Chapter Text

PART I: SAND

Chapter 1: CZERKA

Czerka turned and looked at Gaffi. He was standing on the ledge, his helmet on the ground beside him. That was unusual. Even for Gaf. That’s when he noticed there was a crack in the visor. Czerka picked up his brother’s bucket and gazed inside. The visuals were fried. A black screen and string of broken data flooded the view port. 

“I’m not getting a signal.” Krayt said, “I can’t reach Eights.” 

Czerka didn’t bother to try to hail the Squad leader. He already knew. Krayt knew, too. They just didn’t believe it yet. 

“There’s nothing left.” Gaffi said. 

Krayt turned towards Gaf. Despite being covered head-to-toe in armor, Czerka knew his brother well enough to know that he was disturbed, “W… what?” 

“There’s nothing left.” Gaffi repeated. 

They looked out onto the battlefield. Gunships whirled around the dust cloud like buzzards. Hundreds of surviving brothers walked over the armored, laser-burned corpses of others. Underneath piles of the dead were twisted, still armed skeletal remains of droids waiting to burst up and fire back at them. Recovering their brother’s body might be the last thing they do. And that was if there was anything left. Which Gaf assured them there wasn’t. 

Of course not. 

A Lucrehulk core ship just collapsed onto the battlefield.

But there wasn’t nothing. There was… there was something. They were alive.

“Gaf, what are you talking about?” Krayt asked. 

But he just laughed, in a broken, distorted way. 

“There’s nothing left.” He repeated. 

And then quieter, “Nothing left.” 

And that was the last thing he said.

Republic Outpost Tera-X9, Tatooine System

999 Days after Geonosis

Tatooine gently rotated below the Republic outpost. Czerka and the other Tusken-trained Commandos came to associate the desert world with the sign for home, despite never having set foot on it. Czerka always thought that was a bit odd. It made them stand out from the other clones who called the wet, stormy stilt cities of Kamino home, while the commandos of Krayt, Bantha, and Sarlacc Squads dreamed of the dust storms, heat, and the warm glow of a black melon dug straight out of the Dune Sea. 

“General on deck!” Sandstorm announced. He, Tat, and Czerka leaped to attention. 

Master Ogel entered the armory where the Krayt Squad clones were prepping their gear. He was a big man, almost as big as the clones, and he wore a dark gray robe underneath the typical brown Jedi hood. Though they heard that he was only as old as Master Windu, he wore a thick beard that made him look older. “At ease, men,” he said, letting the three of them relax. Normally clones removed their helmets in front of their commanding officer, but being more-or-less raised by a Tusken, they wouldn’t remove them without an explicit order. That was just how they felt more comfortable existing in this world: buckets on. 

Behind him was a young Mirialan Czerka didn’t recognize. Her skin was green, but with a blue-ish tint that made her seem more teal. Her eyes were dark, but the longer Czerka looked at them, he could see pink flecks in her irises. She had short-cropped black hair that reflected an iridescent shine in the indicator lights of the armory. She wore a dark hood around her shoulders. As she walked, Czerka could see that she had on a pair of pants that ended at her shins, just above a pair of braided sandals. Her black top revealed just enough of her midriff that Czerka had to wonder if he knew anything about Mirialan culture. He always thought they were covered up and demure, like Master Unduli. 

On her face she had a trio of diamonds over her cheekbones, underneath each eye. On her forehead, an inverse of her diamond cheek tattoos sat between her eyes, just underneath a pair of down-ward pointing angles, topped with a small diamond on top. 

“Commandos of Krayt Squad,” Master Ogel said, “Allow me to introduce you to my Padawan, Commander Arya Wooy.” 

Master Ogel turned to her and she stepped forward, nodding her head in a slight bow as she said, “Honored to meet you, Krayt Squad.” 

“She will be leading you on the mission to Tatooine.” 

“You won’t be coming with us, General?” 

“No,” Master Ogel said, “I’ve been called away. I have every confidence in Commander Wooy.” 

The Commander stepped forward until she was in the center of the room. She seemed to scan them at first, taking them in visually before saying, “I’d like to know you as a Squad, first,” she said, “What are your names?” 

The Sergeant stepped forward first, “RC-8792, ma’am.” He wore the standard katarn commando armor, with the glowing blue T-shaped visor that was issued to all Clone Commandos. Though it wasn’t the chrome plate he was originally issued. The Sergeant’s old squad had all painted their plate brown-and-red desert camouflage. They all had similar patterns, but they were noticeably different in composition and color. The current make up of Krayt Squad was, like so many other Commando Squads, was a composite of lone survivors from other Squads. 

“I asked for your name,” Commander Wooy said, “not your number.” 

“Apologies,” the Sergeant said, “I’m called Sandstorm, ma’am.” 

The Commander picked up her hands and held them out uneasily in front of her. She then tried using a few signs from Tusken Sign Language, <You Squad Leader?> 

From underneath all that armor, Sandstorm was as visibly surprised as the rest of the Krayts. He signed back, <Yes,> ending with the honorific. 

Commander Wooy then turned to the other two squadmates, “And your name?” 

“RC-8021, ma’am. Tat.” 

“Is that short for Tatooine?” 

He nodded, “It is.” Tat’s armor had a similar desert paint job as Czerka’s and Sandstorm’s, but with more red elements. Czerka thought he was painting it more for Geonosis-type deserts. His armor was also noticeably scratched, though uncompromised. Had the structural integrity been damaged, even a crazy shabuir like Tat would have had it fixed up. The helmet in particular he had used his kukhri to scratch a devillish, horned, Zabrak-esque face into it. Tat even had his visor’s colors adjusted to appear outwardly red, instead of blue. Though from behind the scratched image of a Zabrak’s skull, it appeared as if the terrifying face of a Shadow-Brother warrior was staring out, with red-glowing eyes. 

“A pleasure to know you,” the Commander said. She turned, finally, to Czerka, “And your name?” 

“Czerka, ma’am.” 

“Czerka.” She repeated, “Like the rifle?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” He confirmed, “I’m the sniper for Krayt Squad.” 

“An appropriate name, then.” She smiled, and Czerka felt like the sun was shining on his face when she did. He blushed, happy that he had his helmet on so she couldn’t see. It wasn’t the typical Phase-I-adjacent design Commandos were issued, the kinds that Sandstorm and Tat both wore, albeit modified. The variant that Czerka wore, and his former squadmates once did, as well, was an experimental design for coastal defender helmets. It was originally designed to have a modified air-filtration and visual system to deal with sand being blasted at high speeds, something that Czerka very much appreciated. Of course, it was only marginally better (if at all) as the Phase-I Katarn design, but at this point it served a different purpose. 

Raised by a Tusken for specialized training after spending years under the tutelage of Mandalorians, all of the clones trained by Lord A’Urok’Urrt adopted the Tusken custom of regarding revealed skin as something shameful or at the very least, undesirable. The desert squads, as they did now, had become accustomed to not removing their helmets, or any other part of their armor in public, including in the presence of their Jedi commanding officers without a direct order. And then it went right back on as quickly as possible.

Commander Wooy took a half-step back and scanned the soldiers for a solid moment. Czerka could sense an odd sensation. He had never had a Jedi peer into his mind before. Other than that one time. But he could tell just by Arya’s presence that she was in the middle of a Jedi perception technique. 

The Commander turned to General Ogel and nodded. 

“Please take a seat,” he said, with a small wave of his hand. He turned to the door and tapped the button without touching it. The door slid shut and the lights in the room dimmed. The General turned then to Commander Wooy and gave her a little motion. 

The Commander smiled and nodded, “Thank you, Master.” She stepped forward and removed a small datapad from her belt. A projector rose from the floor and a holographic map of Tatooine floated in front of them, “So, as I’m sure you know by now, Krayt Squad was chosen for this mission because we’ll be infiltrating Hutt and Separatist facilities on desert planets, and one of them in the middle of a sandstorm. So desert combat and survival knowledge have high priority.” 

The hologram zoomed into a location to the south of Mos Espa, somewhere in the middle of the Jundland Wastes, just north of the Western Dune Sea. The facility was built into the dry mountains, and from the outside, looked vertical, using various repulsor lifts, pulleys, and sky-facing landing platforms to control the traffic. 

“This is the Hutt prison we’ll be infiltrating to retrieve our asset.” Commander Wooy said. 

“A Hutt prison?” Sandstorm asked, “Since when do Hutts use prisons?” 

“Like everything else the Hutts do, as a business venture. They offer rock bottom prices for their Captivity Services to organizations like Black Sun, the Pykes, even the city authorities, various slavers… the Separatists, of course. If someone displeases Jabba, they might go here if he intends to sell them as opposed to meting out the, uh,” she resisted putting her fingers in the air to mock the word, but her voice dripped with sarcasm, “justice, himself.” 

They had all heard The Lord tell them tales of the horrors the Hutts had unleashed on Tatooine. How they issued bounties to kill Tuskens, or even contracted gangs and mercenaries to kill entire tribes. Then there was the exploitation of the spice mining. For a whole lot of reasons, Tuskens made terrible mining slaves, so the Hutts, once they were in control of the guns, started using them to clear the best spice mining spots on the planet and then selling the rights to the exploitation of the land to those too greedy and impatient to do the work themselves. 

“What’s this asset?” Sandstorm asked. 

“A better question,” the Commander said, “is who.” She clicked a button and it showed a grainy 2-dimensional photograph of a man in armor. He was Mirialan, based solely on the marked tattoos on his face, but wore distinctive armor. Only his profile was visible, but underneath his left arm was the unmistakable T-shape of a Mandalorian beskar buy’ce. 

“A Mandalorian.” Sandstorm said, a bit of darkness slipping into his voice. Mandalorians were not known to be easy to capture, and if one did, that spoke to both the ferocity of his captors, the weakness of the warrior, and danger from all sides. Any Mandalorian worth their spice would, after all, be looking to restore their honor after being captured.

“Allen Mordigala.” Commander Wooy said, “He’s a technician who the Republic was paying for data to infiltrate a Separatist facility. As far as we are aware, he is still willing to lead us to the facility and provide us access to that data, but we need to get him out of the prison, obviously.” 

“It’s not possible to just buy him from the Hutts?” Sandstorm asked, “You said that this prison was used by them as a sort of way-station at times, no?” 

“We’ve considered that. The Separatists are paying the Hutts specifically not to sell him.” 

A lot of money to spend on not firing a blaster in the back of his head, Czerka thought. 

As if to answer the question, Commander Wooy said, “We’re not sure why they’re keeping him alive. There might be some hope that he can be turned to the Separatist cause. More Mandalorians are fighting for them than for us. Or it might be something else entirely. It doesn’t really matter,” she clicked something on the ‘pad once more to bring the 3-dimensional schematic of the facility back to the front, “because we’re going to get him out and head to our next location.” 

“Do we know where this second location is?” the Sarge asked. 

“Not yet,” Commander Wooy said, “first thing’s first is to get in, grab the asset, and get out. Notice how the prison is impossible to approach from the ground. Well, nearly, impossible. The Hutt’s designed it so that any escape attempts that were ground-oriented are going to be immediately stymied by the terrain of the Wastes, and local Tuskens. Assuming the escapees get to the ground safely to begin with. The only reasonable approach to the facility is from the air. And that approach is very well-defended.” 

“So we approach from the ground. Scale the mountains?” Sandstorm asked. 

“Nope.” Commander Wooy changed the map’s key to show the change in air pressure, “There’s an approaching Category 2 storm, scheduled to last approximately a full six standard hours at the location of the facility. So we’ll approach in the storm, land right under their nose, break in, grab Mordigala, and break out the way we came in. The hardest part is going to be locating the asset’s cell.” 

“How many cells are we talking about?” Tat spoke up. 

“About three thousand.” 

They didn’t let the scale of that number phase them. At least not outwardly. Wearing solid katarn helmets helped hide the looks on their faces, but they were well aware that a sufficiently realized Jedi was more than capable of detecting their emotions. 

“It might take a few hours, but as long as we can do it in the appropriate time-window, we should be more than fine.” Commander Wooy pulled up the schematic of the facility again, “Here is the prison’s command station, where the data is stored. We break in, make a beeline for this room, neutralize opposition, and we can access Mordigala’s cell remotely. If everything breaks our way, it should take less than fifteen minutes from landing to take off.” 

<Everything always breaks our way.> Tat signed to noone in particular, but Czerka caught it. 

<Something to add, Tatooine?> the Commander signed. Clearly she had done her homework. Czerka appreciated that. A lot of his brothers had come to not like the Jedi. Not their superiority complex. Not the intense amount of power they held over them. Not everyone agreed. They had also come to like Generals Skywalker and Kenobi who worked closely with their units. General Kenobi even wore clone armor as a part of his combat ensemble. But they’d all also heard tales of Generals Windu and Vos. Thankfully, most Jedi were at least somewhere in the middle of that spectrum. 

Czerka didn’t care. He was just happy that their new Commander seemed to take the time to understand them. 

<No honorific.> 

<Good.> Commander Wooy turned to Czerka, “Czerka, you’ve been quiet. Do you have any questions? Anything to add?” 

Czerka shook his head, “No, ma’am. I’m a sniper. Just not sure how much my skill sets will be useful in this mission.” 

“We might not have many opportunities for long-range combat, at least, not that long range. It’s true. But I trust you have close-range capabilities as well?” 

“I do.” Czerka said. 

Before he could clarify, Sandstorm cut in, “Everyone who trained with Lord A’Urok’Urrt also trained with the gadderfi stick. We made our own using durasteel-cortosis weaves in the Kaminoan armories.” 

“Yes, I recall reading those in your file.” She smiled, scanning the men, “I hope it doesn’t come across as crass that I’m actually excited to witness your proficiency with these weapons firsthand.” 

All three of them shook their heads and said, “No, ma’am.” 

Commander Wooy repressed a giggle, “Good.” 

General Ogel stepped forward and said, “This is an important mission for the war effort. We have intelligence, provided by the asset, that the Separatists are working on a new weapon that could shift the balance of power.” 

A new weapon. 

The word sent a shiver down Czerka’s spine.

“Under Commander Wooy’s direction,” the General continued, “you will recover the asset, find this weapon, or at the very least its capabilities, recover any data to take back to GAR command on Coruscant, and - if you see an opportunity - to deny the weapon to the enemy and prevent them from making or acquiring more. Is that understood?” 

As one, the clones of Krayt Squad nodded, and answered, “Yes, sir.” 

“Good.” The General said. He stepped back and turned to his apprentice. 

Commander Wooy nodded at the clones, “Dismissed.” 

They stood up and filed out of the room, following Sandstorm’s lead. Czerka stopped and looked back at the Commander. He was almost certain that her gaze lingered on him as well. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: NAAT

The body of Master Lim was burned beyond recognition. The only way Naat could identify her was from the lightsaber. She picked it up and held it momentarily in her hand. She wanted to push the button, to look at the pulsing blue blade and feel her master’s life force, and the heat of the weapon on her face. 

But she resisted. She recalled the Jedi Code to herself, saying it over and over again in her mind like a mantra. 

There is no death

There is the Force

There is no death

There is the Force

There is no death

There is the Force

And for a brief moment, she could even feel it. She knew Stam would be proud of her. She wasn’t supposed to have any attachments as a Jedi, but with every passing trial, every minor success, Naat was happy to have him there. Was happy to report her progress. Sometimes she imagined them completing their trials together, traveling the Galaxy, helping the weak, defending the downtrodden. After all, she knew he would always be there for her. 

Until that moment. 

The Force reached out and gripped her heart. She felt short of breath and fell to her knees. The sensation of a gaping hole in the universe, stronger than even when Master Lim was killed and her body burned, threatened to subsume Naat’s entire being. She felt herself fall nearly backwards into the gaping abyss. 

If there was no death, then what was this? 

What happened to her brother?

10500 meters above central Drongar
999 Days after Geonosis

The LAATi soared just above standard cruising altitude through a fungal storm. Naat recalled the dossier on Drongar and for the third time since they entered the planet’s atmosphere, checked the seal on her rebreather. She had come to terms with death long ago, but choking on spores as they laced fibrous tendrils through her body was pretty far down on the list of ways she was interested in meeting it. 

The atmospheric makeup of Drongar was unique, even among the hyper-botanical environments they’d been fighting on. 

“Hang on, General,” the pilot announced over the comlink, using the title that Naat hated but had grown too tired to correct, “We’re hitting a cloud of skeets.” 

Skeets were a type of tiny arthropod. Evolutionary biologists from CU believed that they were descended from a larger, more solitary species that proved to be a good food source. So they evolved a smaller size and a swarm mentality. Millions of years of evolution progressed, and skeet swarms developed even further. Entire clouds of the tiny parasites swirled in the air, forming black, quite literally solid clouds of organisms in a relative state of hibernation as they waited for the wind currents to blow them to a suitable feeding ground, where they could descend like fighters from a carrier. 

Drongar was relatively poor in fauna, and the absolute dominance of the skeets over the skies was partially why. Their ancestors’ predators had evolved elastic tongues and high jumps to snatch proto-skeets out of the skies, but had no defense against a swarm of millions of them to pick up their soft amphibious bodies into the air and drain them of their blood in a matter of seconds. And if their prey proved to be too dangerous of a meal, the skeets just had to drop them from a mile up in the sky. 

What little vertebrate fauna Drongar did have evolved to live under the water or the soil. Far, far away from the skeets. 

So the flora took up that evolutionary niche. Thousands of plants on Drongar had evolved blood-like syrup and other fluids, and when the seasonal changes on the planet needed them to reproduce, entire fields and sections of forest canopy let loose pollen dust clouds to indicate to the skeets that they were ready. The skeets descended, drained a few square kilometers of every drop of organic fluid, and then swarmed back into the sky once satiated. The skeets got a meal, and when their eggs were laid, they spread the plants’ seeds and reproductive fluids along with their own. 

The circle of life. 

That was, until the war arrived. 

Humans, Zabrak, Sullustans, Neimoidians, Mirialans, Twi’leks, any number of creatures sentient and non-sentient brought by the Republic and Separatist armies provided a whole new incentive for the skeet swarms to descend and feast. Electrified force-fields helped prevent the parasites from invading and devastating their bases ahead of the enemy doing so, but these were impractical out in the field. So Clones were instructed to keep their armor sealed and tight, while General Zey told Naat to simply make sure that she left a field if there was the scent of blood in the air. 

Thankfully she had a pair of lightsabers, which were great at cauterizing wounds. 

She shuddered at the thought of burning her own body with one.

The LAATi shook with turbulence upon hitting the cloud. 

“I thought it’d be more like hitting a bug on a speeder bike,” Top-knot said. 

“It’s not a bug,” Ujik said, “It’s billions of bugs. At this scale, they could take down a gunship if the pilot’s not careful.” 

“Billions of bugs.” Top-knot shook his head, “Fierfek wonderful. That’s all we need to be reminded of: Geonosis.” 

Naat saw Cal’s helmeted head turn back towards the team for a moment, but not far enough to make eye-contact had they actually been visible. If the Clones had a history, then Geonosis was the darkest day in it. 

That was something Naat and the Clones had in common. 

Their brothers died on Geonosis. 

The LAATi shook with heavy turbulence for three seconds. 

“All good, pilot?” 

“All good, General,” came the response over Naat’s com, “We should be exiting the cloud of skeets in less than a minute.” 

“How long to the LZ?” 

“Still a half-hour away.” 

“Any more skeet clouds on the horizon?” Cal asked. 

“No, sir.” The co-pilot responded, “According to the Aggregate Weather Report, we’re seeing fungal clouds and storm clouds, but this should be the only skeets we encounter on the trip.” 

The AgWeR was formed from matching Ull Base’s sensory data with those from passing starships. Drongar’s atmosphere was usually so dense with all manner of aeroflora and a dozen different types of humidity that it was almost impossible to get a full picture from either ground-level or space-based observations. But with cross-referencing the data, they had managed to get up to 76% accuracy. 

The ship stopped shaking, “I think we’re in the clear.” Hammer said.

“Maybe we should just set down and walk the rest of the way.” Naat knew that Top-knot was mostly joking. Mostly. They had certainly crossed long distances on foot. Speeder bikes, walkers, even blurrgs, dewbacks, and tauntauns were capable of traversing long-range terrain for that sort of thing. But Drongar’s terrain was so thick that to do so in a way that didn’t leave them open to aerial patrols would be nearly impossible. They’d be blasted out of the sky by passing droid fighters. And if they tried to take something land-based through the foliage, they’d reach the LZ in a matter of weeks, not minutes. 

Master Echuu once taught her about balance. That once you started to observe balance in one aspect of life, you’d start to see it everywhere. And that’s how the Force functioned. 

Clones and Jedi had learned the relief of hearing the sound of an approaching LAAT to take you away from the battlefield and to the safety of the stars and more defensive firepower than could ever be held by a single pair of hands. It was only balanced by the anxiety of approaching the battlefield on the other end. Even for a trained Jedi Knight, and a squad of Clone Commandos. 

“Keep it together, Epsilons.” Naat knew her boys would. She just felt better saying it. And she knew that for their part, having the Jedi be there to support them verbally and mentally, as well as being the command center of their combat squad was just as important as her ability to swing a lightsaber. 

Karabast, Master Echuu left her too early. 

The comlink crackled in her ear, “I have visual of droid fighters on patrol.” Though the voice was identical to her pilot’s and her commandos’, she knew it was one of their Z-95 escorts. 

“Copy. Descending to canopy height.” 

“Missiles armed.” The co-pilot said. 

“Holding,” the Z-95 leader said, “I don’t think they’ve spotted us.” 

