his eye as he eyed the snow capped peaks. “If even one of them makes it back with coins, others will come seeking treasure where their fellow succeeded. We always hunt them down, no matter how far they run.”

“Even if they return to the Steppe?” Domnius asked.

Cuthbert merely nodded, a distant look in his eye.

“The Nomads are fierce warriors, by all accounts.” Domnius said. “To fight them in their homelands sounds impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible for the Lord.”

“Well said!” Domnius barked. “Yes, well said indeed.”

After coming to the northern side of the valley, and stopping at each village along the way, the cart followed the same trail east and South, back to where their journey had begun. The two children bickered and complained much of the way, demanding to know how far they had left to go, and begging to stop whenever possible. It seemed that Domnius didn’t find the twin’s rude behaviour upsetting, and he even seemed to enjoy it. He patiently answered the same question for as many times as it took the twins to remember his answer, and regaled them with stories about his youth.

Domnius had not always been a priest, as was obvious from a glance at him, but had once been a member of a crusading order. Born the son of a westerner from the Kingdom of Lyonne, to a woman of eastern blood in Hagiaopolis, he entered the Order as a Paige. After many years, he became a squire and eventually a Knight Brother. He had fought in battles, some with as many as ten thousand men on each side, but mostly he had raided against the Eastern Devilmen. 

“If we plunder their settlements and camps, they will be forced to stay away from our border. If I did not, they would raid against the Holy Kingdom freely. Their kind have no love of peace, and their every thought is one of lust and plunder. We burned all camps we encountered, and kept the Devilmen in the east.”

“Were you a great warrior?” Eadlin demanded.

“Ah, I was among the better in the Order.” Dominus replied.

“The Order are reputed to be among the greatest warriors in all the lands of the True Religion.” Cuthbert murmured.

Both Eadlin and Wilmur looked at Domnius with naked interest, as if expecting to see him take out his sword and fell a dozen pagans on the spot.

“Now, now.” Domnius said, trying to calm the two down. “It’s not as special as your Papa makes it sound.”

“Why did you leave?” Wilmur asked, scepticism in his tone. “Why become a priest?” His eyes made it clear he felt a priest was a quite the fall from being a great warrior.

Domnius huffed, thinking of how to answer, while exchanging a look with the two’s father. “Being a warrior is no small thing, many a well deserved song have been sung about a worthy soldier, but... it’s painful work. There are wounds that never quite seem to heal…”

Cuthbert looked over to the man, recognising the far away places in Domnius’ eye. “Want to take the reins?” He offered the man the halter for directing the donkey.

“Oh, yes.” Domnius replied, seizing the leather straps.

It wasn’t too long until the returned home, even stopping to see the remaining villages on the way. In all there were eight villages in the valley, the largest was Saxxby in the valley’s South, where they had started their journey. In all, Dominus reckoned there to be maybe a few thousand in the entire tribe.

Perhaps the thing people of the Ring Valley had least expected was how quickly and firmly Domnius and Cuthbert became friends. The two men could not be more different in demeanor, one was known for his quiet contemplation, and his habit of seeking the lonely places of the valley, while the other was bold and outspoken, seeking the centre of attention and laughing heartily. Even so, the two who had never met before seemed to have an unspoken connection. Domnius became a regular at the family’s table, and as the priest settled into life in the valley, Cuthbert began to seek solitude less and less. It wasn’t long after Domnius settled into the village church, when people got used to calling him Father Domnius, but unlike the rest of the village, the twins always called him Uncle Domnius. 

The soon to be retired Father Petrus was grateful for his replacement to come, and despite some initial misgivings, soon felt confident in passing the Shepherd's staff of his office to the newcomer. Though Petrus has been in the valley for years, present for dozens of births and deaths, the people had never quite forgotten his scandalous attempt to overwrite the blessings of Eadlin and Wilmur. Like Domnius he was from outside the valley, and he saw the entire tradition as rural superstition.

Eventually, Father Petrus left, some of the young men from the village agreeing to escort him by cart to the nearest city. The community bid him a fond farewell in the end, and though he grumbled about their backward ways, many thought they saw a wet shine at the corner’s of Father Petrus' eyes when he waved goodbye one final time.

After he was gone, the church and flock were now Domnius to care for her. It was a humble building compared to those of the Capital. No stone went into its walls, but did serve as a firm foundation to raise it above the winter snow. The walls were made from good hardwoods, and the windows were of good quality glass that only had a faint discolouration. Once in control, he began to commission works from Cuthbert, decorating the church hall and yard with beautiful depictions of saints and miracles. Many wondered where he got the silver to pay for it all from, but he simply explained that he left the Order Reliqaue with a good share of plunder.

The final art he commissioned from Cuthbert was by far the largest. Carved from a great cross section from the valley’s oldest tree, so large that it took ten men to wrestle it into place, and they had to take apart one of the walls to do it. Cuthbert painted the piece in place, needing a tall ladder to do so, and constantly climbing down to observe it from a distance. It was slow going work, his normal pieces he could complete in just two days, but this took him all of Spring and well into Summer.

When it was completed it would stand behind Domnius as he preached, raised far over the congregation, twelve feet tall, depicting the Lord as the source of all light near the top, and spilling down to shine forth upon his many humble apostles bowed in reverence and performing miracles in his name. At the foot of the piece an armoured man kneeled, his face covered with a helmet but with the blessings of the Lord alighting a golden chalice in his hands as he placed it on a pedestal. 

Of all the things depicted in the art, the Eadlin most wanted to know who that man was.

“The prophesied champion.” Domnius answered. “The Chosen Finger of the Lord’s Hand, who will smite his enemies, crown all the kings of the Earth, and usher in a thousand year reign of the righteous. At the end of it will be the Final Battle, the test that sets those who follow the Lord in their heart and soul apart from those who lie and love him not. There the devil will be defeated, and this world will have served its end.”

He turned his head, changing his gaze from the warrior himself to the cup in his hand. “The World will know who the Champion is when he restores the Sacred Grail to its rightful place.”

Wistfully he reached out, stopping just short of touching the painting itself. After a few moments, he turned away to smile at his audience. “Have you not heard of the Sacred Grail?” He said to the girl.

She shook her head.

He considered her for a moment, before clapping his hands together. “All should learn of the Sacred Grail. I have some honeycomb I can share. Why don’t you go gather up the children of the village for me? Tell them if they come here, they can have some while I tell the story.”

Excited, Eadlin ran off. “I’ll be back soon!” 

Domnius watched her run away, before turning to look back at the image. He stared at the warrior and the Grail, before with a final sight he turned away to go find the treat for the children.

CoS 36.1 (intermission)

For those of you interested in following the chapter as I progress in writing it.

Patron Acknowledgments

I wanted to start acknowledging the patrons who support me. I was going to publish user names in a lit at the end of each chapter, so if anyone wants their name excluded or changed, let me know please.

Tanya Armour/Clothes comission

I asked an artist to help me come up with a design for Tan'ya's casual clothes and armour for my story, Count of Serenno.

CoS Chapter 36

39 BBY

It had just passed midnight when the Outer Patrols first encountered the intruder. The Serenno estate was built atop a vast mountain, overlooking the planet’s capital city. The forests that surrounded it weren’t as thick as those of the jungles below, growing in shallower steeper soil, but the canopy left the forest floor dimly lit even on a bright sunny day, and at night it was all but impossible to see.