Naat knew very little about the droids’ sensors. But she had to assume that Drongar’s atmosphere wreaked havoc with them as they did with the GAR’s. 

“They’re holding course.” 

“Copy.” 

Naat felt the collective relief from all four of the Epsilons. It didn’t last long. But she supposed that in war, you had to savor those moments, however brief. 

The Republic was trying to leave Drongar. They had already done a lot to evacuate the planet, but now that they were trying to depart, the Separatists had poured even more resources into routing the GAR before they could redeploy those resources elsewhere. Not only that, but tying up more Republic forces either on Drongar or in orbit helped turn the quagmire into a further drain on Republic energies. The Grand Army had managed to collect the remainder of its forces at Ull Base, situated on the eastern shore of the Western Sea. The Separatists had responded by setting up forward operating bases with massive siege canons and a collection of anti-air turrets to prevent any relief or evacuation operations. Or better yet, to shoot them down as they tried to leave the planet. 

Epsilon Squad’s job was to take out at least three of them to set up an evacuation corridor. 

She watched as Cal set up a private channel to her and said, “You nervous, Commander?” 

Naat looked over at Top-knot, Ujik, and Hammer. She was thankful that the rebreather covered her whole mouth, letting her speak to the Squad’s Sergeant privately, “As nervous as everyone else.” 

Cal nodded, “We heard the fighting was as brutal here as Jabiim.” 

Naat found it hard to respond to that. Jabiim was some of the worst carnage of the war, so far. If this was comparable to that… well…

“Pilot, open the side doors.” Naat ordered. She wanted to see what this green hell really looked like. 

“Yes, General.” 

The doors on either side of the LAATi slid open. Each of the Epsilons held to their overhead handholds tighter as their bodies repositioned to look out into the jungle. 

For a near eternity in any direction, green dominated the landscape. It was such a deep, dark green, that for a brief moment, Naat thought it could reach up and grab hold of the ship, pulling them down into the depths without thought or care, snatching them out of the sky as easily as picking fruit off a vine. 

“Dank ferrik…” Hammer said, looking out towards the north. 

Naat turned and saw a new dimension to this horror: the green was broken by a faint, orange glowing line, most notable not for its luminescence, but for the belching pillars of black smoke that blotted out half the sky. Purple, green, blue, orange, and yellow clouds of all varying composition were overtaken by the pillars of smoke being poured into the atmosphere. 

“What the hell is that?” Ujik asked. 

“Flamethrower droids burning the jungle,” Naat explained. The Squad was told what they needed to know to complete the mission. What the droids were doing in a battle line of literal fire across a continental distance didn’t fall into that category.

“What for? Do we have soldiers fighting in it?” 

“It’s bota. They’re burning the bota.” 

That was, allegedly, what this was all about: bota. A leaf with a chemical containing enzymes that accelerated cellular growth a thousand times what bacta was capable of, and the dominant form of life on Drongar. Its control of the Drongar biosphere was comparable to the dominance of the Human species on Correllia, or the Mon Cals of Dac. Many believed that it was this evolutionarily unlikely development that made Drongar into the overgrown “bacteria and fungus filled moss pile” that it was today, to quote one astrobiologist. Bota was as integral to the current biosphere of Drongar as water, nitrogen, or oxygen. Tendrils of bota vines spread through the soil in networks that circled the planet. They developed aquatic-based variants, overgrowing into underwater forests. During Drongar’s hot, wet seasons, the bota plants bloomed into their floral phases that unleashed a veritable bevy of colors, sights, smells, and sounds. 

That was why the Republic and the Separatists were fighting over Drongar. Bota, for the Republic’s clone, biology-based army, was invaluable.

For the Separatist’s droid army, unaffected by cellular growth, denying the Republic from equipping every clone’s medi-pack with bota was just as important. 

Naat wondered why they were abandoning Drongar, leaving all of it behind. 

The columns of smoke in the distance made it clear to her that it seemed like the Separatists were far more dedicated to reducing this terrifying garden to ash than to let the Grand Army have it. 

She reminded herself what she heard the Epsilons say to each other every now and again: good soldiers follow orders. 

There was a blast, and less than a second later, one of the Z-95s, about a hundred meters away, took a direct hit to the cockpit’s underside. A ghostly, incendiary skeleton of a ship fell to the forest below, only the sillhouette of the fighter’s frame visible from the in front of the glowing orange flames. 

Then the fire was turned on their LAAT. 

“Pilot,” Naat called, “how close are we?” 

“A minute if we can make it!” 

A minute was an eternity in combat. Especially when their lives were entirely out of their hands. 

Puffs of black smoke surrounded the gunship as flak exploded around them. 

“Where is it?” Hammer called. He left the safety of the handhold to grab the rocket launcher from its hold in the back of the cabin. 

“Hammer, what are you doing?” Naat called.

“You really think we can survive the next fifty-five seconds?” Hammer knelt onto the deck and mounted the rocket tube over his shoulder. Top-knot leaned out, still holding the strap above his head. Ujik held onto the back of Hammer’s armor to stabilize him. 

Top-knot pointed out about a klik north, “There!” 

“Udesii…” Hammer exhaled. When he pulled the trigger, a burst of smoke flew out of the tube and a missile flew out of his weapon, the rocket curving over the landscape, locked onto the gun in the distance that Naat could barely see. 

They would not be rewarded with the explosion. Just as Hammer took a breath, one of the enemy’s bolts hit its mark, but only on the starboard-side wing. The LAATi spun clockwise. Top-knot, Ujik, and Cal were still hanging onto their holds, the rest of their bodies, heavy with armor, swept off their feet. 

Hammer was knocked entirely off the deck, and he flew out the side compartment and into the open air below. 

“No!” Without knowing how she did it, hoping the Force, or Stam, or Master Echuu were with her, the next thing she knew she had one hand on the LAAT’s deck, and one hand around Hammer’s wrist. The g-forces from the spinning gunship threatening to take them out. Her hand started to slip off the deck, but before she fell to their deaths, she felt a gauntleted hand on hers. 

She looked up.

It was Cal. 

“Brace for impact!” the pilot shouted. 

“Commander, I’m letting go!” Hammer said, and without waiting for confirmation, he released her wrist and disappeared into the foliage below. As soon as he did, Cal pulled Naat to the deck, and held her body flat against it, his katarn gauntlet shielding her head. 

The crack snap crack crash of tree branches lasted for what seemed like an eternity. And then the whole ship shook and shattered and everything went black. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: TION

Her uncle handed her the rifle. She had learned to shoot ever since she was adopted into their covert. But this was different. She could tell just based on the way he handed it to her. His one, good eye blinked, and he waited until her hands wrapped around the barrel. 

“ Say I have it,” he said. 

“I have it.” 

He released his surviving hand first, but not the cybernetic red one. 

“To a Mandalorian warrior, a weapon is life. In the most literal sense: it takes life. It provides for your sustenance. It allows you to labor for your wage. It allows you to defend your own. A strill has claws and teeth. A Mandalorian has beskar’gam bai kad.” 

The blaster rifle in her hands was neither made of beskar, nor bladed, but Tion understood. 

“But know this: whenever you kill, you kill when no other option remains.” 

She looked up at him. His remaining eye barely holding her in his gaze as he looked off with the red machine one, “What other options?” 

“Not killing.” He said, “Watch the strills in the covert. Watch them. Unless they eat, or defend their yaim, do they kill? Do they strike or bite?” 

Tion shook her head. 

“Ibic Manda.” He said, releasing the rifle. 

“Ibic Manda.” She echoed.

108 kilometers east of Kar’kor’yx, planet Xo, the Outer Rim
999 Days after Geonosis

The dusks on Xo were starting to grow on her. As a Mandalorian, Tion prided herself on being able to settle anywhere. With her covert, she had lived places as distant and diverse as the rolling green hills of Aldhani, the dark underworld of Coruscant, and the barren cryoscape of Hoth. Xo was different in that it brought up bad memories. She had never set foot on the dusty plains and dry forests of Xo until three weeks ago, but she briefly considered abandoning her contract and going somewhere that didn’t remind her of Dathomir. 

Xo was, galactically speaking, in the middle of fierfek nowhere: the most outer of Outer Rim planets that Tion had ever been to. She was specifically contracted to do reconnaissance work, with a continuation of pay if she stayed to fight alongside whatever soldiers the GAR was sending to pick up her report. 

The pink sky slowly darkened into a deep purple as Xo’s sun dipped below the horizon. It still reminded her of Dathomir. But she was starting to grow fond of it. 

The shrieking zoom of a swoop bike increased until the bike entered her field of view just beyond the reach of the cliffs that kept their camp shielded from the winds and prying eyes. The creature sitting atop it looked like a blue-skinned, tall, skinny-headed Zanibar. The Zanibar were, above all, an ugly people. Tion thought that was rather insensitive of her. She recognized that they had evolved the way they did because of this environment: harsh, dry, desolate, and brutal. They couldn’t all be Wookiees with their lush fur, or Zeltrons with their pleasure hormones and sensitive nervous systems, or Togruta with their lust for music and art. 

The Zanibar also lacked lips, revealing a mouth full of tiny, sharp teeth, below a nose-less visage, and two beady, black, eyes. The alien pushed the bike under cover of a dry, blood-red tree, and walked calmly over to where Tion was sitting by the fire pit. He removed the belt holding his holster and blaster and set it down on the log next to where he planned to sit. 

“We really need a code word,” Tion said, “I know we keep putting it off, but I don’t know it’s you, sometimes.” 

“Good.” Takkor said. In front of Tion’s eyes, his head seemed to melt. His arms shrank into nubs. His legs soon followed. Tion could hear his bones snapping. Organs in his body made gross gurgling sounds. In a lot of ways, it was just like getting used to the pink sky of Xo that she hated so much. Takkor morphed at least twice a day. Tion had seen him in so many different forms: as a Zanibar, as a Human, a Zabrak, even a Lothcat. She was sure he had plenty more in him.

All just part of being a Gurlanin. 

About a minute after his body melted from a formless mass and his bones had snapped into place, Takkor stood on four feet, with a bushy, prehensile tail, and a black-furred body, appearing more like ferrofluid than fur. His ears stood up, and every hair on them seemed to stand on end with them. He blinked a few times, his golden eyes adjusting to the electromagnetic spectrum shift from Zanibar-range to Gurlanin-range. He took a deep inhale, and shook his head as the sensation of a much more profound sense of smell flooded his brain. 

“Being able to smell like a Gurlanin after being one of these is always a bit of a mind-numbing experience.” Takkor said. 

“They can’t smell very good?” 

“They can smell one thing very well: blood.” 

“Well, it was key to the survival of their species.” 

“I know that. But it’s like having a painting of black white and red, and then I morph back to Gurlanin and all of a sudden there’s a million more colors.” Takkor stretched out his front legs, looking very much like a stretching Lothcat and then twisted his neck from side-to-side. 

“You’re sore?” Tion laughed, “You just morphed.” 

“Just adjusting myself. You learn to morph and then criticize how I calibrate my body.” 

Tion nodded her head to the side, “Fair enough.” Her comlink beeped, “Agent Strill. Go.” 

The voice of Jango Fett greeted her through the small machine, “Agent Strill, this is Sergeant CH-9122 of Red Squad, aboard the Republic frigate Onderon.” 

Takkor looked sideways at Tion, “Are you bringing the whole frigate down here?” she asked. 

“We were planning to.” 

Tion took her hand off the receiver, “We have enough space for that, right?” 

Takkor nodded, “Have them land a kilo east of here and we can keep it in that dry canyon. Cover it with canvas or stuff if we need to.” 

Tion relayed the coordinates to the ship and told them the plan. The Clone Trooper at the other end agreed and signed off. 

“CH?” Takkor said, “I’ve never heard of that designation.” 

“All of the ones I’ve met have been either CTs or RCs.” Tion said. 

“Clone… Handlers?” Takkor guessed.

“Clone Hackers?” Tion tried. 

“Fierfek,” Takkor said, Tion’s habit of swearing in Mando’a rubbing off on him, “I hope not. The Zanibar barely have a hundred circuits between them.” 

“Really?” Tion asked. 

“No,” Takkor sighed, “Not really. Just… hackers wouldn’t be super helpful here. Their tech is really low and not integrated very well. I’ve seen as many carts with wooden wheels as I’ve seen with repulsor lifts, and at least twice as many doors with metal locks or wooden bolts as ones with electronic keys.” 

“Good to know.” Tion said. The sun had finally set and so she started to light a fire in the pit. They’d be shielded from curious Zanibar eyes investigating their column of smoke by the darkness. But at least they could enjoy a warm evening and some hot food. 

About an hour after they received the message, Tion received another ping on her com’, “Agent Strill? It’s Sergeant CH-9122. We’re approaching your position from the east.” 

“Copy.” Tion stood, picking up her helmet and putting it under her arm. She was a Mandalorian, and she would present herself as such. Including to altered copies of their former Mand’alor. 

She expected to see the white armor of the Clone Troopers. But she saw their glowing blue visors first, and she thought they sent her Commandos. But then six suits of red armor walked into the light of their campfire. Tion wasn’t aware of red armored Clone Troops. She thought for a second that maybe there was a red designation for the military police, but why would they send them to Xo? Moreover, their helmets didn’t look like the standard Phase 2 roll out. They looked more bucket-shaped. After a few seconds at staring at the buy’ce, she realized it was the variant given to airborne Troopers. 

Taking in the six clones, she almost missed the Jedi. 

He was… young. Or at least, looked young. Part of that was a height issue. He came up to the shoulder of the Clones, and about to Tion’s chin. He had pink skin, deep blue eyes, and hair that was an even deeper shade of blue. The clones all stopped and stood in a line, removing their helmets as if they were revealing themselves and not just six identical faces. Some of them had facial hair, battle scars, or tattoos, but they were unmistakably the visage of Jango Fett. 

“General,” Tion said, “we weren’t expecting your arrival for a few more days.” 

“I’m not General Zey,” the Zeltron Jedi said, “I’m his Padawan, Zamter Reykal.” 

Tion found it hard not to raise her eyebrow, “You’re…” 

He smiled, waiting for her to finish her sentence. The clones behind him waited patiently. 

“… I thought General Zey was going to be joining us.” 

“Nope!” Zamter Reykal said, “Just me. You can call me Zam.” 

“Sure thing, Commander.” Takkor jumped off his log and walked over to the clones. At first, they looked cautiously at the Gurlanin, who crept up to the clone who had neither facial hair, scars, or tattoos, “This is my partner, Takkor.” 

“Agent Takkor?” 

“No,” Takkor said, inspecting the faces of each of the clones before turning to the Commander, “Just Takkor.” 

“He’s been my most valuable asset in the recon of Xo. He’s a Gurlanin.” 

“I’m not familiar with the Gurlanins.” Commander Reykal said. What Tion and Takkor both heard was, what makes them so special?

As if to demonstrate, Takkor remorphed the form of the Zanibar. The process took about a minute. Neither the clones nor the Jedi let the sudden melting of the black-furred quadruped into the tall, skinny, blue-skinned shape of the male Zanibar he acquired a few weeks ago. 

“A shape-shifter!” Commander Reykal said, “That is a valuable ability. Takkor, you said your name is?” 

Takkor nodded. His sharp-toothed Zanibar mouth was difficult to emote with in a way that was recognizable to Humans and Near-Humans, so he tried to say, “Yes, name, Tak-kor.” 

“Zanibar mouths and vocal cords find Galactic Basic rather difficult. A lot of phonemes are impossible without lips.” Tion explained. Takkor nodded as if to confirm. 

“You’ve learned a lot?” 

“We have, Commander. Would you like to set up camp first, and we can go over more that we’ve learned?” 

“That sounds great! Oh,” he turned back to his men, “I think I should introduce you to Red Squad first.” 

Red Squad, Tion thought, a bit on the horn, no? 

“Sergeant Butcher you know already. Bruiser is next in command. Then Thread, Psycho, Rancor, and Monk.” 

Tion recorded Butcher and Monk into her memory. Butcher because she spoke to him over the comlink, and Monk because he was the clean-faced clone that Takkor inspected closely. 

“I’m sure we’ll have an opportunity to introduce ourselves in more detail shortly. Why don’t you set up your tents and everything and we’ll prepare something to eat.” She turned back towards the campsite as Takkor morphed back to Gurlanin form. 

“We have ration cubes, ma’am.” Sergeant Butcher said. 

“Ration cubes?” Tion had heard stories of the Mandalorian training regimen on Kamino. The boys were soldiers, through-and-through, but they were still at least half-Mandalorians, “Surely you’d prefer something better than that? I’ve got pog stew brewing.” 

None of the clones seemed to have much of a reaction. Tion wasn’t sure if it was their military training, or a complete ignorance of Mandalorian cuisine. 

Either way, they broke and Red Squad set up their tents in a perimeter around the camp. They were mainly paired off, with two facing the northern “entrance,” two on the southern opening, and the remaining two split across from the cave where Tion and Takkor set up theirs. The whole process took about five minutes. The clones’ tents basically set up automatically. They were small enough to house the clones individually, with sensor data being fed to a small, flexible ‘pad screen, and a more rigid compartment where they could store essentials. 

Tion heard that a lot of clones preferred their issued tents over the plasti-steel prefabs set up on battlefields. Having a tiny space that was theirs was incredibly valuable in a world without privacy. 

The Jedi’s tent was different. It was dome-shaped, more rigid, and had a round door. It was also noticeably larger. Additionally, the Jedi wasn’t very good at picking out a strategic tent location. Takkor actually went up to him suggesting he move it next to the cave opening. Zamter apparently accepted this suggestion and moved it over. 

Afterwards, Red Squad journeyed one-by-one to where Tion was sitting by the fire. She had taken off most of her beskar’gam, sat on the log, wnd was turning the gently steaming stew over the fire, as the clones came over and sat around her. They were also in mis-matched suits of partial armor. Some were in their breast plates and lower pieces, but had removed the arm plates. A couple had taken off the breast plate, as well. Another was solely in his jumpsuit. And one had even removed a part of his jumpsuit, pulling it down to waist-level, where he tied the arms in front of him. Tion stole a glance at the tattoos that covered his chest, recognizing them as battle markers, though she wasn’t clued in enough to the GAR’s culture to know which they signified. 

Tion dished out the stew in the bowls from their mess kits, serving the Jedi last, the way she was taught in the covert. Takkor remained in his Gurlanin form while Tion laid out a bowl with just some of the meatiest portions. Gurlanins, naturally, ascribed to the diet of their current form. After all, a being was holistic: their biology influenced by available nutrients that their metabolism requires and thrives on. Paradoxically, Gurlanins evolved their shape-shifting ability as a method of hunting. And on their homeworld, Gurlanins still lived this way: disguising themselves as a non-threatening animal, or even as an inanimate object like a rock or a log before striking their prey. Then, in order to digest to support their Gurlanin form, they’d need to de-morph. 

Gurlanins were carnivores. So while Takkor could have morphed one of his Near-Human forms to eat the stew as his comrades did, he seemed to prefer his Gurlanin form at the moment, and Tion had no problem acquiescing to that. She poured several large chunks of spiced meat and a number of bones that sunk to the bottom of the pot into a bowl and placed it before him. He nodded thanks and lapped up the stew while some of the clones tried not to watch. 

“So,” the Jedi said, seeming to enjoy the stew to the point where he sloppily wiped drops coming from the corners of his mouth, “Shall we discuss the mission?” 

“Let’s.” Tion said. She put down her bowl and set up a small holo pad on the ground away from the fire, “Can I start with what our objective is?” 

She noticed the clones looking around at each other, but the Jedi didn’t let it faze him, “The Separatists have hired Zanibar mercenaries to fight across the Galaxy. It’s left the GAR to believe that there’s not many of them left on their homeworld. So the theory goes that if we cause enough destruction here on Xo, it’ll cause them to pull out of the war to return to defend communities.” 

Ah… Tion thought, of course. 

“We have a list of targets,” the clone closest to the Jedi said, “General Zey said anything between a third of them and three-quarters should be enough to trigger a retreat of Zanibar forces from the front lines.” 

“Can I see the list?” Tion asked. They had given her a list of things to note in her contract for the recon, but given that she was a warrior, it was mostly superfluous for some bureaucrats to tell her what to look out for. She had grown up on battlefields and learned to scout enemy positions when she was nine years old. It’d still be helpful to know the difference in objectives between her Mandalorian training, the GAR’s list, and Red Squad’s. 

“The list is supposed to be… classified,” the clone said. 

“Agent Strill is mission critical,” Commander Reykal said, “I’m sure we can give it to her.” 

He passed her the data cube, “You can call me Tion, Commander.” 

“Oh?” 

“My name is Tion Slaat.” She inserted the cube into her ‘pad and examined the list…

“Nice to meet you, Tion.” 

The list contained the usual stuff: communications relays, weapons depots, transportation networks. 

“As I said, I’m Zamter Reykal. You don’t have to call me Commander, though. You can just call me Zam.” 

It was the hospitals that seemed… out of place. 

Also the food-processing centers. 

“This is a long list.” Tion said, trying to avoid the strange feeling in the back of her mind. It was bizarre to see it laid out in front of her on the pixels. Her covert associated their violence with that of the strill: quick, decisive, lethal, and brutal, but never unnecessarily so. For a strill to strike with claw or teeth, it had to be necessary: to eat or to defend. Never to kill superfluously. That was why, according to her parents, aunts, and uncles, Mandalorians should always live in coverts. Never in something as grotesque as an empire. Ibic Manda. 

Yet, to fulfill a contract faithfully… that was also the way.

“It’s long, but we’re hoping a lot of the targets will be grouped together in population centers. Hopefully you can enlighten us on that.” Zam said. 

“We certainly can.” Tion said. She pulled up the map of Xo, and had it zoom down towards their position, “We’re here, approximately 108 kilometers east of Kar’kor’yx, a city of about 50,000 Zanibar.” 

“Fifty thousand isn’t a very big city.” Butcher said. 

“It’s the largest city on Zanibar.” Takkor explained, “It’s a dry, largely barren planet. Most Zanibar live in bands of less than a hundred.” 

“Kar’kor’yx isn’t a very large city,” Tion continued, “but it has a lot of necessary infrastructure and technology important to the region. Knocking out the targets in this location can, in the best case scenario, cause essentially the entire province to shut down.” 

“If most Zanibar live in bands, though,” Butcher asked, “How will that affect them?” 

“It probably won’t until they need to get their gear updated, food processed, their data spliced, or… they fall ill and need medical help.” 

Takkor turned to Tion, sensing the slight hesitation in her voice. 

“More importantly, it accomplishes the mission objectives. If most Zanibar don’t notice that we’ve essentially destroyed Kar’kor’yx, but it triggers the retreat of Zanibar forces, then we’ve done our job, no?” 

“True!” Zam said. He tipped the bowl to his mouth and downed the liquid contents, “This pog stew is amazing.” He smiled, wiping his face again. 

Tion looked around. Six soldiers, one Mandalorian, a Jedi, and a shape shifter to knock out a planet from the war. It seemed crazy. And none of them seemed particularly put off from the job. 

“What do you all know about Xo? Or the Zanibar more generally?” 

One of the clones shrugged. Another didn’t seem to hear the question and bit the nerf meat off a greasy bone. Sergeant Butcher said, “Just what’s in the dossier, ma’am.” 

“So… not much.” Tion said, “All right, let me try explaining a bit more of what we learned. Xo has no oceans or permanent seas. Its hydrosphere is formed mainly from temporary, shallow lakes. The rivers that wind through the planet’s landscape are subject to frequent change, and it is their winding across the planet that directs where and when these bodies of water form and for how long. Their unpredictable nature is the primary problem for the Zanibar. 

“But Xo wasn’t always this barren. It used to be a lush world full of forests, fields, and relatively peaceful people. It’s not clear where the Zanibar came from - maybe the Infinite Empire, maybe somewhere else - but when Xo’s sun became hotter, the oceans and seas dried up. Rapid ecological collapse resulted. Entire sections of the biosphere disappeared, as did Zanibar energy production and agriculture. The Zanibar became socially carnivorous, something that was soon reflected in their biology over natural selection. Today, the Zanibar are almost entirely incapable of processing plant matter not specifically attuned to their biological or medical functions.

“These apocalyptic conditions threatened to completely eradicate them, and it’s estimated that billions of Zanibar were killed in the collapse. And, we’ve learned quite a bit about this part, a large element of Zanibar culture and diet soon came to revolve around cannibalism.” 

At the word cannibalism, the clones all stopped eating. The one with the bone in his mouth seemed frozen, as if he was suddenly certain that he had a leg of Zanibar in his mouth. 

“The entire biosphere had collapsed, and the only resource the Zanibar could reasonably be certain of was themselves. So the protein came from them.” 

“Dank ferrik…” one of the clones moaned under his breath. The clone with the bone in his mouth dropped it in his bowl and set it aside, apparently having lost his appetite. 

“The Zanibar developed forms of ritual warfare. One of the more common was a form in which the losers, and sometimes the winners, were consumed. Religious sacrifices, mercy killings followed by feasts, all sorts of things like this came to be quite normal facets of Zanibar culture. They began to worship a pantheon of wrathful, hungry, bloodthirsty gods. The gods had predecessors as war, food, and other forms of deities in Zanibar past, but they became twisted and malformed as result of the catastrophe.

“When they were contacted by outsiders, the Zanibar had little to provide the Galaxy other than bloody labor. A few Zanibar have worked as bounty hunters and body guards for some Hutts and others, but for the most part, they hunt best in numbers, and have formed mercenary companies across the Galaxy.”

“Thank you, Tion. Agent Strill.” Zam said, “This is all very… uh… important information.” 

“Hold on,” Tion said, “See, the Zanibar care little for anything the rest of the Galaxy would identify as currency. Wealth on Zanibar is associated with meat, and particularly live bodies. Having a body to provide for a ritualistic sacrifice, and host a sacred meal for one’s people is the source of social, political, and economic power among the Zanibar. Bodies are wealth.” 

The clones all looked at each other, as if trying to understand, or gauge, what Tion was saying to them, “All right… so what do we do with this information?” one of them asked, as if trying to get across that Zanibar, Rancor, Human, or Purrgil, shoot them in the right spot with enough force, and they die the same. 

“Listen: Zanibar mercenaries see their wealth in acquiring live bodies. Either directly in the fighting, or as literal payment by their employers.”

Tion stopped talking. And one-by-one, she saw the clones suddenly make the connection. 

The Zanibar were carnivores. The Zanibar ate their enemies. The Zanibar took payment in the form of live bodies of their enemies. The Zanibar were currently fighting for the Separatists…

One of the clones stood up, “No.” He nearly shouted, “They…” 

Tion nodded, “Yes.”

Takkor added, “We’ve seen them.” 

“How many?” Sergeant Butcher asked. 

“In Kar’kor’yx, at least a hundred.” Takkor said, “It’s probable that there are other centers around Xo.” 

“Wait… what?” Zam asked. 

Tion was beginning to wonder why the Jedi Council seemed to send their most naive Jedi on a mission of this caliber, “The Zanibar took their payment from the Separatists in the live bodies of their enemies.” 

Zam turned his head, seemingly half-way there. 

“They have captured Clone Troopers.” Tion finally said, “For eating.” 

Zam’s mouth hung open. 

“I’m only the recon specialist,” Tion said, “But I’d like to propose this: we target these prison camps first. It will deprive the Zanibar of their prize, deny them a valuable source of sustenance and moisture, and provide us with reinforcements.” 

“Fierfek to all of that,” one of the clones said, his hands were at his sides, balled into fists so tight they were white, “We should go now. Rescue our brothers. Nothing else matters but that!” 

Good. Anything to keep them away from targeting hospitals. 

“We’ll need to do some more planning,” Tion said, “set up a diversion. Ensure that reinforcements can’t arrive.” 

“Agent Strill is right,” Zam said, forgetting what she told him earlier, “Right now, we need to sleep. Let’s approach this…” 

But it was too late. The clone picked up his bowl and smashed it to the ground. Bits of soup, bone, and pieces of plastisteel went everywhere. The bowl itself ricoheted off the rocks and flew into the darkness. 

Sergeant Butcher shot to his feet, “Stand down! CH-6362, stand down!” 

There was a tense moment in the air where nothing seemed to move except the flickering flames. 

Finally, CH-6362’s shoulders relaxed, and he turned slowly to the Sergeant. Butcher nodded off into the distance, “Walk it off,” he ordered. And the Trooper turned and walked into the darkness. Butcher sat back down and said, “Sorry about that. Rancor has always been the most… explosive of the Squad.” 

Rancor? “What does CH stand for?” Tion asked, “We haven’t heard that designation before.” 

“Clone Heavies,” Zam said, “They were used primarily as shock troops on the front lines. But this is the first in a new strategy to have them be positioned behind enemy lines.” 

“Heavies?” Takkor muttered. He turned to one of the clones as if to ask a question. But the clone just turned away. 

“I’m sorry for provoking him,” Tion said, “But I thought it was important to know.” 

“No,” Butcher said, “You were right, ma’am. We did need to know. Rancor’s right to feel that way. But being a soldier means knowing when to fight and when not to. Just… we’re not used to holding back.” 

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: ALLEN

Allen was down by the creek, his legs knee-deep in the water. He suddenly felt the whipcord around his body before he knew what was happening. The binding knocked him off his feet and he splashed down into the water, his face falling below the current as he swallowed a gulp of Aldhani water. 

Before he had a chance to worry about drowning, his mother lifted him out of the creek, a dark scowl on her face, “What are you doing, shab’ika?” 

His cheeks turned a dark shade of green, “I was just looking for newts!”

Kurta set him down on the bank and triggered the cord to release him and snap back into her gauntlet. 

Allen was embarrassed and knew that she would probably punish him by doing more drills after dinner. He was an apprentice now, and an apprentice wasn’t a warrior, but much was still expected of him. And he had a long way to go before his resol’nare. He could see that in her face. 

She reached behind her and pulled back a buy’ce. His buy’ce. 

“I found this on a boulder about a klick that way.” She pointed east, “Do you have any idea how valuable this is?” 

Allen didn’t even shake his head, just turned his eyes down. 

She crouched down, “This is beskar. And when it is forged into armor, it becomes beskar’gam. Do you understand?” 

“Yes,” Allen said, reaching out to take it, “It’s worth a lot of money.” 

“Fierfek the money,” she said. His mother did not often swear in front of the children. She was a Human, but adhered to a more Mirialan attitude of decorum. Their covert was rather conservative, Allen would learn in retrospect. Just shy of those old-school Mandos who never took off their buy’cese, “You came of age. We asked everyone in the covert and the clan for a shard of beskar to contribute to your buy’ce. And no one refused. When you wear this armor, you wear a piece of our history, our culture. You carry the blood, bone, and spirit of our people. You leave it behind, you lose it, what does that say?” 

Allen reached out and took it gently from her, staring into the T-shaped visor and looking at it with new eyes. 

“In this armor, you carry the Manda. When you wear it, you wear a piece of Mandalore.”

Hutt Detention Center, Jundland Wastes, Tatooine
998 Days after Geonosis

All things considered, this wasn’t the worst place he had found himself in. The Hutts knew how to be gracious and complementary hosts, they just usually chose not to. 

In this case, they certainly chose not to. 

The detention center in the Jundland Wastes was built primarily as a temporary storage center for living cargo. In the weeks he’d been here, Allen met Jawas who stiffed Jabba, Tuskens he didn’t want to go to waste, Mirialans, Sullustans, Togruta, and so, so many Twi’leks. Refugees from the war on Ryloth which had been particularly brutal, Allen gathered. 

But at least he had daily food and water. When he got trapped beneath Corellia, he would have paid a starship’s ransom for a glass of clean water. 

“Chuba! Mando, chuba!” the Sullustan in the next cell called to him. 

“Speak Basic,” Allen said, “Unless you don’t care that the Hutts can hear everything you’re saying?” 

“Mando,” he said, “You are planning to get outta here, neh?” 

He kind of regret saying anything. Unless this Sullustan had a datapad under his flaps so they could splice their way out of here, a whole lotta help he was going to be, “What do you think?” 

“I think a Mandalorian in a cage is always planning to break out.” 

He wasn’t wrong. If he was anything like his ancestors, Allen would have fallen on his kad rather than be captured by the enemy. But Allen wasn’t like those Mandos. He was something else. His parents took him regularly on excursions across the Galaxy. He completed his resol’nare on six different planets, and earned every tattoo and scar he had. 

It made what came afterwards that much harder to understand. 

It made what came afterwards that much harder to understand. 

Either way, he chose the path of the new breed of Mandalorian warriors: live to fight another day. Something a warrior who falls on his kad can never do. 

“Even if I did, why would I cut you in on the plan?” 

“I know thing.” 

“Know things?”

“Yeah,” he said, eagerly, “yeah. You know, things like… like the location of the Farsight.” 

“The Farsight?” 

“Yeah! Yeah,” he chittered eagerly, “Or, all right, that doesn’t cut it, what about the location of Kohbacca the Red’s treasure?” 

“Treasure? You’re promising me that you know the locations of lost treasure?” 

“Yeah! You in?” 

Allen briefly considered not saying anything. The Sullustan must have lost his mind. Then again, he wasn’t exactly doing much, “Tell me this, why haven’t you gone to get it yourself by now?” 

“Which one?” 

“Either.” 

“Ah, I was on my way to get the Farsight, but that’s when I was captured and put here.” 

“Naturally. What about Kohbacca’s treasure?” 

“Oh, well, that’s… that’s really hard to get to. I was hoping to use the Farsight to get better resources to prepare for that journey.” 

“What other treasures do you know about?” 

There was silence in the other cell, “You… you don’t want either of those?”

“Eh,” he said, “I already have an old Jedi starship. And I’m not too interested in Wookiee treasure. Mostly trees and leaves, no?” 

“No… no! Mando,” the Sullustan was practically begging, “You don’t understand. The plunder of a thousand worlds! Kohbacca raided Coruscant in his heyday. And as far as Mon Calamari, and Dathomir, and some say even the Unknown Regions or even farther.” 

This alien had lost his milk if he thought Allen was going to entertain the very real issue of their being trapped in prison with some fever dream of a pirate’s treasure. 

“Tell me more.” 

“Have you really never heard of Kohbacca the Red?” 

“Assume I know nothing. I’m a Mandalorian. I know fighting.” 

“Oh!” Allen could hear him adjusting his seat in the cell, “It’s a fantastic tale. Absolutely fabulous. See, Kohbacca was a pirate. He was once one of the navigators of the great Wookiee astrogration guild. But he ran afoul of the guild, upset some big hairy honcho, you know? And they banished him from the guild. Except, Kohbacca ran his first great score on his enemies: their navigation data. He convinced some brigands to help him steal a starship, and next thing everyone knew, he was patrolling the starlanes like a Krayt Dragon. Using secret Wookiee routes, he was able to pop in and out of hyperspace, strike his targets, and disappear far beyond their reach without ever their hoping they could catch him.” 

Of course Allen knew the legends of Kohbacca the Red. Anyone who’d visited a space port for longer than a couple of minutes would cross paths with some starry-eyed adventurer, or worse, a nut who’d spent the past fifty years chasing down every lead in the southern half of the Galaxy hunting myths and ghosts, “Well, that is something.” Allen said, “Tell me, where is this treasure?” 

“Oh…” the Sullustan said, “I… I cannot tell you. Not without promise that you’ll help me get out of here.” 

“Well, how do I know you’re not just making this up?” 

There was a long silence on the other side of the wall. 

“You there?” 

“Um…” the Sullustan said, “Yes, yes, I’m here. I, um, came upon some records.” 

“Some records?” 

“Yes. See. I… uh, was on an assignment from a Hutt in Kashyyyk.” 

“You were spying?” 

“No! No. I wasn’t spying. No, never spying.” 

“But you happened to be doing some work for the Hutts in which you acquired secret information from the Wookiee navigation guild?” 

“Well… when you say it like that…” 

There was change in the air pressure, “Wait, shut up.” 

“What? What’s happening?” he asked. 

He could smell the faint scent of ozone burned atmosphere from blaster fire. But he hadn’t heard any shots. Hutts didn’t typically operate with silencers. And they certainly wouldn’t use them here, of all places, when they could gain the extra benefit of discouraging escape attempts. 

Which meant only one thing: someone was breaking into the facility. 

“Mando!” the Sullustan called, and started babbling something, but Allen was already living in a different world from the desperate little thief. 

He only had a small slit to see out of his cell, and the rusty metal hallway beyond showed little signs of anything interesting, and certainly no indications of blaster fire. He wondered what the air ventilation system was like, funneling air from the site of the battle to his cell. Or maybe the guard who was leaning casually against the door to an empty cell at the end of the hallway just wasn’t very good at smelling the obvious. 

“Mando!” the Sullustan loudly hissed, “Hey, hey! Are you in?” 

He saw the Nikto guard stir and turn toward the door at the end of the hall. There was a quick swish of opening doors and then the sound of a knife entering a throat. The Nikto dropped his weapon and his body fell to the floor in a heap. There was the sound of boots on the floor. Just barely. These were warriors who knew how to not be noticed. 

“Sorry, burc’ya,” Allen said, stepping back from the door, “My ride is here.” 

On the other side of the door, a splicer took his skills to the door’s controls and after a false start the door slid open. He was sitting on the bench against the back wall, and was a little surprised at first to see not the Commando, his glowing-blue visor staring impassively at the unhelmeted Mandalorian, but a green-skinned Mirialan in Jedi robes, a silver-and-gold tube in her hands. 

“Su’cuy.” Allen said, “Didn’t expect to meet another Mirialan. Thought maybe the clones would get me themselves.” 

“Allen Mordigala?” she asked. She brushed some hair from her face, and a small shower of sand fell out. She had annoyingly mesmerizing eyes. The kind that Allen knew he could get lost in. 

“Yes, ma’am.” He said. 

“Arya Wooy. Jedi Apprentice.” She stepped forward, clipping the lightsaber to her belt and giving him a short bow, “We’re Krayt Squad, here to rescue you.” 

Had Allen been the kind of Mandalorian who would have preferred death over dishonor, he would have scoffed at the word rescue. But he wasn’t. And his pride remained, for better or worse, unaffected, “Great.” He said, standing up and walking over to the doorway, “Small Squad here. Isn’t it usually four clones?” 

“It’s been a long story,” the Squad leader said, “Are you ready to go, sir?” 

“No, actually,” Allen said. 

“Hey! Hey!” the Sullustan called from behind the slit in his cell door, “Take me with you! Mando, take me with you!” 

Allen ignored the alien, “The warden took something from me, and I want it back.” 

The Squad leader and the Jedi Commander looked at each other before Arya Wooy said, “Um… we don’t exactly have time for that. We need to get out of here before we lose the protection of the storm outside.” 

He had no idea there was a storm outside. That’s how deep into the rocky wastes his cell was in the facility, “Sorry, Commander, but I’m not going with you until I get back what’s mine.” Without waiting, he walked off, blaster in hand. 

Sandstorm suddenly jerked his head down to his empty holster, “What the…” He stormed after Allen and reached out, “Give that back—”

But Allen side-stepped him and pulled the sidearm out of the way, “I told you, Sergeant, I’m not leaving here without talking to the warden.” 

Arya held her hand out as Tat approached Allen from the side, kukhri in hand, “Maybe tell us what this is that you need to talk to the warden about?” 

Allen looked into the helmet faces of the clones. They were all distinct - they really were Mandalorians - but it was Tat’s, scratched up with a terrifying Zabrak visage scratched into the katarn that he appreciated the most, “He has my beskar’gam.” 

The clones all looked at each other, turning first to Sandstorm, who then turned to Arya. He sensed that they were talking on their helmet coms, save Arya who could hear but not speak without her unhelmeted, pretty face being openly heard by the Mirialan Mandalorian. She looked at each of them and said, “You want to get your armor back, and then we’re right out of here. Agreed?” 

“Oh, believe me,” Allen said, “I don’t want to spend a second more here than I have to.” 

Arya inhaled deeply and then nodded, “All right.” She turned to the clone with the scout’s helmet and said, “Czerka, head back towards the ship and guard our extraction. Tat and Sandstorm, let’s get to the warden’s with Allen, get the armor, and get out.” 

Allen didn’t wait for further orders. He led them to the lift, they followed a step behind, and they made their way to the warden’s office with the help of Tat’s guidance, checking the facility’s schematics. The office was near the top of the facility, anyway, so Czerka was able to cover their progress until the hall split and he went to the landing platform while the rest of them headed towards the north end. 

There were no guards, and Tat immediately went to splicing the door’s controls. Sandstorm and Arya let Allen take point, which he could sense made them feel a bit uneasy. At one point, the clone Sergeant tried to step in front of him, after all, he was just a soldier, but Allen had data they wanted to use, but Allen wouldn’t let him. It was his beskar’gam that he desperately wanted back, and he wasn’t going to let anyone stop him. 

The door whisked open. The warden, a Devaronian with a broken left horn, was relaxing in a hover chair watching some horny Zeltron show on the holonet. 

At the sound, he turned, but the sudden presence of two clones, a Jedi, and a vengeant Mandalorian made him spit out his drink. He stumbled to his feet, tripping over the chair’s armrest, allowing enough time for two blasters and a kukhri blade to come out held to his face. 

Allen stepped on the blaster as it slid out from his grip and towards Krayt Squad, “You probably know why I’m here.” 

“You…” the warden said, his hands held half-way up in the universal gesture of don’t shoot, “you’re the Mandalorian.” 

“Follow that train of thought.” 

“You want your beskar.” 

“Who said Devaronians aren’t smart? Where’d you put it?” 

He audibly swallowed and his eyes unintentionally darted to the opposite wall. Allen turned around, Sandstorm’s weapon not moving from the warden’s face. 

There was a suit of Mandalorian armor on the wall. Only it wasn’t Allen’s. Well, not all of it was Allen’s. It was, in fact, a patchwork of random pieces of other Mandalorians’ armor. The Warden had been collecting pieces of beskar’gam to build into a full suit. The pieces were all polished to a fine silver shine to look uniform. But here and there, Allen could see that there were chips of paint that he missed. Flecks of green for duty. Blue for reliability. Red for filial piety. Black for justice. Gold for vengeance. 

All that remained of Allen’s suit was a single pauldron, which he could only identify because of the signet of a mynock welded to it. He pulled it off the mannequin and gazed at it. His entire history. The history of his family, of his people, of his clan… all gone in an instant because of some greedy aruetii. Who knows how long he’d been assembling this monument to stolen valor? If only he had just begun, he might have kept the entire suit, and Allen could recover his identity. 

He turned back to the warden, pauldron in one hand, sidearm in the other. He marched forward until the barrel was pressed against the Devaronian’s cheek, “Where is the rest of it?” 

The enemy started stammering, “I-I-It was a lot of beskar! I’m sorry. I already had most of the other pieces.” 

“You sold it?” 

“I’m sorry! Truly, I-” 

Allen lifted the blaster and discharged it into the ceiling, “Where?!” he roared. 