Tan’ya wasn’t surprised to learn that the intruder had been caught by one of the many interlocking and crisscrossing patrols that went up and down the mountainside, but she was surprised to hear that they had a red lightsaber. Practically a signed guarantee that they were a Sith. The Count’s family was the obvious target for the assassin, and so the word was put out immediately to evacuate Athemeene, Ideon, and Madalee. The only one of Tan’ya’s siblings not present was Kenth who was safe in the New Temple.

Of course Tan’ya was to evacuate as well, but she paused long enough to strap on her armour first. The heavy plates of sacanium steel and plastoid were unfamiliar, but they would be enough to stop a blow or two from a lightsaber. She also grabbed a scattergun. The primitive weapons manufactured in the villages were hopelessly crude, but against the Sith the spray of metal grains had no risk of being deflected back at Tan’ya or her men, who were all similarly arming themselves. If there had been a better legal option on the Galactic market, Tan’ya would have chosen it, but none existed. If Tan’ya was going to arm her men with better scatterguns in the future, she would need to build the entire industry domestically on Serenno. There just hadn’t been time.

Tan’ya cursed, feeling like she never had enough time.

Briefly, she felt her father’s concerned mind watching, but he could do nothing for her from where he was on Phindar. 

“Call up the Reservists.” Tan’ya ordered. “Any base that can get there speeders here in the next five minutes.”

Individually, Sith were usually more powerful than Jedi. Though there were exceptions, the successes of the Jedi in the past had been based around their ability to cooperate with each other in large numbers that the Sith could usually only dream of. Maybe If Tan’ya had half a dozen jedi working with her, she’d feel more confident about fighting off this assassin, but she didn’t even have Sturn! The useless old fool had left by himself in the middle of the night, mere hours before. Where he had gone, Tan’ya had no idea, but no one could reach him.

This whole thing stank of a conspiracy. If Tan’ya ever got her hands on Sturn again she’d have him shot! As gratifying as that might be, Tan’ya focussed her attention on buying enough time for her mother and siblings to escape. 

The Serenno estate had been built during her grandfather Gora’s reign, and being the paranoid tyrant that he was, he had constructed a number of escape routes for himself in the event that he was ever betrayed. Those escape tunnels still existed, some of them exiting far away in the mountain’s below, but the one Tan’ya had in mind went to the cliffside where the exit was concealed as just another piece of rock face. Inside was a speeder, and the tunnel wasn’t nearly as long as the others, so it would be much easier for Athemeene to bring the children through. Not only that, but because it was Gora’s main escape plan, it was filled with traps to frustrate pursuers. 

Aware of the threats her family was facing, Tan’ya had made sure the traps in the tunnel were well maintained for just such an occasion as this. The other good thing was it allowed Tan’ya to concentrate her defenses. Most of the House Guard was with her father right now, but the remainder should be plenty to guard the access tunnel and prevent the Sith from pursuing.

“Your Highness, you need to evacuate as well.” One of her men said, and Tan’ya hesitated to respond for a brief moment.

Maybe it was just the pampered princess inside of her speaking, but she had to admit that the idea of this intruder forcing her from her home to flee in the dead of night rankled a bit. Still, practicality won out in the end. Tan’ya wasn’t a coward, but she did know that historically even a Jedi Knight was hesitant to fight a Sith alone, and she wasn’t a Padwan yet.

“Command is yours, Lieutenant Buk.” Tan’ya informed the man, and he saluted her, before turning to issue orders.

Turning away, Tan’ya hurried up the tunnel towards her family. In the distance, she could feel the smouldering pyre of the Sith rushing through the Palace halls, trying to sense a way down to their location. It wouldn’t be long until he found it, unfortunately. Tan’ya, Athemeene and the House Guard had been trained to shield their minds, but baby Ideon was still too young, and at four years old, Madalees mental control was spotty at best. Ideon’s fear in particular was like a beacon in the Force, and clinging to his mother was the only thing keeping him from crying out even now. He might not have been trained in the Force, but Ideon could sense the frightful energy of the Sith as it approached and was frightened. 

No matter what they did or where they hid, the assassin would be able to follow them. Tan’ya wasn’t even going to attempt to persuade Athemeene to separate from her own children from her safety, even if objectively it would be the smarter move. 

No, the plan was to get the family to the barracks in the city. Even a fearsome Sith assassin would struggle to fight his way past ten thousand soldiers. Serenno’s reservists may not have been the Galaxy’s most elite fighting force, but the planet had a large population and there were plenty of men who would be eager to face danger for a chance at better pay.

As she passed through the tunnel, doors sealed behind her and turrets hummed to life, until she finally came to the speeder. Her mother and siblings were already inside, ready to go. Not only the two of them, but Vai was there as well. As a charge of the family, she was owed protection even if the assassin wasn’t specifically targeting her.

Despite the luxuriously wide interior of the vehicle, the extra bulk of Tan’ya’s armor made it hard for anyone else to sit next to her. There was a few moments delay as the speeder pilot asked over the coms. “Control, can I get confirmation that the skies are clear, over?”

Tan’ya searched with her mind, reaching up the passage to find the attacker, but he was nowhere to be found. The House Guard waiting in the tunnel were just beginning to grow uneasy, expecting to sell their lives for time, but no Sith came down the tunnels towards them.

Confused, Tan’ya brought up the compad in her suit's wrist. She thumbed through the security feed, searching for the Sith, but seeing him nowhere.

Control answered, “Can confirm. No aerial traffic on your flight path. You’re free to take off at any time.”

“Copy that. Out.” The exterior hatch, disguised as just another section of cliff face began to peel back, as the vehicle rose through the air.

A dark shape, moving with impossible speed and agility, dropped down and seemed to leap off nothing at all as it backflipped through the door opening. There was a yell, as one of the House Guards on the exterior platform raised and fired his scattergun, but it was already too late. Even mid air, the Sith flung out his lightsaber, and it streaked in a red line towards the rising speeder. Tan’ya reached out with the Force to try and bat it aside, but she just wasn’t fast enough as the tip of it speared through the windscreen and impaled the driver. Even worse, the dying man must have hit the accelerator as the vehicle surged forward rapidly towards the exit.

Without even thinking, Tan’ya seized everyone inside with her telekinesis, and jumped out the car door, pulling them towards the garage floor. Of course she wasn’t trying to hurt them, she didn’t pull with all the Force she possessed, but it was more than enough to launch Ideon from his mother’s hands, and Madalee who was too small to fit her seat belt slipped out as well. Tan’ya caught both of them, landing on her back and winding herself as she did to protect them from the fall. However Athemeene and Vai were both strapped inside the speeder, and neither of them came free with Tan’ya as the vehicle crashed partly into the edge of the garage door, and spun out with smoke flying from the engine.

Tan’ya watched in helpless horror as the speeder spun out of control to the forest floor below, where it disappeared from view. Finally, there was the sound of a horrific metal scrunch, and Tan’ya felt her mother’s mind black out. She was still alive down there, but in dire need of medical help. 

Not stopping there, the assassin recalled his lightsaber to him, evading another blast from a scattergun as it flew into his hand. The two children screamed, terrified wails of fear for their mother, even as the Sith streaked towards them. With her arms underneath both her siblings, Tan’ya had to shrug them off to reach her lightsaber, and that crucial fraction of a second would have cost her life, if one of the House Guard didn’t interpose himself between her and the Sith.

The man died on his feet, lightsaber piercing his chest and emerging from his back, but even as it did he clung to the Sith. There was the clack of a breach closing, as one guard loaded his scattergun and raised it to fire on the Sith, who turned, putting as much of the dead guard as he could between him and the next shot. When it hit, some of the grains from the blast still pierced his exposed hip, but the pain didn’t seem to slow him down as he wrenched his lightsaber free and surged forward across the room, only to stop and pull back to evade a blast from a different guard.

For a moment, it seemed like the guards assembled in the garage may have been able to kill the intruder. The seven of them all had scatterguns, and the seven of them all faced a target caught in the open with no cover, even if he was a Sith wouldn’t be able to evade forever. Then the Sith threw his lightsaber in a spinning arc, guided by the Force to remove the target's head at the shoulder. All the House Guards were well trained and saw it coming, quickly rolling out of its path, but in that crucial half a second they weren’t firing, the assassin was able to close the distance. His foot lashed out with such force that the heel shattered one guard's helmet and sent him flying away to fall limply to the floor, while another whipped out his blaster pistol and fired. The Sith barely evaded that, calling his lightsaber back to his hand, but was tackled to the ground by another guard, who shoved a buzzing vibroblade into the Sith’s chest. The guard raised it for another stab, the Sith Maul grabbed his wrist and twisted. The blade fell from the guard’s hand, and the Sith snatched it from the air and buried it in the guard’s neck. 

Seeing his friend, another guard shouted the name of his village as he pressed the activator on a grenade and threw it. Tan’ya saw the explosion coming, and threw herself over her siblings to protect them from the shrapnel, but needn’t have. The Sith easily snatched it from the air with the Force, and launched it back into the guard’s chest with the Force. It exploded, taking him out and the man next to him. Realising they were all armed with grenades, the Sith smirked, using the Force to depress the activators while it was still on the belt of another Guard. The man managed to snatch it from his belt and throw it away, but the assassin just whiplashed it back into him.

The Sith reached out to do the same thing again, but Tan’ya used her own control over the Force to resist him. Maul let out a surprised gasp as she was able to overpower his hold with the Force, and thrust the grenade towards him. He just barely threw up a barrier to protect himself, but one of the two remaining guards took the chance to shoot at him with his blaster. Maul just barely recalled his lightsaber and deflected the blast away, his face covered in burns from the heat of the grenade. 

With a pained grunt, the guard who’d been knocked down earlier got to his feet. He whipped the smashed helmet from his head, and threw it at the back of the Sith where it hit the back of his head. Blood poured from the assassin’s open head wound, and he reached out with the Force to throw the man into a wall where he impacted with a wet crack, and fell to the ground, unmoving. 

Seeing the Sith with the lightsaber again, the two remaining guards tried once more with the scatterguns. He threw up a barrier, buckling most of the spray but getting nicked across his head and arms. Tan’ya, seeing a chance, launched herself across the room to strike at him while his back was turned. He deflected her attack, turning to face her with his eyes blazing. Seeing the princess in danger, one of the remaining guards didn’t hesitate, he charged forward, tackling the Sith away, even as his head was carved apart. At the sith’s feet fell a primed grenade that fell from the dead soldier’s hands, and he tried to whip it away with the Force, but Tan’ya held it in place against his will.

The explosion sent her flying, but she was armoured unlike her foe. She stood up, looking over to see that he was still alive but his left arm had been almost completely destroyed, trying to contain the explosion. She turned, hoping to see the last guard was preparing some final trick, but she saw him dead on the ground, the shrapnel having punched several holes through his armour.

The wounded assassin at last turned to face her, and Tan’ya stood alone, the only thing between him and her siblings.

The lightsaber she summoned back to her hand felt almost worthless, as she watched him prepare to deal with her.

“You have a very violent mind for a Jedi.” A low, bass voice hissed. “Nothing at all like your Master.”

The assassin was speaking to her. It took a moment for her to connect that he was the one that killed Sifo with the knowledge that he was now mocking her with it. A spark of anger flared in her mind, but she ignored it.

“Why?” Tan’ya demanded. If only to buy time for a moment. Reinforcements were coming down the tunnel.

“Oh, you don’t know?” The Sith asked, barely able to contain his contempt. “Your Father betrayed us, girl. He was our servant long before you were born, and long after. Your whole fledgling empire was never meant to be anything but a wedge to break up the Coruscant Temple. Sifo came too close to the truth, so Dooku arranged for me to have a little alone time with him.“

“That’s a lie!” Tan’ya snapped back at him. 

He sneered at her. “Just imagine what I’m going to do to mommy Athemeene, sweet Madalee, and little baby Ideon. If Kenth was here, I’d kill him too, but I promise you. I’ll be watching, and waiting, and when he leaves the New Temple I will find the moment. You and your family are nothing but a speed bump in our plan, a chance to spite your worthless Father.”

She could scarcely believe what she was hearing. The hatred and savagery of the Sith was insane, irrational, and totally pointless. He’d injured himself gravely on this mission, and he didn’t even seem to regret it at all just for a chance to hurt his foes.

“You won’t hurt anyone.” Tan’ya hissed. “I’m going to put you down, dog.”

“Oh?” The assassin smirked and pulled one of the scatterguns to himself from across the room. He pointed it at Tan’ya, and she had a second’s to realise that though she was wearing armour, her siblings were not, and she was all that stood between them and death.

Without thinking Tan’ya hurled herself forwards, trying to block more of the pellets with her body as the murderer fired. Tan’ya vision was consumed by sparks and smoke for a brief second, and she felt like she’d been slapped in the face, but wasn’t dead just yet as she brought her own lightsaber up to strike.

Her mastery of the art was massively incomplete, she wasn’t even a padawan yet and so he deflected her strike with a dismissive flick of his wrist that nearly wrenched the blade from her fingers. The only thing that kept her from dropping the weapon was the grip she had on it with the Force. His lightsaber flashed out, clipping her at the shin. The only thing that saved her leg was her armour, though she was sent sprawling to the ground, feeling the heat burn her skin even through the plastoid. The dark sider loomed above her, swinging his blade down and striking for her neck. 

Tan’ya’s raised her arm just in time for the armoured vambrace to take the blow, and pushed out with the Force to try and throw him away, but he just leaned into the attack, smirking as his own telekinesis formed a wedge shaped barrier to disperse the worst of it. Gritting her teeth, Tan’ya doubled down, intensifying the waves of the force she was sending at him. Metal plating peeled up from the garage floor, lights on the ceiling shattered, and the smirk on that monster’s face was at last wiped from his face as he began to slide away from her. His barrier broke, and with a snarl he was flung away, to backflip and land, regarding her hatefully.

Though it was fatal to look away from an opponent in a fight, that second of breathing room was the only chance Tan’ya had to turn her head and check her brother and sister. She almost couldn’t help herself, turning her head to quickly glance to make sure they were okay, and was horrified by what she saw.