But the warden was panicking now, and even though Allen’s rationality threatened to break through, he knew deep down that he’d never get those pieces back. 

A hand reached out and touched him on the arm, “Allen,” Arya said, “I can feel your anger, your rage… but this is just attachment and loss. Hurting him won’t bring it back. But we can try to move forward.” 

Was this a Jedi thing? 

No. No, it was just a reality of being alive in the Galaxy. Allen marched back and took the pieces of armor. He fit the pauldron on before throwing the rest of it in a sack he found in a cabinet beneath it. Then he took the helmet. It was a bit larger than his head, and would require adjusting. But he could tell that it just, wasn’t his. Still, he put it on. That hutuunla aruetii didn’t deserve it. Didn’t even deserve the warrior’s death that Allen was about to give him. 

He turned back to the Krayts and said, “I’m ready.” He tossed the sidearm to Sandstorm and picked up the one that the warden tried to use against them. They all turned towards the door, but Allen stopped a moment and faced the warden. He picked up the blaster and aimed it at the Devaronian’s face. He fired, snapping off most of his right horn. 

“At least you match now,” he said once the coward sat up. 

He saw that Arya was disappointed in him. But it didn’t last. A second later, her face suddenly fell as if she had sensed something awful. And then Sandstorm and Tat responded as well. 

“Get back to the ship!” Arya shouted, “Now!” 

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: CAL

Reto Sa was so angry the flecks in his gray eyes were practically vibrating. He was screaming how he had half a mind to “decommission” the wayward clones. How dare they defy the prominently posted rules of the barracks! To sneak out of their compartments after hours, and STEAL from their fellow brothers in arms. Well, they might as well just hand the war over to the enemy right then and there. 

The two yellow-eyed guards, standing there with electrified stun-batons didn’t deign to question their superior’s rantings. Not even with a defiant look at each other. 

Instead, CT-1845, CT-8127, and CH-1616, just stood there looking at their feet. Their fear receptors were made to be very small, but whoever it was that put Reto Se in charge of the administration of their barracks did a fine job selecting. He was able to communicate in a way that made the young clones capable of understanding. One did not get this angry at something inanimate. Yet, he also lorded himself over them, letting them know that with a snap of his long, Kaminoan fingers, he could have them “decommissioned.” 

The door slid open. Every face in the room, human and Kaminoan turned towards it. 

She was human, like them, but was dressed completely in a suit of green-and-gray beskar’gam. She held her helmet underneath her arm as she entered Reto Sa’s office, marching between the Kaminoan officer and the recruits who only stood up to her midsection. She had black skin, and her hair was set in tight braids until it came down, almost like a Jedi Padawan’s, onto one shoulder. She had piercing gray eyes, and a smirk that hid something behind it. 

“Commander Sa, I’d prefer it if you refrained from using that word.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“These are my recruits. And you must be aware that I wouldn’t let you decommission a single one of them without my explicit approval.” 

Reto Sa’s eyes started to vibrate with anger. 

“This was a part of the agreement between Lord Fett and the Kaminoan Government.” She turned to all three boys and smiled, “Unless the Kaminoan Government no longer requires the cooperation of its Mandalorian contractors, and someone failed to notify me.” 

He breathed in and out as slowly and deliberately as possible. Reto Sa may have been in the Kaminoan top caste, but he was still just a low-level bureaucrat, given the job of baby-sitting clone recruits, “No… Sergeant Ambros. The agreement has not been renegotiated.” 

“Then, excellent. As children descended of Mand’alor, I will take it from here.” She handed the helmet to 1845 and told all three of them to follow her. 

Once they left the office, and heard the door shut, she led them to an empty room with long tables and a medium-sized uj cake on a plate. The one they had stolen from the mess. 

“Sit down.” She said. 

They obeyed. 1845 set her buy’ce on the table in front of him. 

“Now, do not lie to me. Which of you planned this operation.” 

Both 1616 and 8127 looked down into their laps. 1845 didn’t, and looked straight at Sergeant Ambros. After a long beat, he said, “Me.” 

Sergeant Ambros cut a slice of the cake and handed it to him, “I saw in your file that your scored a perfect mathematics practical.” 

“Yes, sir,” he said. 

“They are scheduling you for advanced ordinance defusing. They want to assign you to the bomb squads.” 

CT-1845 enjoyed that thought. He was good at math. It came naturally to him. Just like how 8127 scored perfect marksmanship, and 1616 in stealth and strength training. After the math practical, 1616 started calling 1845 “The Calculator.” Others in the barracks picked up on it and started calling him “Calc.” 

“I think I’d be good at that.” 

“I think so, too.” Sergeant Ambros said, “But what if I thought you were better suited for a leadership role. You’ll still have plenty of use for your skills. As a Commando, however, you’ll be in charge of a squad of your brothers.” 

“A squad?” 

“A squad. Your own squad. You’ll be far more than an ordnance specialist. Or a grunt or mechanic, or whatever else they have in mind for you. You’ll be trained as a Mandalorian warrior.”

Drongar
998 Days after Geonosis

When Cal opened his eyes, he saw only green. The jungle was never silent, but he began to associate the ambient noise of the verdant worlds with his form of silence. Biolence, Ujik once called it. 

He found that oddly fitting. 

According to his HUD readout, Top-knot and Ujik were still alive and kicking. Hammer wasn’t close enough for the signal to be read. 

Fierfek. 

He managed to stand up without a lot of pain. The katarn’s gel layer took most of the impact energy. He had to hope that the other Epsilons’ suits functioned properly also.

Armor. 

He pulled out his deece and immediately went to signal Commander Reath, “Commander, are you all right?” 

Static answered him. 

“Commander Reath?” 

More static. But he thought he heard a voice behind it. He set the suit’s computers to track the signal and set a course to intercept its origin point. It was less than a quarter klick east. Had they been on a planet with flat plains, he would’ve been able to see her from here. Not so in this green hell. 

He started in the signal’s direction, pinging the Commander every thirty seconds until he was finally answered with a mark on his motion sensor, followed by a slash of blue that opened a wall of vines. 

“Dank ferrik,” Cal said, lifting his weapon, “I thought you were gone.” 

She jumped down off the branch. A swish of her gold hair followed before she put her lightsabers away and tied it back out of her face, “Why, just because I fell out of a gunship into a jungle without armor?” 

“Yes.” Cal said, “All of that.” 

“What about the rest of the squad?” she asked. 

As if they were summoned by her Jedi powers, Ujik and Top-knot in their nearly identical camouflaged armor appeared out of the jungle, flanking them as if they were a target. 

“Think maybe you need a refresher on defensive stances, Sarge.” Ujik said. 

“Either of you see any sign of Hammer?” 

“Naas.” Top-knot said, Mando’a for nothing. 

The clones looked at each other before turning to the Commander. The unspoken question hung there in the air: what do we do now? 

“Drongar is too big to search for him,” Naat said, “Let’s head towards the target. If he’s able to, he’ll meet us there. If not… well then he won’t.” 

Naat had changed so much since losing Master Echuu. But it wasn’t Cal’s place to say anything. She was his commanding officer, after all. 

“Yes, Commander,” he said. Top-knot took point, Ujik followed behind, switching out the attachment on his deece for the sniper rifle. 

They trudged westward through the forest, avoiding offending the nature when they could, and slicing through it as efficiently as possible when it wasn’t. They encountered no droids, though every so often they could hear the whine of an air patrol, though only caught flashes of the metal through the canopy overhead. 

About once a klick, Cal pinged Hammer, but so far they didn’t receive anything. 

Suddenly, Commander Reath held up a hand towards the Squad. They all stopped and crouched down, scanning the terrain. She stepped forward and moved aside some leaves and they could see over the green ridge of the landscape down into a small clearing about a hundred meters below them. 

Cal’s theory that they weren’t standing on solid ground seemed more-or-less true. The thicket of the treescape was just that: tree. If they started shooting or slicing through the “ground” beneath their feet, they’d cut through foliage about the length of a city block before hitting Drongar’s surface. 

The Separatists cleared out this space to build a base and set up the anti-air turrets. As far as bases went, it was pretty small. All the important bits would be easy enough to remove. And anything that wasn’t that important could be shut down, self-destruct, or was assumed to be cheap enough to leave behind. 

“Reminds me of the Olega job.” Top-knot said. 

He was right. Stopping the Separatist job on Tenoo had been a pretty simple in-and-out. Attach explosives to the targets, allow the Y-wings to do a bombing run. What Ujik liked to call an in-boom-out. 

“I think you’re right.” Naat said, “Should be easy.” 

Easy was a hard word in the world of the Grand Army of the Republic. And especially for the Commandos. A game of sabaac was easy. Punching a grav bag that didn’t hit back was easy. Making uj cake was easy. 

This was infiltrating a nest of battle droids, hitting a target, and coming out alive. Ideally with all five of them, and they were already down to four. 

Less if they counted the Z-95 and LAATi pilots. Something that Cal just tried not to think too hard about. If he stopped and thought about how many brothers he lost outside of the Epsilons, he’d probably never be able to stop thinking about it. 

“What’s the plan, Commander?” 

Naat surveyed the trees, “Ujik: I want you up around there. Find a good vantage point.” 

“Copy, Commander.” Ujik leaped into action and started off that way. 

“The three of us are going to head down there and get inside. As soon as we hit the communications relay, we’ll signal Ull and they can send reinforcements. We’ll take out the AA tower, and book it out of here before the Y-wings do their run.” 

“Going quiet?” Cal asked. 

“As quiet as we can be.” 

They followed the Jedi down through the foliage until they reached the clearing. They got a ping from Ujik that he was in position and began to approach the facility. It was nearly impossible to sneak up to the eastern gate unspotted. Though in this respect, Drongar helped them. The environment was impossible to keep at bay for too long. In fact, anything sufficiently stationary - be it a building, a tree, a Bantha, a meditating Jedi, or a Commando in katarn armor - the flora would swallow it whole in only a matter of time. The dossier had warned them of basically that: that if they breathed the air, the potential for a fungal infection to take root in their lungs was obnoxiously high. 

So despite the Seps’ best efforts, the jungle they had burned away crept right up to the walls of the outpost. Droids burned away at its edges, but it needed to be constant to be even barely effective. 

At the gateway, Top-knot accessed the panel only for a surveillance probe to pop out. The Jedi was faster than any of them and managed to slice off the neck in a single swipe of a blue blade. 

“That gives us about fifteen seconds.” Cal said. 

“Only need five.” 

True to his word, in three seconds, Top-knot broke through the initial security gateway, and in two more, the door swooshed open. 

“Nice job,” Ujik said, watching them from his perch. 

They moved into the base and immediately took cover. In another seven seconds, a droideka and a squad of eight B-1s and two B-2s came to the gate to find that the intruders were gone. 

“Search the perimeter.” 

“Roger roger.” 

The droids spread out with their metal feet clanking against the base floor. 

“So… ah, now what?” Top-knot said.

“Communications relay.” Cal said, “Top, base schematics?” 

“Hold on.” Top-knot put away his weapon and used the back door he left in the security system to check the layout. He noticed - barely - Naat sitting in a shadow, with her eyes half-open. He could only suspect she was using some sort of Jedi technique to confuse the droids’ circuits and add an extra layer of protection to keep them from getting detected. 

“If you guys are in trouble right now,” Ujik said, “I’m not going to be able to help.” 

“No trouble yet,” Cal said, “just stand by.” 

“Not for nothing,” Ujik said, “you think the coms relay might be in the command tower?” 

“Command tower?” 

“It’s in the center of the base. Can’t miss it. Plus I have a view of the windows and everything. If you’re in trouble, I can at least provide some cover.” 

“Any droids?” 

“It’s a Separatist base. So… yes.” 

Cal swore before answering, “Got anything a little more detailed to report?” 

“Mostly B-1s. Not all combat oriented. There’s a few patrols, but others are performing menial tasks. A bunch of mechanics and repairers doing osik like screwing legs on spider droids. Some look like they’re spraying others down with defoliant.” Probably some kind of anti-fungal to keep the joints from seizing up or rusting away. 

“So… maybe check there? Nothing else seems to fit the bill.” 

Cal had to assume he was right. They weren’t going to put the central communications relay in one of the AA turrets, or in the barracks or armory. But he waited for Top-knot to pull up the schematic and check for certainty. On temporary set ups like this, the Seps have been known to put things in weird places. Plus given Drongar’s aggressive biosphere, maybe there would be a good reason to put it elsewhere. 

“He’s right.” Top-knot reported. 

“Oh, good, he’s right,” Ujik said in the most cheery tone. 

“I’ll go first,” Naat said, “follow on my signal.” 

Cal didn’t like being left out of the loop on things like this, but she was the commanding officer. And they’d been taught, above all else, that good soldiers follow orders, “Copy that, Commander.” 

She rose to a crouch and took a lightsaber in each hand. When the droids had left their line of sight and the Force seemed to give her the all-clear, Naat moved quickly out into the base, hopping into the shadows and avoiding being noticed by the patrols. 

“Surely the Kaminoans could have given us a little of that. Squirt some Midichlorians in our blood or something.” Ujik said. So clearly, she was far enough out to be in the sniper’s line of sight. Good to know. On the battlefield, information was a more potent weapon than orbital bombardment. 

“Top,” Cal said, ignoring the blithe musings of the possibility of an army of Force-sensitive clones, “Any luck on contacting Ull Base?” 

“Jamming signal’s too strong, Sarge.” 

Was worth a shot, he thought. He moved his head out from cover and poked the deece out, half expecting to be greeted by a long metal face and a hearty roger roger. Only there wasn’t much there. He looked around and saw some B-2s in the distance checking the area. They’d be a problem soon enough. 

He moved back a little to inspect his cover. 

A crate of high energy shells. 

Wonderful. At least if anything went wrong it’d be over quickly. 

“I’m at the west gate,” Commander Reath reported, “I’ll draw their fire. Cal, Top, get in that tower, take down the jamming relay, and call Ull.” 

Cal didn’t like any of this plan. But it was tried and true. It just so happened to fail a lot of the time and get lots of people killed. Plus they were already down a man. 

“Copy, Commander.” Top-knot was about to emerge from his cover when Cal held him in place with a hand. A klaxon blared and the droids in their line of sight started moving west. He knew Naat had the better sense to keep out of sight as much as possible. He also knew that since Krant, Naat had a tendency towards riskier endeavors. 

“Uj,” Cal said, “Start picking off stragglers. The less they know a sniper is in the area, the better.” Ujik was smarter than that, but Cal had a tendency to over-explain the obvious when he was nervous. 

Ujik blinked his acknowledgment light. Cal signaled Top-knot to follow him. He put the deece down and took out his vibro-blade. The better to quickly dispatch any droids without alerting them to the presence of intruders. 

A few mechanic droids got in their way. Had they not been capable of warning the base, Cal might have just let them alone. It was risky enough as it was, and so Cal didn’t hesitate to swipe their heads off with a sweep of his gauntlet. 

One of the ones armed with a blaster noticed Cal and was way out of arm’s reach. He was about to alert the others as he turned the weapon on the commandos, but before his voice modulator could make a cohesive sound, a streak of blue-white blaster fire burst from overhead and its head flew off while the rest of its body collapsed into a heap. 

Cal winked an acknowledgment light as a thank you, and Ujik winked one in response. 

They reached the central tower. The system lock down made it that much harder to open. But Top-knot was better than that. He had the tower blast doors open in less than twenty seconds. 

“Maybe we should get the GAR to issue us lightsabers. Go a lot faster, don’t you think?” The doors swished open and Cal and Top-knot slipped inside. 

“Yeah, but then you’d be out of a job, Top-knob.” 

Cal suppressed laughter. Sometimes he had to hand it to Ujik. Top-knot had the sense not to try to one-up the sniper. After all, this was an active combat zone, and they had more pressing matters-

He was suddenly flung across the room. He managed to roll to a prone, safe position before taking out his rifle and aiming towards his attackers. Two commando droids, one wielding a machete and the other laying fire down on his position, “Go!” Cal shouted to Top-knot, “Take down the jammer, I’ll hold them off!” 

The doors to the lift closed and Top-knot disappeared. Should take him a minute to get up there, clear out the security, and break the system. 

Cal leaped to cover, took out a grenade, and lobbed it towards the shooting droid. 

The explosion went off, but he couldn’t check to see if he got the clanker. The other, the one with the big shabla blade swung it down in the space where Cal was just standing. He uppercut towards its head only to hit air as the vibroblade shot out of his gauntlet stabbing at nothing. Blasterfire cleared through the space just to the left of his face. If he wasn’t wearing a helmet, the heat would have burned his cheek. Before he even knew it was in his hand, Cal drew his sidearm and fired between its visual sensors. 

In less than the half-second it took him to turn towards the second droid, the machete sliced laterally towards him… 

… right between the plates of katarn armor in his left arm. 

No time to scream or feel pain. He was already holding a weapon in his hand and turned it towards the clanker’s head, which was too busy trying to remove the blade, but it was stuck on katarn, gel layer, circuitry, muscle, and tendons. Cal blew its head off. 

As soon as the metal frame fell to the floor, Cal involuntarily joined him. Commando armor had a stimulant injector that was supposed to keep him from falling unconscious, but the next thing he heard was Top’s voice calling over the comlink, “Ull Base, this is Epsilon Squadron, we could use a little support here.” 

There was a burst of static, followed by Commander Reath’s voice, “Top-knot, what’s happening with Cal?” 

“Cal?” 

“Copy that, Epsilon Squad, we’re zeroing in on your location. Any word on the Y-wings?” 

“I’m signaling them now. Mynock Squadron just left the Venator. They’ll be here in approximately ten minutes.” 

“Ten minutes. We’ll be there in five.” 

Well, they were at least going to finish the mission. Whether Cal would live long enough to see it… 

Then he saw her. Golden hair and green eyes. When she laughed they got real thin, but he hadn’t seen that in a long time. Since long before Krant. She always moved with purpose. Always touched with strength and gentleness…

“Get up.” She said, “You’re a Republic Commando. You’re sergeant to Epsilon Squad. So get up!” 

He felt her body underneath his, and more. Cal summoned every last piece of strength, knowing it was all bolstered by Republic-issued stimulant, and he stood. He slapped the Deece onto the magnetic plate on his armor and took out his sidearm, “Commander.” 

“I’m cutting us a path out the western gate. Can you follow?” 

Cal’s brain was having a hard enough time making words. He blinked a green acknowledgment light and silently vowed to follow her until he collapsed. 

“Ujik, we’re heading out into the fray. Can you cover us?” Commander Reath asked, twin blue blades burning in either hand as droidekas bore down on their position. A green light blinked, but it was suddenly all they could do just to stay alive. Commander Reath had to summon all of her speed, agility, and skill with her blades to keep them from being overwhelmed by blaster fire. The droidekas - three of them - simply buried them in red laser. Commander Reath was barely a blur, and Cal, with his one good arm, and tiny blaster, was less than useless. 

And then a rocket destroyed one of the droids. 

The other two turned northwards in the direction of the smoke trail. 

One just managed to find its target as a second rocket flew and took it out. 

Naat leaped forward entering the shield, and sliced through the droid’s central processing core. 

“Hammer?” 

Not even an acknowledgment light. But Cal was certain it was him. They were behind one of the comms towers, so it couldn’t have been Ujik. And Top-knot was still working his magic. 

Naat grabbed Cal by his armor and said, “Stay with me!” she began running towards the western gate, slicing through droids as they tried to ambush the pair, deflecting blaster bolts where she could. At least with the B1s, Cal’s aim was enough to blow their heads off, even if he could barely focus on his line of fire. And then something tripped him and he was down. 

“No!” Naat screamed, standing over Cal’s body. 

They were surrounded. B1s, B2s, droidekas, and commando droids began to bear down on their position. He was certain someone ordered her to surrender, but couldn’t make out if it was a voice, or a metallic sound. 

Then, suddenly, it barely mattered. Fire poured onto the droids from all sides. Hammer, Ujik, and Top-knot had all repositioned into a three-pointed attack on their rear flank, and from behind Commander Reath, blue blasterfire began to bear down on them from the western woods. 

Regs in jetpacks bounded over the walls, and Cal heard someone scream “why aren’t the karabast guns firing?” An attack tank hovered into the compound, and Cal was suddenly on his feet again. He was staring at one of his squad… he wasn’t sure who. But he had a T-shaped visor, and his armor was camouflage colored just like those of the Epsilons. 

“Vor’e, vod.” He said. He liked Mando’a, it was the language of his people, even if they weren’t his people. 

“Ba’gedet’ye,” came the response. Weird. The squad never said “you’re welcome” to each other. It was considered crass. Like, why? “General Reath!” he said, “We need to get you out of here, where’s the rest of your Squad?” 

Commander Reath refused to leave his side. Yes, Cal thought, Commander. She hates being called ‘General.’ Hates, hates, hates it. 

“Two aren’t in the base. One’s there in the tower. Can you get him out?” 

“On it.” 

The one in the camouflaged armor suddenly leaped into the air as if on wings and blasted his way through one of the windows. 

But his voice - not the voice of a Clone - came through Cal’s ear as if he was standing right next to him, “Get the General and that wounded commando out of here! Now!” 

“Yes, sir!” the tank pilot followed. Even the Regs on jetpacks started to retreat. A few leaped over the other side of the wall to locate Hammer and Ujik. 

But Naat stayed with Cal, as they sat on the rear of the tank. She placed a hand on the side of his helmet, knowing that if she removed it, he could breathe something in and die a much slower, much worse death, “Stay with me, Cal. I can’t lose you. I can’t lose you, too.” 

He put his good hand against her face. 