Ideon sat there frozen wide eyed in a spreading pool of hot crimson that was leaking from Madalee’s head. She lay face down on the metal deck, unmoving, as the Tirra’taka pawed at her, crooning miserably. 

Tan’ya was not unused to the horrors of war. Long ago she had come to terms with the fact that civilian children were often casualties, no matter how much she wanted to avoid that. She had done her best to never commit any such atrocities, but she had always rationalised away the simple truth that it was war, and she couldn’t control every outcome. If a city chose to fight to the last as its streets were taken one by one, of course the innocent would die.

Whatever logical explanations she could have given for what happened disappeared from her mind. Seeing Madalee, the silly, annoying child who had insisted on the absurd name of Eggy for an ancient and majestic beast, dead on the floor seemed to Tan’ya like the most abominable thing she had ever seen. It wasn’t anger that she felt, or even fear. Hatred flooded her veins, burning through her blood like rancid acid. This murderer, this filth, this hideous dog, here to kill children for revenge! Revenge!

The pettiness of it. The work that had clearly been put into getting this far. Luring her father away to Phindar, somehow getting rid of Sturn, attacking in the middle of the night, all to satisfy his own pathetic grudge against her Father?!

It wasn’t enough that he died. He had to suffer. He had to burn and writhe in agony! Her head spun, she felt sick to her stomach, but her gaze locked onto the diseased filth just as he broke into a dash towards her.

The surge of the Force she sent into him felt nothing like the calm, bottomless pool of the Force as she’d known it before, but like the raging wind of a storm at sea. Waves of power crashed through her and were poured out over him, the abomination’s pathetic barrier was cast aside like tissue paper. He was thrown backwards, back slamming into the wall with such force that a crater formed around. 

Even as she held him pinned there, she used her fine control to pull Durasteel rebars from the wall and bend them around his limbs, squeezing tight. The abomination howled in pain as his bones snapped, the lightsaber in his hand dropping from nerveless fingers. He tugged and he pulled, but a length of rebar forced its way around his waist, constricting his breath and crushing ribs. On the verge of killing him, she hesitated. Unsatisfied. A voice in the back of her mind told her it wasn’t enough, she could do more.

And it was right.

With a thought she ripped a plasma canister from the garage’s refueling station, and threw it at him. It smacked into the wall below him, crumpled and leaking volatile gases into the air. Finally, with him pinned in place helpless, Tan’ya let go of the pressure she’d been exerting. The roof stopped shaking, and dust stopped falling from the ceiling, as one final, delicate work of telekinesis activated the lightsaber the abomination had dropped. 

The plasma gases ignited, burning a furious green as they consumed the Sith. Howling in pain, the worthless thing writhed and thrashed, smearing the wall behind him with blood as his feet burned away, even his clothes lighting on fire. Caught in the moment, Tan’ya laughed as she watched him burn. His voice cracked, and his deep voice declined to a hopeless shriek. Tan’ya was so focussed on enjoying his suffering that she only dimly noticed the sound of Ideon crying again.

Then she remembered what had driven her to such lengths. She turned and ran over to her sister, falling to her knees beside Madalee and turning her sister’s head over to see that her left cheek was shredded by the pellet and several of her teeth were missing, but her skull was intact. Even so, she’d lost a lot of blood, and Tan’ya cast about desperately, until she spotted the bacta spray on the belt of a dead House Guard. She snatched it up with the Force, and ripped the cap off with her teeth, before spraying the foam over her sister’s face. Very quickly the bleeding stopped, and Tan’ya prayed it would be enough to save her. 

After doing so, Tan’ya grabbed Ideon, quickly checking the panicking, wailing toddler for injury. He was fine, the only blood on him was Madalee’s. Leaving him where she found him, though he tried to cling to her leg, Tan’ya scrambled up the ledge to peek out through the garage door to see the forest below. Through the dense canopy she couldn’t see her mother’s speeder wreck, but after a moment she felt the mind of someone reaching out to her. At first Tan’ya was disappointed to realise it was Vai, but in her fellow youngling’s mind she found an image of her mother. Legs broken, a deep cut in her arm, but still alive and breathing. The Youngling had managed to pull the two of them free just before the crash, causing them to land badly on the forest floor, but to not get pulped in the crumpled remains of the vehicle.

Then Tan’ya was confused to feel Vai was concerned for her, and fearful. At first she didn’t understand why, but then she noticed the horrible pain in her leg and wrist. Though the sacanium had blocked the lightsaber blows, the heat had melted the plastoids, and it was now clinging to Tan’ya’s skin. With an agonised yell, Tan’ya fell to the ground, clumsily fumbling at the armour she was wearing. 

-----

Hours too late to do anything of use, Dooku arrived home. A pall hung over the Palace, excessive use of the Dark Side having upset the local currents and eddies of the Force. He didn’t even go inside it, knowing what he would find from the report the first responders had given. Instead he went straight to the city, to the hospital his wife and children were at.

His son Ideon was the only one to escape uninjured. The child desperately clung to his side, babbling energetically at his father for a short while before finally falling asleep in his arms. Not willing to put him down, Dooku carried him to Athemeene’s room.

His wife was conscious floating in a bacta tank. Her injured arm and legs were splinted together, and covered in stitches from the surgeries.  He pressed his hand against the glass, saying nothing, and rather than reciprocate the gesture, she simply gazed out at Dooku through the fluid with eyes full of judgement.

Dooku supposed that he couldn’t blame her. Sighing and turing away, Dooku walked to the next room over in the private ward.

Madalee was still unconscious, her face stitched back together, a bacta facemask disguising the extent of her injuries. Dooku’s stomach roiled at the sight, and refused to imagine the extent of the damage. She was only four, maybe even the memories would fade in time. Dooku could only hope, and beg the Force for guidance, grateful that she was still alive at all.

Vai escaped with only a broken arm. Her dark eyes followed him as he passed her room, and he knew that she’d saved Athemeene's life. For that she would have his eternal gratitude, but he didn’t stop to say anything. He would repay her later, now he had to see his daughter.

Tan’ya was wide awake as he came inside. Her only injuries had been to her right forearm and left calf, where melting plastoids had stripped away layers of skin. The bacta patches would be enough to heal it, but he could see his daughter’s obvious discomfort as she lay on her back, trying not to aggravate her throbbing wounds.

“You’re not taking your painkillers.” Dooku began, but his daughter cut across him immediately.

“Because I need to speak with you.” She said through grit teeth. “I need to know the truth, father.” 

The truth. Of course.

“You spoke with Maul.”

“Is that his name? Were you friends?” She demanded.

Dooku would have scoffed, but he could only hang his head. “I had the displeasure of meeting him only once before. If things had gone better today, I would have been the one to kill him at Phindar.”

She stared at him, before finally breaking his gaze and looking away from him. “So it’s true then. We were working for the Sith.”

“Not anymore, daughter. And never again.” 

She looked over at him, disappointment in her eyes. “Father, what is this? What are we in the middle of? I need to know.”

Dooku sighed, pulling a seat closer with a flick of her wrist, and taking a seat beside her bed. He stared at her, wondering where to even begin. He’d had this conversation once with Athemeene, and even that was under better circumstances than this. Turning his head, he gazed down at Ideon, sleeping with his head on his father’s shoulder, and Dooku had to shut his eyes to keep the tears from forming.

He would not lose control in front of his daughter. Not when she needed strength. Coughing once, he cleared his throat, looking to her again.

“Before we begin, you should know that this family is the most important thing to me. I would do anything I could for you, Kenth, Ideon, Madalee and Athemeene. If I could return to my younger self, and change my course of action, the only thing that would stay my hand is the knowledge that none of you would ever be. Tan’ya, I love you, and I couldn’t be more proud.”

She considered him for a moment, swallowing once, before nodding. “But.”

“Yes. But.” He sighed, leaning back into his chair. “Thirty years ago, I had never even met your Mother. I couldn’t even have dreamed of this family, or known how important it would be. I was still a Jedi Master, and after a series of disastrous missions and betrayals, my faith in the Order was waning. I joined the Council, hoping to steer the Jedi in what I thought was a better direction, and found resistance to it from even the people I trusted most. I left the Council, embittered and despondent. At the lowest moment in my life, that was when I was contacted by a man. I didn’t know who he was at the time, but years later, when I was firmly in his grip and thoroughly controlled by him, I would learn his true identity. He was Darth Sidious, the Dark Lord of the Sith.” He met his daughter’s gaze. “You would know him better now as Supreme Chancellor Palpatine of the Galactic Senate.”

Chapter 36 in progress.

For those who want to see my progress on 36 so far.

Chapter 35 (1st Draft)

39 BBY

The fleet departed from Serenno, making good time to the first rally point at the edge of the Belsmuth sector. Dooku and his five ships waited in an out of the way, binary red star system with no traces of life but for a lonely probe someone fired into orbit around it centuries ago. He arrived early, worried that if he wasn’t there before the Mandalorian mercenaries arrived, they might start fighting each other. 

The moment the first Mandalorian clan jumped into the system, Dooku had his communications officer send him a friendly greeting along with an invite to share some drinks.

When he arrived aboard, Al’verde Cizdaa was shorter than Dooku expected, to the point where one of his helmeted bodyguards was a full head taller than him, but he had a steely gaze and a way of moving that made it clear he was well used to command. He was naturally darker skinned, but his time in full body armour had left him a shade paler than looked healthy.

The room Dooku had set aside for them to meet in wasn’t very large at all, just the Rider’s small mess hall, but cleared of anyone else who might have used it. 

“A Jedi in armour.” Cizdaa noted with obvious approval. “It’s good that you’re taking this seriously.”

“Someone has to.” Dooku laughed, as though it were a joke. 

A servant came over, bringing a bottle of strong spirits distilled from razorgrain. Normally Dooku would sip wine at diplomatic events, and it was his preferred drink in private, but here something so subtly tasteful wouldn’t be respected. The razorgrain whiskey was from his father’s private collection, Gora had a great collection of the stuff. The brand Dooku chose was Bourke’Dura, translating to Standard as, ‘Of the Open Plains’. He didn’t know much about spirits, but it fetched a good price offworld, so Dooku assumed it had a strong reputation.

Cizdaa sniffed the fluid, and obviously relished it when he took a sip. “So, we will make plans now.”

“Once the rest of our fleet arrives, yes.” Dooku answered. “Caisa Krutt has yet to arrive.”

When she did arrive, Caisa came with more bodyguards then Cizdaa did. She searched the room constantly with her eyes, beskar steel helmet under her arm, and when she was offered her glass of whiskey, she hesitated before drinking. Dooku could feel her suppressing the desire to call for a poison taster. Despite being only in her thirties, her hair was already completely grey.

“The plan is quite simple.” He explained, once Caisa was somewhat more relaxed. “A force of twenty ships, led by my former Padwan, Jedi Knight Asajj Ventress, will approach Phindar from the Perlemian, while we will attack from the Hydian. We’ve chosen this system and another like it on the other side of Phindar, because when we launch the attack we should both arrive within mere minutes of each other.”

“What happens if the enemy intercepts the signal?” Caisa asked.

“The signal will be sent by Asajj through the Force.” Dooku answered. “So no chance for electronic interference. Even if they have a Force user among them, the sign Asajj sends will be so general and simple that it most likely won’t be interpreted as anything of note.”

Neither of them seemed to understand exactly what he meant when discussing the Force, but both of them accepted his expertise.

“So we’re just waiting for Asajj to send her signal?” Cizdaa asked. “When will that be?”

“Likely a few hours. Some of her forces will have a much greater distance to travel than others.”

“Time then for us to speak.” Cizdaa smirked, looking from Dooku’s face, to the helmet sitting on the table beside him. “You Jedi are behaving strangely, these days. I heard your Temple was working for Coruscant, and now I hear they exiled you, gave you the long run around on Coruscant.”

Dooku kept the confident smirk on his face, not falling for the bait. “It’s a Temple matter.” He explained. “What’s important is that I’m now free to act without constraint.”

“Which is why we’re conquering Phindar.” Cizdaa drained his decanter in a single gulp, then offered it to Dooku’s servant for a refill. “My forebears took contracts for you Jedi, back in the last Golden Age.”

“Don’t you know, Cizdaa?” Caisa spoke up. “Jedi call that one the Dark Age.”

“Is that a fact?” Cizdaa feigned ignorance. “It’s a shame not everyone enjoyed it.”

“Yes, a shame.” Dooku said, and let the pause linger. Did Cizdaa have something in particular he was angling towards?

“I was surprised when Duchess Satine recommended me to you.” Cizdaa said. “You being such an autocrat and all. Our Duchess, she’s a real fan of democracy. Not much of a fan of us.” He indicated Caisa.

Caisa scowled.

Cizdaa continued, “Such a fan of democracy that she’s never held an election since taking office. She loves Democracy like a beautiful family heirloom, keeps it locked away, so none of us can put our filthy hands on it.”

“I see.” Said Dooku, considering the two of them. “And yet she considers the both of you among her supporters?”

Caisa let out a short, bitter laugh. “Well, I’ll take a contract from her, but I’m not willing to go to war for her democracy. The strongest should rule, I say, but she acts like such a weakling.”

“Look, she won the civil war.” Cizdaa said. “Fair’s fair, but she’s going around in her fancy dresses, painted up like some core world whore-princess.” He scowled, unhappily. “It’s humiliating.”

“Not just humiliating.” Caisa frowned. “It puts us in danger by making us all look weak.”

“If she could just get her damn pacifists under control.” Cizdaa shook his head. “They want to be cowards, more glory for us. But no, they won’t even have a defence fleet. Now a bunch of two bit scum like the Black Sun think they can raid us, and she’s not even here to deal with it. Instead, someone else has to hire us.”

“A monarch’s first shield is his reputation.” Dooku said, slowly, swirling his glass thoughtfully. He watched from the corners of his eyes as they both turned to face him. “Before his army even sets foot on the transport, his enemies should be afraid to provoke him. Intimidation is how a monarch keeps his people safe.”

“Exactly.” Cizdaa agreed, eying up the Count, thoughtfully.

“Well, today we will do much to establish our reputations.” Dooku promised them. “And soon, no one would dare to strike at us.”

Finally, after another day of babysitting the mercenaries, Dooku received a call in the Force from Asajj. She had arrived at her rally point. Before they had set out, they’d both selected uninhabited Star Systems on the Salin Corridor that were almost the same distance from Phindar. If they both traveled at a pre-arranged hyperdrive speed, and both set out at the same time, they should arrive mere minutes apart from each other. 