Then he heard the roar of the Y-wings over his head. 

“General Reath, this is Sergeant CT-9099 of Mynock Squadron, we’re in position for our bombing run. Are we good to go?”

“No,” Naat looked up into the sky, “We still have men in the base, I repeat, we have men in the base. Do not drop ordinance on our position.” 

“Sorry, sir? We didn’t catch that.” 

And then something burst, but Cal only heard the noise and felt the heat on his open wound. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: MONK

The kitchen droids were offline, and would be for another six hours. That gave 1845, 8127, and 1616 plenty of time to get in, find the uj cake, enjoy, and sneak back to the barracks.

CH-1616 wasn’t wholly comfortable with this plan. But 1845 and 8127 were his friends. His best friends. He couldn’t not join them. If luck would have it, they’d be a squad, too. They’d be sent throughout the Galaxy together, fighting side-by-side. Sharing trials, scars and stories.

Everything in the kitchen was automated. Even the doors. Opening them required circuitry and linkage, or if you were 8127, particular skill with hacking the system into thinking you were a droid.

“Got it,” 8127 said, “shabla got it.”

The drawer hissed open, lights on the front switching from orange to blue. The three clone boys looked inside. Wrong drawer.

Written on the frozen packages in aurebesh letters was written GROUND NERF.

He stared at them for a long time.

“Ah, nothing here but meat,” 1845 said, “Gotta check the next one.”

But 1616 couldn’t pull himself away from looking at the package. All this time eating ground nerf in cafeteria food, he had never really been confronted with the red, bloody reality. Meat was meat. It was a product. On a planet somewhere far away, nerfs were being raised in a pasture, having babies, avoiding predators, protecting the pack… and then were butchered, put through processing, and sold wholesale on the galactic market.

Browned and served besides vegetables, cups of nutrient jelly, a piece of fruit, and some hard bread, eating it didn’t feel like eating an animal.

An animal bred and raised for a singular purpose: to be meat.

Like him.

Like all of them.

Kar’kor’yx, capital settlement of Xo

1000 Days after Geonosis

Monk was Red Squad’s designated scout. Not that they used scouts very often. Usually, they were already working with intel provided by GAR informants. Here, Agent Strill had provided them with a lot of it, but Butcher and Commander Reykal wanted a first-hand look. 

Takkor offered to take some of them over there. Though a large party would certainly draw attention. It was then that Takkor said, “What about this one? He seems like he’s the quiet, get-in-get-out, type.”

Takkor morphed one of his Zanibar forms and Monk shed his obvious GAR uniform and armor and put on some random clothes they had kept in the frigate for just such a purpose. They took a pair of speeder bikes. Tion showed him her vehicle and he calibrated it to his specs. 

“Ready?” Takkor asked. 

Monk knew so little about Zanibar facial expressions, but he could tell that Takkor was growing anxious. 

“Ready.” Monk said, mounting the bike. 

Without another word, Takkor took off. Monk followed and once they were out of sight of the basecamp, they switched to a different coms frequency. 

“You said the Zanibar have multiple clone captives?” 

“Hundreds.” 

“Won’t they recognize me?” 

“Zani’ar eyes do not recognize Hu’an ‘acial ‘eatures. All Hu’ans look the sa’ to the’. Not that you’d ha’e a ‘ro’le’ with that e’en i' they could.” 

Monk didn’t say anything to that, “Anything else I should know before we get to Kar’kor’yx? Any types of food I shouldn’t eat?” 

“Don’t eat any ‘ood.” Takkor said, “Do they know?” 

“The squad?” 

“Yes. The other clones.” 

“No.” 

Takkor didn’t say anything. It was just as good. They were approaching Kar’kor’yx. Around the settlement there were enormous poles with white flags flapping in the wind. Ceremonial or burial or just decorative, Monk wasn’t sure. But they had an oddly funereal feel to them. 

They parked the bikes. Monk secured his with a code-lock, but Takkor left his open. 

“You’re not worried someone’s going to take it?” 

“No. E’en i' they do, it’s nor’al to just take another.” 

“So… just stealing?” 

“’Ore like, co’unity ‘ro’erty. To the Zani’ar, thie’ing is only thie’ing in war ti’e. E’erything else is ‘air ga’e.” 

The Zanibar’s lack of lips was starting to drag on Monk. “And you said they won’t recognize me as a…” 

“No,” Takkor was quick to say, just as they passed a trio of Zanibar on their on their way south. Maybe to take a look at those bikes they had just parked, “Zani’ar cannot tell a’art hu’an ‘aces. Just as hu’an eyes cannot tell a’art theirs.” 

He was a thousand percent right. Even as they walked by him, Monk couldn’t tell one Zanibar apart from another, unless they had something like a grayed-out eye or a distinctive scar. 

“And they won’t think it’s odd that a Zanibar is out here with a lone human?” 

“Not at all. What is the one thing Xo has?” 

Fierfek, seems like a whole lot of nothing out here. Especially this far onto the edge of the Outer Rim. “No clue. Nothing, I guess?” 

“’Recisely. Xo has nothing. Nothing ‘ut ‘ure s’ace. And it’s so ‘ar and o’scure fro’ any authority, that s’ugglers, ‘ounty hunters, and sla’ers ‘ay locals to take the’ into the Xo wilderness and keep their secrets sa’e. Xo is one ‘ig sa’e de’osit box.” 

Monk let out a disbelieving burst of air, “Why don’t the Zanibar just sell what they’ve got?” 

“Those that do lose their re’utations. Other Zani’ar kee’ the’ in line so they don’t lose ‘usiness and the whole society a re’utation for ‘eing cheating thie’es. ‘Ut since ‘ost of their clients work in ‘usinesses with a high turno’er rate, the Zani’ar sign contracts with their clients usually trans’erring ‘ull rights to their hidden ‘ro’erty a’ter a certain a’ount o’ ti’e. Ten standard years is ty’ical, ‘ut so’e contracts ha’e ‘een known to ‘e ‘uch longer, if the client ty’ically works on the other side of the Galaxy, or the quarry is ‘articularly large. Much shorter contracts are also ty’ical ‘or s’aller quarries, or if the client see’s des’erate.” 

“What do they bury?” 

“You na’e it: s’ice, ‘odies. I’e heard of a Senator who had his wi’e ‘rozen in car’onite and ‘uried here on a 10-century contract.” 

“Is… is it true?” 

Takkor shrugged his shoulders.

“So we’re just a smuggler and his contact.” 

“That’s right.” Takkor said. 

Monk took out his datapad and took a look at the list of targets. He forced himself to ignore the implications of the list, and merely asked Takkor about the items on it. “Food processing centers.” 

“They’re hard to ‘iss.” Takkor said. The Zanibar-Gurlanin took Monk through the center avenue of Kar’kor’yx to an avenue on the east side of the town. Here there were rammed-earth buildings with red lights shining through the glass windows, “Red ‘ecause of the light ‘ul’s.” 

Monk didn’t say anything. He half expected what he was certain Takkor was trying to explain away. But even if they used white or other colored bulbs, he was certain the interior of the buildings were still bright red. 

The Zanibar are paid in the bodies of their enemies. He said to himself. Their enemies are clones. Their enemies are human. 

Monk pushed the dark thoughts to the back of his mind and tried to focus on the military task at hand. He counted the number of buildings as casually as if he were just taking a stroll through a strange part of town. 

A Zanibar, dressed in what appeared to be an official uniform, came over to where Monk and his apparent guide were walking and yelled at them in the hoarse, dry language of the Zanibar. 

“What’s he saying?” 

“They’re asking why I’ ‘ringing a hu’an through here.” 

“Uh,” Monk said, “Tell them we were just looking for a place to rest.” 

Takkor said something to the Zanibar, who merely shouted something else. Takkor turned around and waved Monk along with him, “This way.” 

“What did they say?” 

“I said you were looking for a ‘lace to eat, and that you were insistent on going down this street. They said there was nothing for hu’ans down there, and I should know ‘etter. I res’onded that I did know, ‘ut that you insisted. They said to never ‘ring hu’ans back down that street unless… well, to ‘ring you inside.” 

Monk shook the thought out of his head. 

It should have been easy. 

Lots of species in the Galaxy ate meat. 

Humans ate meat. 

He’d enjoyed the occasional nerf steak, when it was available. Bantha, wampa, eopie, tauntaun meat was all prized around the Galaxy. Even the Gurlanins evolved their shape-shifting ability to catch and eat prey. Different species had different dietary restrictions and nutritional requirements, to say nothing of culture. 

So why did this feel so much worse? So wrong? 

“Why don’t we eat Wookiees?” 

Takkor turned to Monk. He was becoming used to the elongated, ghastly corpse-blue Zanibar head, “What?” 

“Why don’t we eat Wookiees?” 

“I don’t understand the question. Do you want to eat a Wookiee?” 

“No. I’m just saying: they’re big, hairy, strong. They’re full of meat. If one farmed Wookiees, they could probably feet a family on just one bull.” 

“Wookiees are sentient.” 

“Exactly.” Monk said, “It feels wrong because a Wookiee is a sentient being.” He shook his head, “I’m not sure… I’m really not sure what to think or feel here.” 

Takkor stopped and turned towards Monk, “What’s they’re to ‘eel? They’re the enemy. You’re here to do a jo’, aren’t you?” 

Monk looked up and down the street. The Zanibar were a frightening, and if he let his mind wander, a gross looking species. Their skin, despite the horrifying color, was cracked, giving it the appearance of being made up of a dry, deserted planetary surface. Their eyes were small, mostly black, and had no lids. They had no lips, making labial sounds like the m in human, or the p in food processor difficult. If Monk had to design a wraith of death from scratch, he could do a lot worse than make a Zanibar. 

“They’re a people, too.” Monk said, “Just like Tion told us: their society evolved this way in order for their species to survive. They weren’t always like this. They were forced by the environment into brutality. But to them… it’s no longer brutality. It’s just the way they live. If we asked them to eat a vegetable, it would probably poison them.” 

“I haven’t tried it.” Takkor said. He turned around and started walking the other way, “Consider this, hu’an,” even with his lack of lips, or human vocal inflection, Monk felt the sting of an accusation, “You’re not here to kill or hurt them ‘ecause they’re Zani’ar. And you’re not here to do it ‘ecause they’re eating hu’ans. You’re doing it ‘ecause they’re on the wrong side of the war. And this is just the ‘est way to com’lete the o’jective.” 

Monk followed Takkor as they went to inspect the next item on the list: a Zanibar medical clinic. 

He put the data pad away and repeated Takkor’s words in his mind: complete the objective. Complete the objective. 

Just complete the objective. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: ARYA

“Reach out with the Force,” Master Ogel said, “Reach out and feel with all your being.” 

Arya followed her master’s voice but still struggled with the concept of reaching out with “one’s being.” 

“You’re struggling.” 

“Of course I’m struggling,” she said, “I don’t really understand this activity.” 

“We wouldn’t have brought you into Jedi training if we didn’t think you were capable of it,” Master Ogel said, “Close your eyes and empty your mind.” 

He had brought her to Nal Kapok, a planet whose oceans steamed in the heat, teeming to the brim with life. Arya closed her eyes and cast her thoughts away. She tried to focus her attention not on her breath, or on Master Ogel’s words, but on the beating heart of the kyber crystal dangling in the lightsaber at her belt. 

Like a tiny heartbeat, flickering in the web of life like a candle, the kyber crystal seemed to ping across the universe. Every cell around her started to glow in the crystal’s widening arc. 

Then she felt pain. 

Arya focused on it. 

A small mammalian creature snatched by an airborne predator. It shrieked, bit at the predator’s feet, which bit deeper and deeper into its body. A tiny water insect, swallowed by a swimming creature with a thousand of its kind. Plants shrieking as an army of hive insects began tearing their leaves apart to build a nest and feed their young, shouting cries of assistance to the family of creatures that lived in its bark to defend it. 

“Pain.” Arya communicated to her master, “There’s so much pain in the force.” 

“Yes,” he said, “life is pain. And the Force connects all life. Pain is the yearning to live. The announcement to all cellular life that I must go on, I must go on.” 

“If all life is pain, then why do we do this?”

“All life is not pain. But some of it is. And it is a natural piece of existence. When a Jedi feels pain in the Force, they know where to go. They know where they are needed.” 

Tatooine

999 Days after Geonosis

She felt the pulse in the Force like a wrenching bolt of pain shooting through the center axis of her mind. 

The person tied to the other end of it she already knew. 

Czerka. 

As soon as he stepped into the hold, there was the base, buzzing verbalization of the droid, swinging its heavy arm towards his buy’ce. He raised his Deece but the droid connected with it and the shot flew wide. Charges went into the controls behind it as the weapon flew across the deck. His hand flew to his sidearm

Arya sprinted to the elevator, calling on the Force to propel her forward, as if she was jumping across roof-tops, but this time through the grimy hallways of a Hutt prison. Security droids intercepted her and she sliced through them before they even registered her presence on their sensors. 

but before he could get his finger on the trigger, the machine drew a machete and sliced the pistol in half in a small shower of sparks. His mind raced to wonder how this happened. They were a Squad after all. But… but not. Not really. His brothers, his original brothers weren’t here. They were gone. 

Arya knew the lift was going to move too slowly. She sliced open the upper compartment, the green blade singing through the metal. With a skylight revealing the way up, she called on the Force to propel her body vertically. She stood on the roof of the lift box, hooked her lightsaber to her belt, and crouched down. She jumped as high as she could go, and, holding her hands down like a Mandalorian’s jet pack, the Force shot her up through the shaft in one go. 

He dropped what was left of the weapon and made an uppercut, hoping to get the vibroblade through the droid’s chin, but machines were so much faster than muscle. It seized his arm and twisted it away. He was almost certain it was broken. Between the adrenaline and the auto-analgesics in his armor, it was just hard to tell.

At the top of the shaft, she grabbed onto the doors and triggered the opening on the other side as if reaching out with just a finger. Two droids - rusted Separatist commando droids - blocked her way. 

Arya ignited both ends of her saber. Green blades flashed through the wind and sand. 

He reached back to grab his gaffi stick and brought the hammer down on the droid’s face. The move stunned it long enough to let him go and twist out of the way. He made to aim for it, but his arm was very much broken. The break in his thoughts was just the opening the droid needed. 

She closed her eyes - as much to feel the presence of the enemy as to protect them from the sand. 

In one jump and one slice, the droids were halved. Blades of plasma cutting through their chassis like they were  little more than flimsy. 

It grabbed him by the neck. 

A brilliant green light emerged through the droid’s chest, sending sparks up towards Czerka’s visor. The commando droid jerked and spasmed, turning its head all the way around to see the new threat. 

The clanker dropped Czerka like a sack and rotated its arm to fire, but Arya had already withdrawn her saber and swung anew. 

The lightsaber sliced through its arm, and then removed the head in a single, clean motion. She looked down at it for just a moment, breathed hard, and then turned to Czerka. 

“Are you all right?” she crouched down to try to hold him, remove his helmet, and check on his status. 

The katarn helmet played a series of noises to try to get him to return to consciousness. But he simply… couldn’t. His arm was broken. His trachea almost crushed. Half a dozen muscles on his neck were bruised and torn. After a solid minute of not being able to get him up, the armor’s systems resorted to hibernation, and injected a dose of sedating chemical into his bloodstream. Czerka slipped from barely conscious and in pain to total unconsciousness, placing an alert system onto an emergency GAR frequency. 

The last thing he saw was the glow of a green blade, and the features of a Mirialan reaching out to him through a force unseen. 

She let out a long sigh, feeling the steady beat of his heart through her fingers on his neck.

Arya straightened, lifting her comm and pinging the rest of her Squad. “Krayt Squad, this is Commander Wooy. Czerka is injured. Return to the shuttle immediately.” Her voice was as calm and smooth as ever, but beneath the thin veneer, she was shaken. Czerka’s could have been killed, and it was her fault. 

She swallowed and let out a long breath, moving around the shuttle to find a med kit. 

With a bacta spray in hand, she crouched down next to his body and felt at his arm, careful not to press too hard or disturb the fracture. She held her breath as she aimed it at the wound in his arm and sent a gentle, soothing pressure to his mind through the Force.

She wasn’t sure why she was doing it… but she found herself asking his forgiveness. 

In all this time she had fought beside clones, this was the first time that she couldn’t excuse herself as just following orders, as just as much a cog in the war machine as them. No. She was in charge here. This was her fault. 

But… but why was she so concerned with this clone in particular? 

Waiting for the Squad to return, Arya sat back against the wall of the shuttle across from her wounded man. His buy’ce sat in her lap, and she stared at the face, the pits in the katarn, the scars across the visor, the chipped numerals on the forehead: 8127. 

Arya closed her eyes and tried not to let herself be swept away in the currents of the Force. 

Tat was the first to enter the shuttle. He immediately crouched down and helped Arya get Czerka into a safe, prone position for the shuttle to take off. He stored the separate parts of the Commando Droid (in mylar lined cages that prevented their position from being tracked), then fortified the position in the shuttle. 

The other clones, plus one Mandalorian, entered the shuttle. The Mandalorian sat next to Arya, while Sandstorm hopped into the cockpit. 

“Let’s get out of here,” he said, prepping the ship for immediate departure. The docking ring sealed and the shuttle gently lifted into the storm. 

The Mandalorian looked at Czerka lying prone, “He didn’t make it?” 

They ignored him as the ship moved away from the planet and into open space. “Arvala-7?” Sandstorm asked. 

“No,” Arya said, “We need to get Czerka help, first.” 

“The nearest medstar is days away from here.” Tat said, “He’ll never make it.” 

“There’s a safe house floating in the atmosphere of Pirdia.” Allen said. The whole Squad, including Sandstorm, excluding Czerka, turned to Allen as if he had just told them that he could save their nerf steaks from burning. “We can find help there.” 

“Pirdia? That’s… where is that?” Sandstorm asked. 

“Gas giant in the Tyrius system.” 

“I’ve never heard of a safe house there.” Arya said. 

“Mandalorian secret. Would you like to go, or mull it over while your pal bleeds out?” 

The Krayts looked at each other. Neither Sandstorm nor Tat seemed to be aware of what to do in this circumstance. They certainly didn’t think that their command authority somehow exceeded beyond what their Commander had to say. 

“No need,” Arya said, “Sandstorm,” she said, standing and sitting next to him in the cockpit, “Set course for Pirdia.” 

She let him set course and fly, while she closed her eyes and reached out to Czerka. She tried wrapping her mind around his essence, trying to hold his life force inside of him. But it was like trying to hold water in a glass while it kept cracking and cracking and cracking…

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: NAAT

The Chiss’ voice was smooth, like the finest vulnarian honey. Her presence in the Force reflected that: smooth and beautiful like silk, but behind it a jagged dagger. 

“Republic forces have breached the stronghold perimeter.” Tann said, “I just thought you should know.” 

“Why?” Naat asked, “I’m just bait.” 

“Oh, yes, you are.” She admitted, “But it’s important for you to get updates on what’s happening out there.” 

Naat glared at her. Her eyes left the Chiss’ glowing red gaze, down to where her lightsaber dangled at the dark acolyte’s belt. 

“So you can make me angry?” 

Tann smiled, a disturbing, hungry smile, “Is it working?” 

Naat repeated the Jedi Code silently to herself. She froze her voice on her tongue, “Give me my lightsaber, and we’ll find out.” 

Tann laughed, “I’ve already killed one Reath enough for this war. I’m after a much bigger prize.” 

“If you think Master Echuu can be drawn like a nerf to slaughter because of me…” 

“Oh,” Tann interrupted, surging forward where Naat knelt, bound and imprisoned, “I know he can. See, that’s what you Jedi don’t understand.” 

“What? Are you going to give me that Sith osik? How peace is a lie and there’s just passion and anger and hate?” 

“Oh, little Jedi.” Tann backed away and drew Naat’s lightsaber. The blue blade emerged from the handle, glowing, pulsing, beating like a deranged heartbeat. She drew her lightsaber, and the gold, angry blade looked far too much like Naat’s own, “The truth, which your Master will be able to tell you today before day’s end, is that you are just as passionate, just as angry,” she crossed the blades, and dragged them against each other, giving her red eyes a vibrancy that Naat wished she could forget, “and just as hateful as me.”

Drongar

1001 Days after Geonosis

Naat didn’t remember anything after they landed. 

When she woke up, she was lying on a cot in a GAR prefab shelter. 

Two nearly identical chrome cylinders lied next to each other on the small table next to her head. She moved her legs over the side of the cot, and hooked Stam’s lightsaber to her belt before her own. 

Cal. 

She got up and made her way to the door. Ull Base. Clones, officers, mercenaries, droids, staff members, all buzzed around her. A rusted protocol droid with chinks in its bronze chassis walked up to her and said, “General Reath. I am AB-12, human-cyborg relations.” 

Naat cut it off, “Where is my Squad?” 

“The members of Epsilon Squad are either in the infirmary or resting. RC-0066 and RC-8679 are both resting in the prefabricated shelters block. RC-0988 is resting in the medical block, seeking treatment for a minor injury sustained in his fall.” She pronounced each number individually, Are-see zero-nine-eight-eight.

Naat cared for them. She really did, but she needed to know, “What about Cal?” 

“Are you referring to RC-1845?” 

“Yes.” 

“RC-1845 is at the Republic Medical Surgical Unit. He sustained serious injuries in the attack on the Separatist outpost…”

“Surgical? Where is the Rimsoo?” 

“The Unit is in that direction…” 

As soon as AB-12 pointed with a stiff metal finger, Naat ran. She avoided bumping into regs, their white armor specked and flecked with bits of mud, grime, and battle scars. A lot of them were burned, their white armor charred black like coal. A few of the clones had armor painted with mottled green camouflage, the better to hide in the jungle. She wondered momentarily if there was any logic to who got the green armor and who got the white. On the one hand, the green might hide one from visual light sensors better. On the other, should a camouflaged soldier get lost, injured, or incapacitated, they might be impossible to find in the endless green hell. 

“Ma’am!”  

She knew that voice. Naat stopped and spun around, looking for it. A Zeltron man stood there in mottled green armor. His pink face, short-cropped blue hair sticking up out of a head band, and a long scar on his right cheek told a story all on their own. 

“General Reath!” he called, catching up to her. 

She saw he had a helmet under his arm. The T-shaped visor was all too familiar. Even in the heat of battle, she was able to connect the voice to the buy’ce. 

“Agent Beskad.” 

“Call me Atiniir.” 

“Only if you never call me General Reath again.” 

“Apologies. The mission briefing said you were a Jedi Knight. That that was your rank.” 

“It is…” she said, “I just don’t like being reminded of what it cost me.”

Atiniir didn’t do anything at first, a look on his face seeming to indicate that he knew enough of the cost of things in the Galaxy. “I’ve been ordered by Colonel Urkot to bring you to his office.” 

“Colonel Urkot?” 

“He’s the highest ranking officer on Drongar. Since Admiral Bleyd’s death… and General Orol’s departure.” 

“The Republic is really abandoning Drongar?” 

“Completely.” 

Naat ignored the directive and entered the RMSU. The Mandalorian followed, and they entered a crowded medical unit, filled with grievously wounded clones, mercenaries, and officers. The clones were grouped as much together as possible. It made identifying Cal that much harder. 

“They put the clones all together because if one of them is beyond recovery, his organs will fit into another’s without worrying about the the donor’s organs being rejected.” 

“Mix and match people.” Naat said. She surprised herself, getting hung up on the word people for a reason she couldn’t quite understand. 

The clones, as well as the mercenaries and officers on the other beds - ranging species as diverse as humans, Mon Calamari, Wookiees, and Arlennians - were in various stages of consciousness. And their medical statuses ranged from critical, to palliative, to recovering. 

She turned back to the clones’ beds, and had to pull up their flimsy charts just to check their designation numbers. 

CT-8899, CT-0456, CT-8912, CT-5344, CH-0607, CT-9833, CT-9814, CA-0042, CH-7894, CT-0916, RC-1845. 

She rushed to his face. 

Of course. 

It was Cal. 

She’d recognize him anywhere. Even in a crowd of identical faces. 

Identical was a stretch, though. The clone in the bed next to him, CT-0916, had half of his face burned off. It was covered with a patch that clearly had a skin graft, with a thin tube feeding bacta into the patch. CT-0916, along with all of the other soldiers in the RMSU had flexi-tubes of fluid flowing into parts of their bodies via IV units. Medic droids hovered over their heads, monitoring vitals and adjusting as needed. 

“Bacta.” Naat said, “Just bacta?” 

“Uh…” Atiniir said, visibly uncomfortable, “Yeah.” 

She turned to Cal’s face and reached out. It was protected via the katarn helmet on the mission, and he was taken right away for medical care. 

He might be all right. 

But when Naat reached out with the Force, she felt a dimming of his life pulse. As if a tiny flame down inside of him weakened. The surgeons and droids had managed to stem the bleeding almost right away… No. That couldn’t be it. One droid. One blade. And now Cal was sliding off into nothingness?

“What… what about the bota?” she asked, ignoring the tears forming at her eyes. 

When Atiniir didn’t answer her, she turned to him and saw the odd look on his face, “Maybe…” he said, “uh… you should probably talk to Colonel Urkot.” 

Naat sensed a storm of discomfort and unease in the Mandalorian. She straightened, and left Cal’s bedside, following Atiniir out of the RMSU and back into the mud and grime of Ull Base. 

He led her to the official complex where a display board listed the offices and their inhabitants. 

There was only one name. Naat had to assume the others were empty as the Drongar Campaign turned and was now being abandoned. 

She entered, Atiniir directing her to the office at the top of the tower. At the room, two guards - Clone Regulars - greeted her, using the title she hated, and let the Colonel know Naat was there. He opened it and summoned her in, at which point Atiniir told her he would meet her when she was finished. 

“General Reath,” the Kiffar said, “A pleasure to finally meet you face-to-face.” 

“Thank you,” Naat said, “Please call me Commander, though.”  

“You’re a Jedi Knight. Your file says you’ve achieved the rank of General.” 

“I know. I prefer Commander.” 

“Fair enough.” Urkot shrugged, “Commander Reath, I wanted to thank you for taking out that turret.” 

“Just doing my job.” Naat said, “I need to ask, though. My mission brief said that Drongar’s ecosystem is bota-based.” She noted how suddenly uncomfortable the Colonel became, “Why are our soldiers being treated with bacta if we’re in the middle of an ocean of a stronger compound?” 

Urkot fidgeted in his chair before saying, “There’s… ah… well, apparently been some gaps in your mission briefing. I admit, myself, that I’m not totally clear as to current status of the situation.” 

“Would you mind filling in some of these gaps, then?” 

“Well, for starters, it’s GAR policy to not treat personnel with bota. Clone or otherwise.” 

“Why not? I thought the whole point of the Drongar front was that it would give the Republic’s army of biological soldiers an advantage over the Separatists’ droid army?” 

“Ah… no. Not exactly.” 

Naat stared sabers at him, “Then enlighten me, please.” 

“Bota is a valuable commodity. A commodity which Coruscant is interested in controlling.” 

Which Coruscant is interested in controlling…

“You mean stock prices.” 

Urkot’s mind shimmered awkwardly in the Force, “Unfortunately, for better or worse, yes.” 

“What could be better about it?” 

“Well, those interests are funding efforts to keep the war going against the Separatists.” 

Naat knew better than to trust those words without criticism. Too many of them - the Banking Clan and Trade Federation premier among them - maintained the fiction of being loyal to the Republic while alleged “rogue elements” were arming and supplying the Confederacy. Out of the mouths of their Senators, they declared neutrality, and then behind their backs, they held a knife at the Republic’s very throat. 

If Naat had her way at that moment, she’d seize every single one of these corporations and turn over their assets to the Republic. Without needing to balance these interests on the edge of a blade, the war could end tomorrow. 

“There’s an entire planet worth of bota. Surely using barely a percent of a percent of it on our men, who are leaving anyway, would have a negligible effect on Zaltin stock.” 

“You may be right.” Urkot said, “But there’s another issue: the bota is losing its medicinal potency. It’s estimated that between six and twelve standard months, it’ll be no more useful for restoring carbon-based cellular growth than grass.” 

Naat shook her head. If there were Jedi out there with powers of prescience, she seemed not to be among them, “Wait, what?” 

“We’ve done tests after tests after tests. Our biologists think that we’re just waiting for a tipping point. Something they call a morphological cascade. Republic and Separatist based harvesters have been taking it in droves, which led to this campaign in the first place, and then, as our navy started attacking Separatist haulers, they started burning the planet. Complete scorched Earth. There’s a line of fire a continent-long to the east of here.” 

Naat remembered seeing it from space. It glowed like a river of lava in the night as flamethrower droids worked day and night to end the Republic’s dominance of this invaluable resource. Even more than the fire, though, was the smoke. Storm clouds of opaque, black soot rose into the air dwarfing galactic cruisers. 

“So like all living things, bota had to evolve to survive. And they had to do it fast to prevent total eradication by the droids. Once bota figured out that it was being harvested en masse and destroyed at an unprecedented scale because of its healing property, it started to shed it. A few weeks ago, we measured the potency at 50%. The last readings have the average leaf hovering at a quarter and a third of its former potency. They’re estimating it will continue to decline over the next few months slowly, but at somewhere around 10%, it will probably drop to 0% in a matter of seconds or minutes, expanding literally at the speed of light: a morphological cascade. The genetic code of the plant changing in an instant, expanding at the speed of light.” 

“How is that possible?” 

“Don’t ask me.” Urkot shrugged, “The bota figured out that this unique feature was the key to why we all wanted it so badly we were willing to harvest it into extinction, so it’s going to abandon it. They don’t know if this final, speed of light transition will expand across the Galaxy, destroying the capabilities of the bota that’s already been shipped offworld, but at the very least, it’ll take millennia to reach beyond this arm of the Galaxy if it does. Or that ‘message’ might only expand around the planet itself. We may never know.” 

“So that’s why the Republic is even withdrawing from this front in the first place? Because the bota is becoming worthless?” 

Urkot had the decency to look disgusted by the admission, “I’ve not been told as much. But, if I had to guess.” 

“Well, if it’s losing potency, and we’re withdrawing our forces from the planet anyway, then I’m issuing a directive: complete and unrestricted use of the bota.” 

“Unfortunately, this comes from the top.” Urkot said, “I’ve been explicitly told that there’s no alteration of this order except from Supreme GAR Command.” 

Naat felt an itch at her palm. If only she could draw her saber and slice the regulations in half. 

“Let me know when you want us ready for the next mission.” 

“When do you think Epsilon Squad will be up and ready again? If need be, we can supplement your empty slots with some of our own men.” 

“I need to check with the rest of my team.” Naat opened the door and left without saying anything. She greeted the Regs outside the door and Atiniir just across the way, who leaned against the wall, staring at some of the battle damage on his beskar buy’ce.

“How’d it go?” he asked. 

Naat didn’t say anything at first, “Did you know about the bota?” 

“There’ve been rumors. Nothing official.” 

“Karabast.” Naat swore, reaching the open humidity of Drongar, “This whole thing has been about money.” 

“Not to diminish what you’ve just learned,” Atiniir said, “But hasn’t it always?” 

Naat looked sideways at the Mandalorian, “Haven’t your people traditionally viewed warfare as a matter of honor?” 

“Honor, and a way of life,” Atiniir said, “We hunted for our food. When we stopped hunting, we hunted for pay, but the end goal was the same. Still, money, hunting rights, farm land, it was always a matter of living. Some took it to extremes and built kingdoms and empires, always trying to justify it with the same idea: this is our way of life. This is so we can have more money, or land, or food.” 

“So, even among Mandalorians, it’s always been that way.” 

“I’d say so. My people weren’t just Mandalorians. I was born and raised in a nomadic covert. We traveled across the Galaxy, living in the wilderness, with our own rules, our own customs, and practicing our way of life. We hunted and bounty hunted, but explicitly denied living in anyone’s empire or dominion.” 

“What about the Mand’alor? Don’t all Mandalorians bear responsibility to heed the call of their ruler?” 

“My covert acknowledged the Mand’alor as they were originally taught: that he bears responsibility to defend Manda’yaim and her people. Anything else was contrary to the Way, and meant the Mand’alor had abandoned his mandate.” 

“I take it most Mandalorians don’t adhere to as rigid a worldview as this.” 

“No,” Atiniir admitted, “It’s a dying way of life. Yet, ibic Manda.” 

“Ee-bick Mahn-dah?” Naat repeated, “What does that mean?” 

“It’s a declaration of our creed. The Mandalorian mantra. It says ‘this is the Manda.’ The Manda is… I guess to Mandalorians, it’s like the Force to you Jedi. It encompasses us. Surrounds us. Its from the Manda that we draw our strength, our power, our culture. From the Manda we come, and it’s to the Manda we return. The Manda is the ‘way of Mandalore.’ So I guess you could say, ibic Manda means ‘this is the Way.’” 

“The Jedi Code is not so different. At least in that last part. We say, 

There is no emotion, there is peace.
There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.
There is no passion, there is serenity. 
There is no chaos, there is harmony. 
There is no death, there is the Force.”

Suddenly, Naat wasn’t so sure. If Stam returned to the Force, then why did he feel so dead? 

"Maybe we’re not so different, despite what everyone in this shabla Galaxy thinks of us.” Atiniir said. He held out his hand to Naat, turning to face her. She accepted it awkwardly, not sure exactly what the gesture meant in that moment. He grasped her hand, shook it, and smiled. 

She knew Zeltrons had all sorts of pheremones and chemicals to subtly alter the mind… but damned if he wasn’t charming all on his own. 

“See you at the next battle, Commander Reath.” 

“Naat.” She said, “Just Naat is fine.” 

“Fair enough… Naat.” He let go of her hand and turned to walk away, putting his helmet back on as he left. 

Naat looked down into her palm and saw he had left a small vial in it. 

She didn’t have to guess at what it was. 

Even though the regulations stipulated that bota was not to be used on GAR personnel or their contractors… of course, there had to be an underground trade of it. This was literally the source of the bota. 

And even though its potency was declining, all Cal needed was a little help. 

Naat made her way back to the RMSU. Inside she found Cal’s bed, and looked around at the other soldiers of the GAR. None of them asked for this. They were bred in a factory on Kamino, property of the Kaminoan Government, basically rented out by the Republic, all for the service of maintaining the Galactic status quo. 

She swiped a syringe from the medical cabinet, stopping herself from asking a droid to give her one. She was certain that this tiny crime wouldn’t affect the Coruscant Stock Exchange, but even so, she didn’t want any one to know what she was doing. 

But if asked, she wasn’t sure if she could articulate why. 

Naat drew some of the clear liquid into the syringe and tapped the needle to get rid of air bubbles. She inserted it into the IV and slowly pushed the plunger. She didn’t expect there to be an immediate change. The liquid still needed time to get into his system… 

When nothing happened, though, she wasn’t sure what to expect. Naat sat back down on a stool next to his bed and reached out to hold his hand. She withdrew the syringe from the IV and put it down on a stainless steel tray. 

As she did so, a droplet of bota came out, flew through the air, and landed on her eyelid. 

Naat blinked. 

Her whole universe became dark. 

She looked around, What in the Force? Everything had gone completely black, but she could still feel her hand clutching someone else’s. 

“Naat.” 

She looked at where the voice came from, “Cal?” But it wasn’t Cal’s voice. 

“Naat.” 

“I’m here.” She said, worried that Cal might wake up and not see her, just as she couldn’t see him. 

Slowly, gold hair emerged from the darkness. Gray eyes in epicanthic folds. Peach fuzz around his face. A scar on his right cheek from when Dante hit him accidentally in a training exercise. 

“Stam?” 

“Naat.” He said again.

No, no, it’s not Stam. Stam’s dead. I got some of the bota on my fingers. This is just… just a projection of my mind. 

“Stam?” Naat said, “You’re dead.” 

He smiled. 

“Everything’s going to be all right,” Stam said. He turned to Naat, winked his left eye first at her, then the right, their old Reath sibling silent handshake, “That’s the Reath promise.” 

She let go of his hand and the room slowly lightened back to the RMSU. The body in front of her slowly morphed from the illusory body of her dead brother, to that of her still living comrade. 

“Naat.” The voice came again. 

This time it was Cal’s.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: ZAM

“I don’t understand. What did I do wrong?” 

“Nothing,” Master Zey said, “You haven’t done anything wrong.” 

“Then why did Ollei do that?” 

“Ollei…” Master Zey pulled his padawan away from the small crowd trying to separate the young Jedi. Others, Zam would later reflect, were clearly there intending to gawk, “… Ollei isn’t used to being around Zeltrons.” 

He looked down at his pink hands and thought about them for a long moment, “Is there something wrong with being a Zeltron?” 

Master Zey sighed, “No… no, there isn’t.” 

“Then, why…?” 

“Zam,” his Master said, “You didn’t do anything wrong. But you must have noticed there are very few Zeltron Jedi in the Temple.” 

He hadn’t. And now he had to think about it. 

“It’s because… Zeltrons… they, uh, have a certain biology that makes it difficult for other species.” 

“Difficult, how?” 

“Difficult to control themselves. Especially young people, like padawans.” 

“I don’t understand.” 

Master Zey looked away and said, “It’s… it’s like you have a certain Force shield around you. That shield disrupts others’ abilities to think clearly, but it makes their actions unpredictable.” 

“So what should I do?” 

“Nothing.” Master Zey said, “Just be aware of the effect that your presence has on others. And when you’re trained, you’ll be able to handle anything that comes your way.” 

20 klicks to the east of Kar’kor’yx, Xo

1001 Days after Geonosis

“Is that it?” Zam asked, looking through the binocs. 

“That’s it, Commander.” Butcher said, “We’ll move on your say.” 

“Best not to destroy everything.” Tion said. 

Red Squad was split into two teams, one to the north of the comm relay, and another just to the south. The three commanders were located between them towards the east of it, able to access or observe the teams as needed. North team was led by Bruiser, and had Psycho and Thread. South team was led by Monk, and had Rancor and Takkor. 

“Why not?” Zam asked, “That’s the mission.” 

“The mission is to trigger a retreat of Zanibar units from the Separatist army by causing enough destruction on their homeworld that they come back to defend it. If we destroy everything, they won’t be able to know what’s happening on Xo and won’t know that it’s in danger.” 

“Oh,” Zam said, “Good point.” 

The relay was composed of an ancient walled compound. It was made of bricks and rammed earth. A well-placed thermal charge could blast right through the old stones like they were nothing. The gates were more modern: sliding models armored with blast shields that needed to be turned on or off. 

The wall was short enough that Zamter could easily launch himself over them with only a bit of Force as an accelerant. 

“Six towers.” Zam said, “Say we leave one standing.” 

“Minor damage,” Tion suggested, “That way it just seems like we made a mistake, not that we’re deliberately leading them into a trap.” 

“You sure?” 

“The Zanibar are a civilization based on hunting. Take out the entire relay but leave one tower standing? They’ll know that’s a trap. Gotta make it appear as if we made an effort at least.” Tion said. 

“Oh,” Zam said, “All right, then. You’re really good at this kind of stuff.” 

“I had good teachers.” Tion said. 

Zam zoomed in with his binocs and painted a tower on the far end of the compound, “All units, leave this tower alone.” 

Acknowledgement lights blinked affirmatives to their Commander. 

“Butcher,” Zam said, “I want you to stay here.” 

“Commander?”

“The goal is to hit hard and draw Zanibar attention, right? So we need someone up here to watch and let us know when enemy reinforcements arrive.” 

“Copy that.” Butcher lifted his helmet and sealed it. 

“Tion, you take north team.” Zam said, “I’ll take south.” 

“Ibic Manda.” Tion said, putting on her own bucket. She made her way north, and Zam headed south. 

It took him about twenty standard minutes to reach the south team. There he found the two clones crouched behind a boulder and some shrubs along with a sleek, black gurlanin, looking like liquid onyx on four feet.

Though the clones had identical facial structures, they were too easy to tell apart. Monk’s face was somehow “perfect,” in that it had no marks or distinguishing features. Monk chose not to have any tattoos or piercings, and he shaved his head regularly. At any glance, he just seemed like your average, bald copy of Jango Fett. 

Rancor, meanwhile, had so many tattoos on his face that he was unmistakable. He had his number - 6362 - on his right temple, and a spark under his left eye. He had a facsimile of a rancor he found in an old flimsy book on Mandalorian people and culture, and claimed it as his aliik, choosing to print it on his face since he wasn’t always wearing his armor where it could be seen. Underneath the armor and the temp suit, Zam knew that Rancor also had a host of other tattoos crisscrossing his body. On the left side of his chest, he had a running tally reaching into the hundreds of all the droids he’s destroyed. Across his knuckles, in Mandalorian letters, he had K Y R R C L N K written. A shortened form of the Mando’a of ke’kyramur clankere.

Kill clankers. 

“Thanks for joining us, Takkor.” Zam said, “I know you don’t have to.” 

“I’m a part of the team,” Takkor said, seeming almost insulted by the notion that he might have been left out of the attack, “What form should I take?” 

“How good are gurlanins at battle?” 

“Depends on the enemy.” 

“I mean, would being a Zanibar be good for confusing our enemy?” 

“It might. But it would only keep their attention for so long.” 

“Then what other forms do you have that are good for battle?” 

“Ah, battle morphs.” He said, “Well, I have a Nexu in here, also a Mudhorn, a Gundark…” 

“Let’s go with Nexu.” Zam said. Strong, fast, intimidating. Plus it’ll probably draw a lot more fear out of the Zanibar than five Humans, a Zeltron, a Zabrak Mandalorian and a Zanibar put together. 

Takkor didn’t waste any time. The Gurlanin form shimmered and liquefied, vibrating with a magnetic intensity. There was a slight gurgling sound coming from inside of him, along with the click clack of bones as they broke, reformed, and snapped into place. Within two minutes, a four-legged, three-toed, brown striped, white furred creature stood before them. It had four pitch black eyes, and a back full of spikes. Even more frightening than the claws, any of which were capable of ripping Zam’s head off in a single swipe, were the rows upon rows of teeth. Nexus had one of the strongest possible bite forces for a carbon-based creature of their size. This required their bodies to constantly regrow teeth as they broke off into their prey. 

Zam wasn’t too scared of the claws. He had a lightsaber. But those teeth were another matter. 

“Ready?” 

The clones both nodded. Then the Nexu. 

“Butcher,” Zam said into the comm, “We’re in position.” 

“Copy that. North team?”

“In position.” Tion said. 

“You’re good to go.” 

Zam leapt out from his cover behind the stones. Rancor and Monk followed, then Takkor. The Nexu quickly overtook the three bipedals and began running towards the fortress. 

The Nexu got there first, leaping with grace and ease over the walls. From a distance, Zam could see that the Mandalorian used her jetpack to jump over the walls and assist her partner. 

An alarm rang through the relay followed by screams from lipless Zanibar lips. Zam heard blasters discharging, and wished he could tell whether they were Zanibar or Mandalorian weapons. 