Dooku hoped that if nothing else, Asajj would have an easier time coordinating with Duke Harrad than he had with the Mandalorians. If nothing else, the Duke of Raxus was eager to bring the hammer down on the fools that had humiliated him. Though the man had his own sense of pride, he wasn’t nearly as touchy as the Mandalorians, and more than willing to admit that he was no expert in military matters.

Though communicating through the Force across the Galaxy was quite difficult, at least the most vague impressions were possible, such as affirmative or negative. The systems they had chosen had no holocom relays, making calls into and out of them impossible, but it also meant they should be untraceable as well. If all went well, the enemy would have no knowledge about the fleets that were coming until they appeared suddenly in battle formations. Dooku sent word to his astrogators to prepare for a Hyper Jump. Once he had word from them that they were ready to go, he sent an affirmative signal to Asajj, and she immediately responded in kind.

“Now.” Dooku ordered, and his combined forces jumped together.

Doom was coming for the Black Sun.

With the sun hanging low over the horizon, Sturn decided to take a shower and go to bed early that night. After completing his evening ablutions, he paused for a moment, looking at himself in the mirror. He gazed at his grey receding hairline, along with his sad face full of wrinkles, and the pudge of his belly. He frowned at the weary old man staring back at himself, and thought of his home. 

Corellia, the garden bed from which the flower of the Republic bloomed. The greatest planet in the Galaxy. All that, and many more things besides. The people of Corellia were happy, prosperous, and proud. Most of them barely knew anything about the wider Galaxy, and they didn’t need to when their home was what the rest of the Galaxy aspired to be.

 As a Green Jedi he was trained for combat. He’d handled investigations, made several arrests, and even been shot at a few times, but that boarding action was his first time seeing real combat. In all his long years as a Green Jedi, he’d never once boarded a pirate ship in an attempt to stop his beloved home from being bombed. Blaster bolts whizzing everywhere, his attention being pulled in a dozen different directions by potential threats, the pounding of his heart in his ears as adrenaline flooded his system, and the speed of everything. A second was such a long time, he’d learned. A single second of hesitation, and Gon wouldn’t have pulled him away from the door in time.

Never in his entire life had he ever seen anything like he had here on Serenno. In contrast to his home, this jungle world was poor, ruled over by an absolute monarch, and under near constant threat. During his time here, he’d explored the Palace, and seen the tiny sunless cells where previous Counts had kept their political enemies. He’d felt the minds of the men and women who worked the Palace, and the deep mistrust they had for him. Everywhere he went, there were eyes on him, suspicious, and always watching.

It wasn’t that he was ungrateful for the time he had spent here, the Count had been a great host, but his tenure had been eye opening. It had been two years since his wife had passed, and it was only after coming here that Sturn had spent an entire day without thinking about her once.

Now he thought about her, and the wise gleam in her eyes when she would say to him, “The Galaxy is a vast, dark place, and Corellians should stay out of it.”

He’d signed on to be a teacher, for a wealthy lord on a far away world, where he would not constantly be reminded of things he’d lost. The expectation had been for an easy job, training the wealthy count’s gifted daughter in the ways of the Force. Now Sturn found himself in the midst of a world of intrigue, where the title of Jedi Lord wasn’t just an old claim that the Green Jedi had never surrendered back to Coruscant even if they hadn’t used it for a thousand years. Now Dooku was travelling in full battle armour, coordinating fleets, and building an empire in the Outer Rim.

Sturn had jumped face first into the deep dark whirlpool of Galactic Politics, and hadn’t even considered how dangerous it would be. 

With a final sigh, Sturn turned away from the mirror and pulled his pajamas on. His shirt was a dark  green, with small highlights of black to give the impression of a rolling grassland. 

He sat at the end of his bed, and took out his holocom. He stared at it for a moment, before dialing his son. As it rang, he tried not to think about what time it must be on Corellia. Just after midnight, no doubt it would be a great annoyance, but at this time he just needed to hear his last surviving son’s voice. 

The holocom kept ringing, until it was finally answered. To Sturn’s surprise, his son’s face was glazed with sweat, and there was what looked like smoke in the background. “Dad? I can’t talk now, there’s been an emergency.”

“What happened?” Sturn asked.

“Someone broke into the Green Temple, they set off explosives. I can’t talk now, we’re still trying to figure out what’s missing.” Then he hung up.

Sturn stared at the compad shocked, before typing up a message. Maybe Corellia wasn’t as safe as he remembered. With a sigh, he took a few headache pills and washed them down with a glass of water, before laying down to sleep.

He didn’t know how long he slept for, until he was awoken by the sound of ringing. Squinting at the flashing painfully bright light in the dark room, he reached out one handedly and blindly groped at the device until he finally managed to pinch it between his thumb and forefinger.

He didn’t recognise the caller, so he silenced it, and let it ring out. He closed his eyes again, ready to sleep, but that same number immediately called him again. Sitting upright in his bed, he glared at the mystery caller’s number, before sighing and answering.

“Yes? Who is this? It’s late at night.”

The face scowling back at him on the device was a Duros in a large hat, toothpick hanging from his lips. The mysterious caller pushed a button on their end, and the image changed from his head and shoulders to a view of his whole body, along with the young boy he held at blaster point.

It took Sturn’s mind a second in its sleepy state to recognise his own grandson, but when he did, he leapt to his feet. “Yash!” He bellowed. “Who are you?”

“I got your attention now, scum?” The Duros smirked.

“What are you doing with him?!” Sturn yelled. “If you-”

“If what?” The Duros snarled. “If what, Jedi?” He dug his baster into the back of Yash’s head, and the boy whimpered in fear. “You want him safe? Do what I say.”

“Alright!” Sturn yelped. “Okay. Stop hurting him. Tell me what you want?”

“I want to do an exchange.” The Duros sneered. “You can have him back, but you gotta pick him up. I’m a few hours away from Corellia, but if you set out from Serenno now, you can meet me at Celanon. You hang up on me and I’ll kill him. Understand Jedi?”

“I don’t understand. What do you want?”

“I want you to get moving!” He snarled, and struck Yash with the bottom of his pistol. Blood poured out of the cut in the young boy's scalp, and he cried out. “Hear that? He’ll get more if you don’t do as you’re told, Jedi. Keep the holocom on, so I can see what you’re doing. Get on your ship, and chart a course for Celanon.”

With the Duros watching, and with his grandson’s life on the line, Sturn had no choice. He hurried to the garage in his pajamas, running barefoot through the Palace halls to the landing pad. 

The fleet crashed into the Phindar system with the overlapping crunching sounds of more than fifteen ships leaving hyper space within seconds of each other. At first the enemy fleet didn’t seem to react at all, continuing to drift apart from one another in no discernible formation at all. Dooku’s fleet was in system for three whole minutes before the enemy responded, and by that time they were receiving fire. Some of the blaster rounds fired by Dooku’s Hammerheads not only struck the enemy barriers, but the hulls themselves!

Had the Black Sun engineers been so ill disciplined as to leave their shields off? If a crew wanted to rest and recuperate, it might be necessary to turn a shield off to reduce workload for the systems engineers, but it was absurd to think the enemy would be so comfortable in Phindar that they wouldn’t even maintain that level of discipline.

Even stranger was their response to being fired at. The enemy fleet scattered in different directions, some forming smaller fleets and rounding to face Dooku, while others accelerated away. They outnumbered him two to one, but they seemed to be panicking.

“Sir, the scouts are trying to get in contact. They say they have a report to make.”

Both of Tanya’s Coruscanti scouts appeared on the screen, looking excited. Both of them were wearing civilian outfits, and Dooku could see a mug of alcohol of some kind sitting on the table between them. 

“Make it brief, Corporal.” Dooku warned.

“Yes, sir.” The man said in a lowered voice. “Much of the enemy’s personnel aren’t at their stations right now. We’ve done a count of all the bars we can find, and we’re seeing dozens of Black Sun crew everywhere we go.”

“Gotta be a third of the enemy fleet’s personnel on shore, right now.” The other man added.

“...Good work.” Dooku finally said, blinking in shock at the information.

Just at that moment, Asajj’s half of the fleet crashed into the Phindar system from the other side. Without hesitating, her ships found their targets and began opening fire. 

One of the most basic and obvious strategies in a naval engagement was to concentrate fire on a single ship with just enough of your own to destroy it safely. Typically, fleets would be divided into squadrons to more easily coordinate their fire patterns. In the Outer Rim Alliance’s fleet, squadrons consisted of five ships, which conveniently divided between the two Mandalorian fleets and Dooku’s own very evenly. The remaining twenty ships were from Raxus, and was broken up into four squads, with overall command falling to Asajj.

Out of all that, the key takeaway was that each ship had a captain and a squadron commander in place to ensure that they were doing the most they could in each moment to eliminate enemy vessels.

In contrast, the enemy pirate ships didn’t seem to have ever been organised at a squadron level by whoever was in command. The thirty or so captains of the enemy fleet had no coordinated response to Dooku’s attack. The return fire was haphazard, partly because it seemed like not all of the gunnery positions were occupied, but also because the ships weren’t overlapping their fire against individual targets. The Black Suns were being taken apart one by one, already four of their ships were crippled and drifting, while the rest were maneuvering in a panic. 

Where was Maul? Dooku couldn’t help but wonder. Does he not see what’s happening?

Or maybe this was really the best a bunch of pirates could do to work together. Bringing thirty ships and crews together couldn’t have been easy, let alone trying to force them to train for a major battle. If such large numbers of the enemy crew were on the planet below, carousing and unable to contribute to the battle in orbit, and the enemy fleet couldn’t coordinate a response, that meant that discipline was nonexistent in the enemy.

Did Maul just let his pirates run amok? 

No, the attacks on Raxus and Serenno were well coordinated. They’d each had individual targets, and attacked with precision and excellent timing. 

Something had to have changed for the crews in the intervening month for discipline to break down so completely.

Finally, the space station seemed to come to life. Deep Space Demolitions and Removal’s hangar doors opened, and a large swarm of bombers deployed. The same force that had devastated Raxus Prime would have had plenty of firepower for the Outer Rim Alliance’s mix of light battle cruisers, if not for the fact they would never reach their targets.

Having been waiting for this exact moment, the New Temple’s long range Jedi Fighter Patrol fleet pounced. Having just taken off from the hangar bay the enemy bombers were all but sitting fowls, helpless before the guns of much quicker and more maneuverable foes. Even against a regular force of fighter craft, the bombers would struggle, but against one's piloted by Jedi, they were almost completely helpless. Aided by superhuman reaction speeds, precognition, and inhuman resilience to g-forces, the Jedi fighter fleet danced in, around, and amongst the hapless bomber formation, effortlessly avoiding enemy blasts while pouring fire into them.

It wasn’t long at all until the enemy bomber fleet began to break up. They gave up on the battle, and instead of delivering their attack run to the enemy, began trying to make their own escape. Powering up their hyperdrives, many of them were blasted to pieces even as they prepared to escape in a blind panic.

The Phindar sector had just three hyperlanes. Two of them were along the Salin Corridor, heading East and West, and both were occupied by Alliance’s fleets. The last was a scarcely traveled route, heading into the Gordion Reach, a wild corner of the Galaxy, scarcely populated and traveled. The Gordion reach itself was a confusing maze of hyperlanes, poorly mapped and with no civilisations to stop, repair or refuel. Without careful preparations, it was a perilous route for any ship to take.

Despite that, many of the escaping pirates seemed to prefer taking their chance in such a desolate wilderness, then to remain in the battle or try to run the blockades. Many of the enemy pilots milled about in indecision, before being shot down or broadcasting their surrender.

Of the bombers who had attacked Raxus, at best a dozen escaped, narrowly slipping through Dooku’s line, or flying off towards regions unknown. The rest were all captured or destroyed.

Seeing the way the battle was turning, the enemy battle cruisers began to start making the same calculations. A few of them tried to flee towards the Gordion reach, and Dooku would have been happy to let them go, doubting they would ever make it back to civilisation again, but he also didn’t want them to simply hide somewhere nearby and try to poke their heads back in when the coast was clear.

Dooku contacted Cizdaa. “Can you run these fools down? Deny them the chance to regroup.”

“I can, but my clan will see its share of the spoils, Dooku.”

“Of course. Everything will be divided evenly.”

With that promise, Cizdaa hung up, and began to make the hyperspace calculations. 

Seeing that the battle was going well, Dooku briefly closed his eyes and reached out into the Force, trying to find Maul. He either wasn’t here, or he was hiding his presence.

“Sir, we’re receiving a request to surrender.”

“Patch them through to me, I wish to speak with them.”

A very stressed, and confused pirate captain suddenly was projected before Dooku. He was a zabrak, with tattooed hands and cold piercings in his nose. “We surrender! Please! We request permission to wait to one side, and will remain at the coordinates of your choosing until you’re ready to deal with us.”

“Captain, I’m sending a squadron to board you. Agree to disarm and cooperate with their demands, and we will cease firing on you.”

“Aye! I agree.” The man yelled, just as an alarm went off behind him and a shower of sparks rained down at the end of the vision.

Dooku was about to hang up, but he hesitated. “Tell me, where’s your leader?” 

The Zabrak blinked at him, confused for a moment. “Shut up in the station. Claimed the old Vigo’s chambers for himself, and we haven’t heard from him since the attack.”

Dooku considered for a moment. “A squad will be boarding your ship shortly. If you make any attempt to resist, we will stop accepting any attempt to surrender.”

“Aye.” The pirate said, and Dooku hung up on him.

After the first pirate surrendered, there was a steady flow of enemy ships attempting the same. It wasn’t long at all until the battle was over. In the end, they were pirates. They weren’t loyal to a cause, nor where they willing to throw their lives away for their comrades. A majority of the enemy fleet fled, escaping into the Gordian Reach and hounded by the Mandalorians. Navigating that region was a gamble at the best of times, so as many as a quarter of the pirates outright surrendered. In the end, the pirates had only endured losing eight ships before they broke.

It was a pathetic display. Meanwhile the Alliance had lost just three ships, two from Raxus, and a single Mandalorian vessel. Others had been damaged, full diagnostics had yet to be run and the results fully tallied, but initially the battle seemed to be an overwhelming victory for the Alliance.