He was close to the wall, but Rancor and Monk surged ahead of him, Rancor taking the lead. Rancor drew his weapon: a modified electrohammer, with a large drum-like attachment on the back of the head. Rancor leaped into the air, and upon descent, swung the hammer down against the wall, with a burning sonic boom bursting through the wall. Bricks, stones, and debris went flying in every direction in front of him, indiscriminately hitting everything beyond. 

Monk leaped up, and propelled himself over Rancor, his grenade-launcher attachment to his carbine firing fist-sized explosives at the bases of the nearest towers, at least one of them bursting through a Zanibar too shocked by the sudden attack to even arm himself. 

Zam drew his lightsaber, but none of the enemy even seemed to notice him. The Nexu, Mandalorian, and clones had occupied all of their attention. The Nexu burst through one of the broken doors to the towers and Zam could only see echoes of light and hear the terror of unsuspecting Zanibar inside. Rancor seemed to be able to take on a dozen of the Zanibar security detail all at once, while the others, minus Monk and Tion, blasted indiscriminately at anything that moved.

Monk and Tion planted thermal detonators at the bases of two towers, shooting anyone who came too close, careful not to hit anyone with red armor. 

Zam saw the far tower, the one he’d painted as the target to be left alone, and decided it was up to him to make it seem like an effort was made to destroy it. He ignited his saber - the pink, curved blade hissing through the air, burning the dust and debris that clouded everything, coloring the darkness in flashes of red and blue blaster light. 

At the door of the tower, Zam sliced open the mechanism already damaged by one of Monk’s grenades, and pushed what remained of the barrier open with the Force. Inside he found a stair case that spiraled up the old earthen-work tower to a room where two Zanibar sat at the controls. They looked identical to Zam’s Zeltron eyes… but he could feel their fear in the Force. It was different from Human or Zeltron fear. 

More… subtle. 

More controlled and weaponized than the fear in most species of Near Humans. 

Zam lowered his blade ever so slightly. He couldn’t kill unarmed beings. 

They both stood and looked at him. Was it more fear? Or was it something else? Intention, anger, hatred, aggression? 

He wouldn’t find out. 

One of them lifted a blaster and Zam blocked the bolt just in time, slicing the Zanibar in half at the waist, before blasting the other into the relay controls, slamming his head against the monitors, spilling black blood over them as its body fell to the floor. 

Explosions rippled through the floor beneath him. 

Thermal detonators exploded in a tower next door. One relay down. 

Zam looked down at the relay controls covered in blood. He half-heartedly swiped his blade through them. They sparked and smoked and he heard alerts go off signaling that the communications had been disabled. 

He couldn’t look at their bodies any longer… and so he descended the stairs to return to Red Squad. 

“Commander Reykal,” he heard Butcher’s voice in his ear, “Zanibar reinforcements are converging on your position. Approximately three minutes.” 

Zam winked a green acknowledgment light. 

Outside, he watched as the two remaining targets burned. Five clones stood and watched, while one, his helmet removed so he could better feel the heat on his face, smiled and laughed watching them burn. 

Rancor. 

The flames seemed to burst through the wind. The ground was littered with Zanibar bodies - burned with blaster wounds, torn through by electroblade and Nexu claw, decapitated from the force of thermal detonations. He heard hissing, popping noises coming through the flames in the towers. 

Machinery or bodies? 

“Commander,” Butcher’s voice crackled through the comm, your position is about to be overrun.” 

He wondered if they would even listen to him. Even if he ordered them to stay and fight, he wasn’t convinced there was anything the Zanibar could throw at them that they couldn’t handle. 

Zam was near certain that if he just ordered them to kill every Zanibar on the planet, Rancor alone might get half the job done. 

“Copy that,” he said, “Red Squad, objectives complete. Pull out. I repeat: pull out!” 

Monk’s voice was the only clear one, “Copy, Commander.” 

Tion picked up a fallen piece of equipment, and Takkor leaped through the blasted hole in the walls. Psycho, Thread, Bruiser, and Rancor continued shooting, seemingly at nothing. Zam chose to believe that there was nothing left in the dancing flames worth firing at.

“Red Squad!” Butcher shouted, “Move now!”

Their immediate CO’s voice through their ear pieces seemed to break their concentration. First Psycho and Bruiser, then Thread and Rancor moved. Rancor’s helmet had fallen. That must have been what Tion picked up off the battlefield. 

Then Zam saw the look in Rancor’s face. A look that Zanibar knew too well: dilated pupils, lips turned up, teeth shining through the dark, against the back-lit flames of the night sky. 

Arousal. 

CH-6362 was turned on.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: ARYA

Master Ogel scattered a bunch of bricks, some pieces of wood, screws, nails, tools, and random things in front of her.

“Let your mind flow. Not randomly. Not purposefully. Like water through a channel. Like a river carves a canyon.”

Arya tried. She kept her eyes half-closed, half-opened in the “gentle gaze” like she’d been taught as a youngling.

One of the bricks lifted about a centimeter off the ground. A few of the nails shook.

And then Arya stopped.

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“Yes, but I can’t.”

He laughed, “You know why I picked you as my Padawan?”

Arya did. Still, she said nothing.

“It’s because I saw you do this with the blocks in the rec room on Coruscant.”

Arya remembered. The rec rooms for Younglings in the Grand Temple were filled with all sorts of toys. Younglings would hang out in them after their lessons and sessions while prospective Knights would watch, interact, and see if there were any standouts.

Picking a Youngling to be one ’s Padawan was as much about the Youngling choosing the Knight as the Master choosing the Padawan.

And all of those “toys” in the rec rooms were merely tools for the Younglings to display their natural ability.

Arya naturally gravitated to the blocks, forming castles, star ships, sculptures, and more, all without touching a single brick.

“And that’s how you knew I’d make a good Force builder. But what if you were wrong? What if I lost that ability as a child and now I’m… just no good at it.”

Master Ogel shrugged, “It happens.”

This came as a surprise to Arya, “It does?”

“Sure. Younglings who seem like they’re going to be the next Battlemaster Drallig have often shown the peak of their skills during playtime, and evolve to become meditation masters or healers. Young healers often show that their interest in anatomy is really just an advanced proprioception and they become master duelists, despite never picking up a single training sword.”

“And young builders? What do they become when they prove to be at the peak of their skills?”

Master Ogel smiled, “It doesn’t matter. Physical building is one of the least important of a Force builder’s skills.”

Arya almost fell over, “Isn’t that the whole point of being a Force builder?”

“Building blocks are a Youngling’s toy. Building something that can’t be seen, only felt by the mind, perceived by the soul, known by a Jedi’s heart.” He reached out and touched her just above her “third” eye, “That is the true skill of a Force builder.” He smiled, “And I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that’s you.”

Pirdia, the Tyrius System

1000 Days after Geonosis

They left hyperspace, entering the Tyrius system in just about 23.6 minutes.

Allen didn’t say anything to the Jedi in all that time. To Arya’s eyes, he looked… broken. It must have been some kind of Mandalorian hell, wearing someone else’s buy’ce, carrying a fallen Mando’s iron skin in a sack. All that was left of Allen’s armor was a single shoulder pauldron.

Not even the one with his clan sigil.

Sandstorm activated the sublight thrusters which took them only a few more minutes to reach Pirdia. The enormous gas giant, about twice the size of Bespin, was covered in green, purple, and gold clouds. The shuttle descended into them, following a secret beacon provided by the Mandalorian just as they left the Tatoo system.

As they approached, Arya felt a wave of Force energy pulse outwards from their destination through the ship.

Sandstorm activated the comms and punched in the access code provided by Allen.

“This is RC-8792, aboard the Republic shuttle RSTT-XLM-0334, requesting landing permission from Miro Station. Come in Miro Station.”

“Copy that RC-8792,” came the response, “Your access code clears you for landing.”

“We have one casualty aboard, in need of medical care.”

“Follow the beacon we’re sending over now. We’ll have medical staff waiting.”

The shuttle descended onto a station made of a network of habitats that looked like bubbles floating up from a frothy sea. They were all connected by similarly inflated bridges. The habitat - as big as a city - was filled with the standard Type I atmosphere, light enough to be buoyant in Pirdia’s air, and allowing most of the sentients in the Galaxy to live inside of them.

From outside the plastisteel walls of the city’s habitats, they were filled with the luscious green flora and multi-colored flowers of a thousand worlds. On the landing platform, a Twi’lek, a Kel Dor, and a silver protocol droid, all wearing white robes (except for the droid, which compensated for its lack of robe with a simple white sash), greeted them.

Tat and Sandstorm pushed the floating gurney with Czerka’s body. With a tap of his comm link, Sandstorm transferred Czerka’s medical data to the Twi’lek’s datapad. The Kel Dor greeted the group, “My name is Los Hal.” He turned to Sandstorm and bowed, “You must be RC-8792.” And then to the Jedi, he bowed and said, “And you must be Commander Arya Wooy.”

Arya’s mind quietly whirled as she looked at Los Hal. She expected there to be twists and unexpected events, but things had already gone wildly off course. She hadn’t been prepared, even slightly, for how bad things would go awry.

“We have private accomodations for each of you to stay,” Los Hal continued, “while your comrade is attended in our hospital.”

Her pale green face reflected on the body of the shiny silver protocol droid as Sandstorm took care of the introduction, and Czerka’s body was taken away from them. Arya’s gaze followed the gurney until it disappeared inside the facility, and her focus finally snapped back to reality as Sandstorm spoke directly to her.

“Commander Wooy and Sergeant 8792, our noble leader Abbot Ono-Telloro would like to speak with you. I will take you to him, while the other clones, and your Mandalorian friend can follow U-9NY to their prepared quarters.”

Sandstorm looked at the Commander. He had never been here before, though the establishment of a secret facility in a gas giant wasn’t unheard of. Trusting a Mandalorian, however… “After you, Commander.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you, Master Los Hal. It would be my honor to meet your Abbot at his convenience.” She gave a slight bow, “Please, alert me when Czerka - RC-8127, I mean, is conscious.”

Los Hal led Arya and Sandstorm away, while Tat and Allen went with U-9NY to the guest quarters.

Abbot Ono-Telloro was an old Ithorian. His skin was a pale gray, and his eyes were deep, oddly human, and brimming with a quiet energy. The Force surrounded him like a cloud of light. He moved with a deep grace and intentionality. Over his body, he wore a white robe with blue trim. Across it there were many pockets in which Arya could peek at a few mysterious items: mostly small jars and vials filled with things she couldn’t identify from a distance.

Leading her and Sandstorm into the room, the Abbot asked one of his Zabrak assistants to gather refreshments for the guests.

The voice that came out of his electronic translator was calm and soothing. He seemed to speak with an even level of grace, always with deference to whomever he was speaking, even if he was the superior over the entire station. The tone and evenness of his speech instantly comforted Arya, and she felt some of the tension she’d been carrying since Tatooine dissipate.

“Welcome, Padawan Wooy.” He said, “And Sergeant 8792. We are pleased that you have come. I’m sure you have many questions. Rest assured that your injured comrade will be cared for.”

The Zabrak reentered with several biscuits, glasses, and a pitcher of water on a tray. There was also a small steaming kettle with a fragrant liquid inside, “Let us discuss.” The Abbot said.

“What is it that you’d like to discuss?” Arya asked.

“A simple request: that you understand this station is a place of peace and neutrality. A place in balance with the Force. I, too, was once a Jedi. But I left the Order and its ways to lead a life of healing and peace. You will find no arms on this station, save those brought by outsiders. Nor will you find that our healers and acolytes, all strong in the Force, know anything of those weapons.”

The Ithorian produced a silver cylinder from underneath his robes. It had a small gold ring at the top, and on the bottom, a shining orb, “I am the only one here who has ever been trained in its use. Save you.”

Arya cleared her throat after taking a sip of steaming tea, “Of course, we’ll respect your rules. And the sanctity of this place.” She seemed confused by the concept that they might cause trouble, “Why wouldn’t we?”

“You are soldiers loyal to your Republic,” the Abbot said, “But this is not the Republic. And we are bound by the oaths of our healing arts to help sentient beings in need. And so there may be soldiers on this station who needed our help. Soldiers from other armies.”

At first Arya found it hard to speak. Finally, she nodded emphatically, “Of course, we will respect your rules… Abbot. No matter who may be here.”

The clones of Krayt Squad would cooperate. Right?

“Commander…” Sandstorm leaned towards Arya, “Did you hear what the Abbot said? There are Separatists here…” He cast a glance at the Ithorian who seemed wholly unperturbed… though neither Arya nor Sandstorm knew much about Ithorian facial expressions, “That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

The Abbot’s hands made a gesture, “I have not pretended otherwise. There are indeed soldiers of the Confederacy here.” He looked at her, “Will that be a problem?”

Arya shot Sandstorm a look and shook her head. She folded her hands in her lap and looked up at the Abbot with a determined expression, “No. That will not be a problem. My men and I will comport ourselves with the utmost care, respecting your rules and regulations.”

Arya could instantly sense how Sandstorm became so uncomfortable so quickly. He followed her out of the Abbot’s quarters, where they met Los Hal, who offered to lead them to the hospital. As they passed the people in the halls and streets of the floating city, Sandstorm looked at every passerby as a potential enemy informant.

What if they got word that Republic soldiers were here? Why didn’t the Mandalorian inform them that Miro Station was sometimes visited by Separatists? Surely he would have known that the Republic would have had more need of a station like this and that the Confederacy… wouldn’t, what with the robotic army and all.

At the hospital, Los Hal tranferred Sandstorm and Arya to an orange-skinned Twi’lek, her lekku tied back with a head covering, a gentle smile worn on her face. She led them to an elevator that took them to the bacta tank suite.

There a team of Force-sensitive medics applied a rebreather, sensors, and other equipment to Czerka’s body. His armor laid neatly in a corner of the room while they calibrated the bacta tank for his complete submersion.

She reached out quietly in the Force, and found that he was still there. A tiny flicker of flame in a whirlwind storm.

The medical staff attached Czerka’s body to a harness and a crane gently picked him up, lowering him back down into a sealed container filled to the brim with bacta. Someone stayed in the room after the machine was set to its automatic mode, and meditated. When she sensed Arya behind the pane of glass, she turned around and made eye contact with the Jedi. Arya’s concentration disrupted, she backed away from Czerka’s flickering light.

The meditator went back to her concentration as she focused on keeping Czerka alive, and reversing his slide into death.

“Come on, Commander,” Sandstorm said, “I think we could all use some rest.”

Arya followed him to the guest suites where Tat was already down for the evening. Allen Mordigala was standing there looking out on the rest of the station from the balcony directly adjacent to their rooms.

Sandstorm gave her a salute before heading into the room. It locked behind him and she hoped the two clones could breathe easy despite everything that had happened. Despite that there were, apparently, some Seps here.

“Nice place, huh?”

“Why didn’t you tell us there were Separatists here?”

“I didn’t think it mattered. This is a safe house. We’re safe here.”

“But we’re not. We’re at war, and our enemy is here on the Station.”

“Yes, but they have the same motivation as us: to have some rest and relaxation. Maybe even a bit of briikasak.”

“What is that?”

“Briikasak. It’s like… enjoying yourself while you’re on shore during a mission.”

“I don’t see any enjoyment here.” Arya said, turning her face back towards the hospital.

“Well, you must be hungry.” Allen said, “Come on, I know where the mess is.”

“Thanks,” Arya said, “But I have some rations in the bunk.”

“We should probably save those. Right now, we have access to fresh food.”

She hated how the Mandalorian was making sense. Of course he would. He was a trained warrior. Arya was too, but… of a different kind.

“Come on,” he said, waving her on away from the guest suites, “Should we wake Tat and Sandstorm?”

“Clone Troopers have more powerful, but shorter batteries. The Kaminoans altered their genome that way. It allows them to execute long ops, but once they’re in a state of rest, they need to recharge.”

“Then I should probably stay and keep watch. I mean, I trust the Miro staff, but there are Seps aboard.”

“Ah, they’re fine. Someone tries to break into that door, they’ll shoot awake and strike like strills. Genetically programmed light sleepers. Also something the Kaminoans programmed into them.”

He moved on down the walkway. Arya finally decided that he might have had the right of it. Best save those rations for Arvala-7 and get some fresh food now.

Allen brought her to the mess hall: a wide open room with a kitchen in the center, a circular bar-type seating hiding the many mixed appliances from all over the Galaxy. An Ardennian, a Kiffar, and a droid with six arms prepared food and drink. The hall was largely empty, though there were a couple of Togruta having a snack at one of the tables, and a white-furred Wookiee at the opposite side of the bar nursing a spotchka.

Allen took a seat on one of the stools and Arya pulled on up next to him.

“Two Mirialans?” the Ardennian said, “I’ll work with that.”

“That’s how it works here,” Allen said, “The chefs make food based on your biological framework. For everyone back in the medical wings, they use doctorate level nutritionists. Here they just whip something up.”

“Something to drink?” the Kiffar asked.

“Got any Correllian brew?” Allen asked, but the Kiffar shook his head, “I got tihaar,” he said, noticing that Allen had on a damaged white pauldron made of beskar.

“Some of that and some carbonated water.”

The Kiffar gave him a bit of a look before he shrugged and complied with the request, “And for you?” he said, turning to Arya.

“Do you have tea?”

“Sure. I’ll bring you the box.” The Kiffar poured her a cup of hot water and put a small box full of different types of teas from across the Galaxy. It wasn’t the kind of curated boxes of tea from across the Galaxy that were sold at corner shops. Rather, it was an old box with a mix-and-match of random teas dropped off by people passing through.

Arya took out one that had no label, and no bag. When she sniffed it, it reminded her of the fields of mid-rim agricultural worlds. Of the miles and miles of farms, and the wind blowing the plant aromas across the plains.

“Are you expecting to see other Mandalorians here?” Arya asked.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if there were.” Allen responded, “Again, Miro Station is well known among our people.”

“For briikasak.”

“Heh,” Allen said, “Exactly.”

“So,” she said, “How did you end up in that Hutt prison?”

“Do you really want to know?” Allen asked.

“You’re on the team now. I’d like to be aware of what that means.”

“Fair enough.” Allen took a drink and crinkled his nose at the tihaar. Apparently it wasn’t that great, “I fought for the Confederacy up until three months ago.”

Arya almost spit out her tea, “You’re a mercenary?”

“I’m a Mandalorian. Of course.”

Arya just stared at him, speechless, as the droid chef put the plates in front of them.

“Thanks,” Allen said, “but that’s not why I’m here.”

“So?”

“So what happened was I met another Mandalorian during a briikasak on Genbara. He convinced me that it wasn’t right, what we were doing with the Confederacy, killing men of Mandalorian blood by the thousands for their war.”

“Men of Mandalorian blood? You mean the clones?”

“Yes,” Allen said, “they’re literally the blood of Jango Fett, our former Mand’alor. Many Mandalorians consider it an insult that the Republic mass produced Mandalorian warriors like so many processed utensils off an assembly line.”

“Wouldn’t that make you angry with the Republic? More apt to fight for the Confederacy?”

“My wife certainly thought so.”

“Your wife?”

At her mention, Allen put on a cute smile, “Yeah… Larra.”

“But you two disagreed.”

“You could say that. I decided that it was wrong. I couldn’t fight against clones. They may not be literal Mandalorians, but that didn’t make it right to kill them in such a dishonorable way. They didn’t have the choice to fight. Which is a principle that underlies so much of our concept of being.”

“How does that lead you to helping the Republic?”

“The faster the Republic wins this war, the fewer clones are killed. The fewer clones are killed, the more have a chance to join the Way of Mandalore of their own accord.”

“So that’s your goal? To increase the number of Mandalorians?”

Allen shrugged his shoulders, “I’m not sure I have a goal. I just wasn’t comfortable with killing so many men who were literally the blood of our Mand’alor.”

“But… well, I mean,” Arya said, “They’re not literally the blood of Jango Fett.”

“Says who?”

“Well, they all have their own blood.”

“Modeled after the DNA of Jango Fett.”

“Modified by the Kaminoans.”

“Fair point.” Allen took a bite of his nerf steak, just placed there by the Ardennian chef, “You trying to convince me that my logic isn’t sound so I go back to the Confederacy?”

“No!” Arya said, dropping her utensil, “I… I, just, uh, meant…”

“I’m joking. I made up my mind.”

“Oh,” Arya picked up the fork, “How… how did your wife feel about that?”

Allen put down his knife and pulled the neck of his tunic down, revealing a piece of his muscular shoulder, his collar bone, and most of his neck. Arya could see he had a barely-healed, enormous scar extending from the back of his neck down across his collar bone. “She did not agree.”

“I’m sorry about that.” Arya said.

“Ah, don’t be. Mandalorians are… a passionate people.”

“Clearly.” Arya said, “Still. As a Jedi, we’re taught not to have attachments. I can still appreciate when a relationship ends in divorce.”

“Divorce?” he said, “We’re not divorced.”

Arya stared at him for a long moment, and her eyes wandered from side to side, as if the answer was located somewhere in the odd air between them, “Uh…”

“No, that would require her to declare me dar’riduur. ‘Husband no longer.’ We have a similar thing for children to abandon their parents, dar’buir. But a lot of Mandalorians don’t believe in divorce. A lot don’t even believe in marriage.”

“What about you?”

“My covert was a bit more conservative than most. We believed in marriage. Some of the older coverts refuse to acknowledge any Mand’alor they have never literally met. Those kinds don’t even have ‘marriage’ or acknowledge a couple as married without having a child. Those are the ones that, you know, never take off their helmets. Not even for their coverts or families.”