Dooku opened up a line to Asajj. “Go to Phindar, and bring the Ruling Council under our protection.”

“Yes, Master.” She answered, before hesitating. For a second it looked like Asajj was going to ask another question, possibly about what to do if they refused, but then she formed her resolve and hung up. 

Dooku sent more orders to the Jedi Knights fighters, telling them to board the surrendered enemy ships and ensure a smooth capture. Finally, he sent word to the commander of his own small detachment of Marines.

“Prepare to board the station.”

If Maul was there, Dooku would face him personally, but he had serious doubts that the man was. Perhaps he was out on some other mission for Sidious, or maybe he’d delegated command here to incompetent subordinate. Either way, Dooku didn’t want to give the Jedi Knights a chance to discover something that might incriminate him before he had a chance to inspect the ship.

His hammerhead, the Rider, docked with the station directly. Dooku allowed his heavily armoured troops to form the vanguard, rushing down the docking tube and piling into the corridors of the enemy ship. 

Inside, Dooku wrinkled his nose at the smell of mold and rotten food that permeated the air with no obvious source. Someone must have left crumbs in the air filters, suggesting it had been a long time since anyone had done maintenance on Life Support. He pulled his helmet on, sealing it in place and turning on its atmospheric filters. The rest of his men did the same, pausing for just a moment before pushing deeper into the station.

The non-combatants aboard the station huddled fearfully in their quarters, watching with a terrified tremor as Dooku and his forces passed by, images of black armoured titans burned into their minds. They were all clad in old rags, apparently lacking food or the means to clean themselves, a mix of different alien races, though they all offered no resistance. Anyone armed or armoured had hidden or discarded their weapons, trying to blend into the regular crew.  Rust clung to the bulkheads, and there were piles of garbage often scattered around, old food rappers, empty cans, and abandoned rags.

His Serennoan vanguard looked disgusted, regarding the voidkin that would be in this filth with clear contempt. Some of these people looked quite malnourished, and it took Dooku a moment to realise they were captured prisoners for the most part. These were future slaves that had been collected through raiding, and gathered here at the station. The pirates had brought them here so they could be sold later and their ships could operate unburdened. It also gave whoever ran the station control over the rest of the fleet, with the potentially valuable slaves acting as a kind of hostage. If each captain wanted their cut of the sales, they needed to cooperate with whoever controlled the station.

There were thousands of them. Tens of thousands. These pirates must have been operating with near impunity for a long time before their attack on Raxus. 

Knowing this, Dooku did feel sympathy for the filth covered wretches, ripped from their homes and loved ones. Amongst their number there would now no doubt be their jailors, trying to hide from justice.

No, Dooku wouldn’t allow them to escape. He and the Jedi Knights would find the depraved scum responsible for this, and make them pay dearly.

Finally, after passing through the endless corridors, junctions and bends of the ship, Dooku and his squad arrived at the executive wing. The walls weren’t covered in rust here, but there were signs of plasma scouring on the walls, and the distinctive slashes of a lightsaber carving lines of boiled metal in the bulkheads. Maybe the Black Sun’s Vigos had held here, their bodyguards trying to stop Maul as he carved his way through the syndicate's leadership. 

Already reaching out in his mind, Dooku could sense no hint of Maul’s presence. “Wait here.” He ordered. “If anyone other than me comes out, then slay him.” 

“Yes, Rider.” The leader saluted, and his men fanned out, taking up positions facing the door.

Striding forward alone, Dooku kept his lightsaber drawn. Inside, the lights had been left off, leaving the burning blue beam of his weapon as his only illumination. Though he didn’t expect to find Maul, he searched with his eyes and the Force, seeking his foe in the Dark Side.

There was nothing. Dooku made it all the way to a power junction without provoking attack or ambush. He flicked the switches, bringing the lights back on one by one. 

It was a conference room of some kind. Maybe the Kajidic of the Black Sun would have taken counsel here before Maul killed them, but now the room was barren. There were several guest rooms, once opulent, now barren as all valuables had been stripped away and sent elsewhere. Any art works, jewels or gold had been plundered at some point, as had been silk bedding, and the valuable furniture. All that was left was the occasional plasma scoring, or lightsaber scar in the metal.

Finally, Dooku found what must have been Maul’s room. It was empty as well, the only thing distinguishing it from the others was an immersion tank of cloudy used bacta. How long it had been here, Dooku could only guess, but evidently Maul hadn’t brought it with him when he abandoned this hideout.

Somehow, this empty place filled Dooku with an even greater sense of foreboding than the threat of ambush had. 

“Your Highness. Your Highness, please wake up.”

“Yes?” Athemeene groaned, rolling over to see her wet nurse. “Yes? What time is it?”

Of course she did her best to take care of her own children, but to have servants stay up during the night and watch over them was such a convenience. 

“It’s past midnight.” The Nurse answered quickly. As she bowed her head, her rounded chin merged with her thick neck into a mass of indistinguishable folds. “Apologies, Your Highness, but I fear his highness Ideon might be sick.”

“Where is he?” Athemeene asked, sitting up, and pulling her slippers on.

“In his nursery.” The Nurse answered. “But he won’t stop screaming. And it’s not the usual baby, ‘I don’t want to go to bed scream.’ He’s shaking and red all over his body.”

Athemeene led the way through the halls, yawning as she did. The nursery wasn’t far from where she slept, and inside she found Ideon. The poor little baby was raising hell, balled fists turning his tiny knuckles white with pressure, even as the rest of his body was flushed with exertion.

“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.” Athemeene reached down to pick the one year old up, who immediately latched onto his mother. Even with her there, shushing and bouncing him, he wouldn’t stop screaming for even a moment. “Call the doctor.” Athemeene told the wet nurse. “He feels much too cold, he has goosebumps all over his body.” Then she focussed back on the child. “It’s okay, baby, there’s nothing to be scared of.”

The nurse left the room, and Athemeene found herself shivering as well. How did it get so cold in the room? She looked for the thermostat, but saw that it was on, keeping the room at a pleasant temperature that normally would feel warm.

As she sat there, Athemeene felt the hairs on the back of her own neck rise, and couldn’t explain why. Standing up, and holding her son’s body close to her, she suddenly found herself afraid to be alone. She carried Ideon to the hallways, poking her head out to see how far the nurse had gone, when suddenly she heard the bark of a distant blaster behind her.  

 Turning around, Athemeene stared out the nursery window to the garden, where the plants were swaying in the mountain breeze, beyond that to the trees, were amongst the swaying bows there were sudden flashes of red, appearing and disappearing. Then another blaster joined in, the sound of two weapons unleashing a long burst of fire filling the night, before they stopped.

Trembling now, Athemeene watched as what looked like one of the House Guards emerged from the tree line, spinning to face a shadow that emerged from the darkness. The Guard fired once, then twice, before a gleaming silver blade flashed out from the black shape and impaled him. The guard slumped over, dead, as Athemeene froze in fear.

Standing over him, the dark shape pulled back its hood, revealing a red face and a crest of horns. For a second, Athemeene was sure she felt him lock eyes with her, before he began to charge for the Palace.

Athemeene didn’t wait to see if he made it, or if he was intercepted by a new squadron of House Guards. She did all she could think to do in that moment, bundling up her wailing son, and running to find her other children.