“Your covert was a bit in the middle?”

“Yeah. We acknowledged Jango Fett as our Mand’alor, but he never called on us to serve, which would have required he visit in person. We followed marriage, and divorce was… allowed, I guess. But I never witnessed one among our own. That said, Larra, I don’t know, the fact that she never declared me dar’riduur…” Allen chuckled lightly, “I have to assume that means something. Even fighting on opposite sides of a war, husbands and wives make sure to declare their spouse dar’riduur if they actually intend to divorce them. There are plenty of instances where after the conflict ends, they go back yaim as if nothing happened. Just another job they happened to be on the wrong ends of.”

“Do you think that’s going to happen to you and Larra?”

Allen sighed. He took a drink and said, “No… no, I don’t. Larra found the use of the blood of our Mand’alor printed like so many plastic straws to be an abomination. An insult to our heritage. She also finds the Jedi practice of abducting children to train in the Force to be little more than demagoltyc. And like a lot of Mandos, thinks that if the Republic gets its way, it’ll relegate our way of life to the edge of the Galaxy, amid the most inhospitable places to live.”

“Wait, dema-gor-teesh?” Arya asked, “What does that mean?”

“Do you know about foundlings?”

“Not really.”

“Mandalorians have a culture of caring for children we find. Often times they’re the children of our enemies, or our charges. Other times they’re children kept to be sold as slaves. Or we find them in the aftermath of battles. Or they’re the children of our comrades fallen in battle. These are mar’eyc’ika, foundlings. Usually, they’re adopted, treated the same as biological children. They take on our names and sigils and carry on our lineage, no different than if they were born to two Mando parents. This has led to a love of children, and one of the only true pieces of the Mandalorian creed that holds across the Galaxy is the protection of the innocent: and by innocent, that means children.

“At least one Mandalorian didn’t hold to that. Demagol. He was a sadistic scientist who performed horrific experiments on children. Some mothers use him as a monster to get their foundlings to sleep. Others refuse to acknowledge the name. Both of them use him to name their targets for firing practice. Either way, demagoltyc refers to anyone who is cruel to children.”

“Well… the Jedi aren’t cruel to children.” Arya said, “We… are also very loving and kind to our younglings.”

Allen didn’t answer. He drank deeply and took a few more bites. Arya told herself that it was just because he had talked for so long that he didn’t have a moment to eat. But it wasn’t a battle worth fighting. Allen was one Mandalorian. Arya was one Jedi. They could not solve the problems of their own societies, much less the entire Galaxy’s in one conversation.

“If you say so.” he finally said.

“I do.” Arya argued, “I wanted to be a Jedi. I was happy to become one.”

“And you made that decision yourself?”

“Yes,” Arya said, immediately regretting it. Though she couldn’t say why, “I… I’m honored to be a Jedi. To fight along side Master Ogel.”

Allen was about to take a drink. But he paused just as the liquid reached his lips. He stared forward for a long moment and took a drink. Finally he put his glass down and said, “Master Ogel?”

Arya nodded, reaching out as quietly and subtly as she could in the Force to try and detect what exactly it was that triggered that response in the Mandalorian, “Yes. Master Boba Ogel. He’s my teacher. My master. Why?”

Allen turned away, “Nothing.” He carved a piece of nerf steak and dipped it in the black sauce in between them. He brought the morsel to his lips and paused before saying, “Nothing at all.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: CAL

“We were ordered to stand down by General Echuu.”

“And was Commander Reath a part of that decision?”

“Commander Reath was… unavailable.”

“Why was Commander Reath unavailable?”

“She was taken prisoner by Sev’rance Tann.”

“And you allowed Master Echuu Shen’jon to enter the Separatist base… on his own?”

“We were ordered to.”

“That is not an answer to the question.”

“Apologies, ma’am.”

“Would you answer the question?”

“We observed his entry. We did not follow him inside.”

“So you can neither confirm nor deny that Master Echuu was killed in action?”

“I cannot.”

“But Commander Reath led you to believe that Master Echuu was killed by General Tann?”

“Commander Reath did not provide details.”

“What exactly did she say?”

“If I recall, she said, ‘Let’s go.’”

“And the rest of the Brigade can attest to this?”

“No, ma’am. It was only the Epsilons that returned Commander Reath to our forward operating base. Once we secured the destruction of the Decimators, and had rescued the Commander, we left Krant.”

“Would you consider Commander Naat Reath a good commanding officer? One worthy of your respect?”

“It’s not up to me.”

“If it were.”

“It’s not. Therefore it’s not appropriate for me to comment on my commanding officer’s capabilities.”

“RC-1845, these are extraordinary circumstances. Were Master Echuu here, we’d be asking him. Seeing as he’s not…”

“Yes, I understand.”

“So answer the question: do you consider Jedi Padawan Naat Reath the kind of commanding officer who has earned your respect and devotion?”

“Yes. I would die for her.”

Ull Base, Drongar

1003 Days after Geonosis

He woke up in the RMSU. Of all the missions they’d run for the GAR, this was definitely the worst Cal had ever gotten. Never before had he been out cold for days at a time, needing gruesome repairs or risk losing a limb or worse.

One of the service droids floated over to where he was lying and tested his vitals on the machine plugged into him. After a second of analyzing the numbers, it disconnected the tubes from Cal’s face, and reset a new fluid to his IV, one more suited towards a waking human, rather than an unconscious, clinging to life one.

“Where’s Commander Naat Reath?” he asked the droid.

It responded, rather coldly, “I am not authorized to dispense that information.”

Clankers, he thought, and made to get up out of his bunk. All the kriffing same.

The droid floated down to his level and held out one of its appendages, “I am afraid that you are not authorized for mobility at this time.”

“Stow it.” Cal shoved the little floater aside and gently took out his IV. The machine behind him began beeping, and by then the droid had alerted RMSU staff that one of their patients was up and disobeying commands to get back down.

A Twi’lek in a lab coat and a face mask came to where Cal was standing, arms crossed, and said, “RC-1845. You’re looking well.”

“Uh, thanks.” He said, “I’m feeling basically a hundred percent. I’d like to leave.”

“I’m afraid we have procedure to follow. This may be Drongar and you may be your Squad Leader, but I’m the director of this Rimsoo.”

“Sure, Doctor…”

“Ryl.” He looked down at his datapad and checked Cal’s vitals, “Sit back down on the bed.”

“I’d like to see my Squad.”

“Epsilon Squad. General Naat Reath. Formerly of the 117th Brigade.”

“That’s right.”

“I will send for her. Just sit tight while we run a diagnostic.”

Diagnostic. As if I was some droid.

Cal ended up waiting over a standard hour before the RMSU doors opened and the Commander ran into the medical suite. She was followed by Ujik, Hammer, and Top-knot. Dr. Ryl, two droids, and some attendants had to tell them that the max was two visitors. All three of them instead said they’d wait outside for their commanding officers.

Commander Reath smiled so widely that Cal thought she might burst, “You have no idea how glad I am to see you awake.”

“You, too.” Cal said, suddenly realizing that he, too, was smiling, “I… is something wrong?”

Water leaked from the Commander’s eyes. She sniffed, and tried wiping it away, but it was all she could do.

“No.” She said, “Nothing at all.” Naat turned back to him and did everything to not wrap her arms around his neck and squeeze him.

If he was honest with himself in that moment, it was all he could do not to do the same.

“Strange,” Dr. Ryl said, “Your vitals are… perfect. It’s almost as if you came out the Kaminoan vats yesterday.” He put the datapad down into one of the pockets of his jacket, “You… didn’t? Did you?”

“No, doc.” He said, “I’ve been in service since Geonosis.”

“The Commandos I’ve treated have all shown a patchwork of maladies. You, however, are in perfect health.”

“Maybe it’s something in the water?” Cal asked, “I hear it’s got something special here on Drongar.”

Dr. Ryl suppressed a laugh, “That may be the case. Either way, I’m discharging you.” At the word discharge, the droid floated to the machine to reset it, took out all of the items that touched Cal’s body, particularly the bits inside of it, away to be destroyed or sterilized, and Cal was kindly invited to give the bed up so it could be cleaned and prepared for the next inhabitant.

As they walked to the door, neither Naat nor Cal noticed they were holding onto each other. But as they slid open and they stepped into the open air of Ull Base, they realized what they were doing and separated.

“Um… snow?”

Ull Base, located near the equator of a steamy, mostly tropical planet, was now covered in a blanket of snow.

“Oh, yeah,” Naat said, “While you were out, for the past couple of days, the shield generator had a calibration malfunction. Its causing the air to cool, forcing the humidity to condense and freeze. They tell me it’s not the first time it’s happened. Apparently humid environments have this effect on this model of shield generator.”

“Was probably a bad choice, then. Or a great one if the boys are up for a snowball fight.”

Naat almost laughed, “Come on, you must be hungry.”

The Epsilons were standing not too far away at the front of the mess hall. They were wearing minimal armor, with only Cal unprepared for battle.

There was a fourth person there that he didn’t know: a fellow in armor, with pink skin, and blue hair.

“Sergeant Cal.” He said, holding out his hand, “From what I hear, Epsilon Squad would never be able to recover from losing you.”

“Sorry,” Cal said, meeting the Zeltron, “Have we met?”

“We have, but you were already wounded and fading when I got to you: Agent Beskad. You can call me Atiniir.”

“Our Mandalorian contact.”

“The only one on Drongar.”

“Come on, Sarge,” Top-knot said, “You must be hungry.”

They entered the mess hall where at least a dozen other boys in white were sitting at tables eating their rations. Clones were genetically engineered by the Kaminoans to maximize nutrient efficiency. The cost was at the front end: a very specific nutrient regimen.

The good thing was that they could pack these specific nutrients into bite-sized cubes and clones could carry a kilogram’s worth of them in their pack or on their utility belts and be set for a month or two without resupply.

The mess hall gave them the luxury of taste: something deemed inefficient by the Kaminoan geneticists, but vital to the Human psychology experts employed by the GAR for maintaining morale and battle readiness. The mess hall was geared towards the clones and their dietary regimen, but also supplied food for the other species employed at Ull Base.

Feeding an army made up of such diverse biologies was a tricky task at best. As was making sure that what was vital nutrients to a Human but poisonous to a Zabrak did not get cross-contaminated. The nutritionists employed in mixed kitchens like these had doctorates similar in breadth and scope to anesthesiologists majoring in a single species.

The six of them picked a table. Cal sat on the far edge of one, directly across from Commander Reath. The Mandalorian - Atiniir - sat next to her, and Top-knot, with his distinctive, ancient Mando nobleman hairstyle, sat next to him. Hammer and Ujik sat next to Cal.

They picked up meat, carbs, and veggies, along with a cup of packaged fruit for dessert.

“Stuff’s not bad.” Cal said, as if it wasn’t the same exact plastic cup of fruit they’ve had in every GAR mess across the Galaxy.

“You know it was packaged in Reytha?”

“Hey, Reytha, Coruscant, Kamino, Naboo, Drongar. I don’t care where it was packaged. Better than lying on a cot in the Rimsoo.” Cal said.

“Shabla right.” Ujik said.

“Ah, let’s spice this meal up.” Atiniir took out a small flask from his belt and poured a bit of its clear contents into their cups, “Tihaar,” he said, “made by my uncle Beskar.”

“Your uncle’s name was Beskar?” Ujik asked, “Bit on the nose, eh?”

“Heh,” Atiniir said, “He’s not really my uncle. More like our covert’s alor. Everyone called him ba’vodu. Even my parents.”

“He must have been one ori’beskaryc to have a name like that.” Top-knot said.

“He was.” Atiniir said, “Contributed to all of our trainings. Forged all of our first buy’cese.”

“Was he one of them that never takes their helmets off?” Hammer asked.

“No, he was never that strict. But he did wear it more often than not.”

Cal lifted his cup and took a sip. The tihaar was sweet. The Mandalorian liquor was usually brewed and distilled in a matter of days if a roving covert had the time. Hours if they didn’t and had to distill it in their nerf-stomach sacks. But every so often, a Mandalorian brewed a batch, distilled it, bottled it, and buried it somewhere safe. Months or years later they’d return to the spot as surely as the seasons and find their batch of liquor, aged to perfection.

The shorter the aging process, the harsher it was. But over time, it turned out as smooth as Genbaran silk.

Every once in a while, someone would come across a bottle long forgotten, probably planted by a Mandalorian who intended to come back, but never had the chance.

This uncle of Atiniir’s must have planted stashes of tihaar all across the Galaxy if he was able to maintain a nomadic lifestyle and brew find batches of liquor. He must have been some Mando indeed.

The clones, the Jedi, and the Mandalorian sat there at the table chatting for hours. The clones of Epsilon Squad were no strangers to Mandalorians, as they were all trained by Sergeant Kurta Ambros. But meeting one in the wild like this. One who could share them unfiltered insights of their culture and world, was something they often didn’t get being rushed from battlefield to battlefield.

“I hear your squad was on Krant.” Atiniir said, “That was… some gnarly work.”

“For most clones,” Top-knot said, “Geonosis was our introduction to the Galaxy, and the Galaxy’s introduction to us.”

“But a lot of us,” Hammer continued, “We have our own battles that define our experience. For us, Krant was pretty high up there.”

“I don’t want to… disagree. But vode, battle doesn’t define you.”

At this, Cal had to raise an eyebrow, “You’re a Mandalorian warrior. Doesn’t your whole life revolve around battle?”

“Oh, sure,” Atiniir said, “it’s our way of life. But battle for a Mandalorian is work. It’s how we put nerf on the table, credits in our pocket, and fuel in our tanks. But songs are songs and stories are stories. Life is not lived for battle, battle is waged for life.”

“Did your uncle Beskar teach you that?”

Atiniir finished what was in his cup, “Sort of.” He stood up and left his flask on the table, “All yours. Just get the bottle back to me when you’re done. You know there’s a saying in Mando’a: ori’buyce, kih’kovid.”

“All helmet, no head.” Cal translated.

“Exactly. Literally, it’s calling someone stupid, or at best, bossy without deserving it. I think it can also mean people who see themselves as little more than their beskar’gam. But you’re not. You’re more.” He gave Cal a look and a smile and tapped Commander Reath on the shoulder, “Have a good night, vod’e.”

Atiniir left the mess and the Epsilons poured some more of the tihaar into their cups. Cal had another drink with his brothers while their conversation moved on to all of the little things that Cal missed while he was out. Naat joined, too, but Cal noticed that she was less engaged in the discussion. She seemed distracted. As if she had spent too much time with the Epsilons and not enough with Cal in the last couple of days.

Cal appreciated that feeling. He loved his brothers.

But he could have used some more time with Naat.

Chapter Text

Chapter 12: MONK

Glurrgs, sometimes known as “worker Glurrgs,” were the literal work-horses of Gungan civilization. The small amphibians began their lives as tadpoles in breeding pools specially designed and calibrated by their Gungan creators.

From there, they were eventually scooped up out of the pools by the Gungans beast-masters who trained them from as young as two weeks. Some Glurrgs were kept as home creatures for individual Gungan families, where they were set to managing house tasks. The vast majority were positioned in the feeding and resting pods of various Glurrg castes: the nova crystal and orenite mining castes, the carbon collection castes, and the variety of food collection castes.

Glurrgs are defined as non-sentient according to Galactic anthropological standards, and their social standing among the Gungans, while it may appear to be slavery, is hardly such.

Set a Glurrg to a task and it will perform that task repetitively and with glee. Indeed, studies have even shown that Glurrgs performing routine, menial tasks, when interrupted, enter a state of extreme distress, up to a point of cardiac arrest.

Anatomical study of Glurrgs have shown that they have a very curious mutation, possibly purposefully developed by the Gungan beast-masters, known to be particularly respectful and loving to their beasts (see the Gungans ’ relationships with their Fambaa beasts and Kaadu mounts). Unlike the Fambaa and Kaadu, however, which maintain their brain stems and nervous systems, giving them the ability to not only remain fully conscious, but to have a highly developed emotional bond with their masters, a Glurrg reaches their maximum brain power at approximately three weeks of age. Long enough that they are given the chance to properly bond with their masters, but around the time their are placed in their pod and join a caste, a Glurrg’s brain soon begins to cannibalize itself, re-purposing the valuable nutrients elsewhere.

Of course, hardly the entirety of the brain is sacrificed. The pathways formed for the tasks they were trained for begin to solidify with a calcium-based structure sometimes compared to shielding on a wire.

A Glurrg ends their life as almost the complete opposite as they began: with a brain nearly completely calcified, unable to take in new information, or process any possible complications to their task. A farmer Glurrg at the end of its lifecycle has been known to not be able to adapt to the changing seasons. A fisher Glurrg might not be able to fish in a slightly different pond. A builder Glurrg might not be able to understand how to build the same exact building they ’ve built for years, if suddenly the conditions - neighbors, foundations, materials - aren’t exactly as they expect them to be.

Glurrgs reaching the end of their lifecycle are taken by the beast-masters, given a small sedative, and returned to the pools of their birth.

In the amniotic, plasmoid pod the Glurrgs came from, they are soon quietly, and painlessly dissolved. Their body nutrients absorbed by the liquid, and consumed by the very slime that gave them life in the first place.

From plasmoid they were born, lived a life of quiet, joyous work, and to the plasmoid they returned.

108 kilometers east of Kar ’kor’yx, Xo

1002 Days after Geonosis

The Squad returned to base camp, all bodies accounted for. Butcher, Bruiser, Psycho, Rancor, and Thread all went into their individual prefabs and nearly collapsed.

“I didn’t think the clones would be so tired,” Tion said.

“General Zey told me their genetic modifications make the Heavies able to exert enormous amounts of energy for an op, at the expense of a total system collapse. They might be out for a full day.”

“Guess that means we’ve got full watch of the camp.” Tion said.

Monk rebuilt their fire while Takkor morphed back into their base form, “If you’re tired, you can head to sleep, Monk.” Zam said, “We’ve got this.”

“I’m… actually all right.” Monk said, and that was that. He removed pieces of his armor and set them aside. The fire burning, Monk pulled out a ration cube and took a bite.

He yawned and Takkor said, “You sure about that?”

But Monk just ignored him, “Are you more comfortable in your original Gurlanin form?”

“Gurlanins have preferred forms for different environments and different situations. Day morph, night morph.”

“Battle morph,” Zam said, taking a bite of his own rations.

“And a lot of Gurlanins decide they prefer to live as a certain morph for the majority of their time.”

“What do you like?” Monk asked.

“I’m between preferred morphs.” Takkor said, “If you must ask.” He gave Monk a look.

“What morphs have you preferred in the past?” Zam asked.

“Well that’s a rude question.” Takkor said, “How would you like it if I asked you to take off your robe because I wanted to know what you had under there?”

“Well, I was born on Zeltros,” Zam said, “So…”

There was a long moment of silence before the Mandalorian, the Gurlanin, the clone, and Zam burst out laughing.

It was weird, them all being here while their five berserkers were nearly passed out. They were sitting around a campfire at one of the most remote planets of the Galaxy, far beyond the help of anyone in the Republic. If they were set upon in the night by Zanibar hunters and killed to a man, there’d be no one to know, and they’d be filed as MIA for a future historian to find once the files were declassified.

Yet they laughed.

Laughter was good. So many species seemed to have some form of it. Some way to signal the all clear.

“I was a Mudhorn for a few decades. I enjoyed that. Except for Jawa raids on our nest, it was a very calm, very reasonable life.”

“That sounds nice.” Monk said.

“I suppose it does,” Tion, half-dressed in her beskar’gam, pulled out a small metal cylinder. It was pointed at the end, and flashed in the light of the fire. She put it to her lips and started playing a calm, quiet song.

The object was something Monk had only heard of, but never saw: bes’bev, a Mandalorian “music spike.” The far end was sharpened to a point that could be used as a weapon should a resting Mandalorian musician be suddenly attacked in the middle of their song.

The four of them sat there in the crackling of the fire and the sound of the beskar flute. They drank from their canteens and breathed the nighttime Xo air to the notes of the instrument.

“What about you, Monk?” the Gurlanin asked, “Do you have any plans for when this war is over?”

“Oh,” Monk said, “Yeah. No. Not really.”

“Wars don’t last forever.” Takkor said, “You and every other clone in the Grand Army is going to have to consider their future.”

“You’re right.” Monk said, “I just don’t know.”

“I doubt the Republic will just abandon the clones.” Zam said. He was holding his lightsaber hilt, idly flipping it between his fingers, “Hopefully, by the end of all this fighting, I’ll finish my trials and be a Jedi Knight. I hope the Republic will just keep the clones on, keep the Separatists from rising again, maybe even give them a planet of their own, or something.”

“A planet full of clones?” Monk said, “I imagine the Republic would probably just… let us go. Let us move around the Galaxy and go where we want.”

“And where would you want?” Takkor asked.

“Yeah,” the Commander said, “What is it that clones want? I’m not sure anyone has ever bothered to ask.”

Monk just stared into the flickering flames, poking the embers with a stick, “Clones want to feel like they matter. Like they belong. Like they’re people just like everyone else.”

The music stopped for a second, “I think,” Tion said, “that you have too much faith in the Republic if you think they’re interested in giving you any of that.”

“Why do you say that?” Zam asked, holding his lightsaber, blade emitter pointed down, “The Republic… does good things for people. For the Galaxy.”

“The Republic does what it does for itself. For the monied interests that pull the levers of power in the Senate. No more. No less. If it happens to result in better lives for citizens, great. But more often than not, the Republic is completely blind to the suffering of your average Galactic citizen.”

“I mean,” Zam started, “there’s only so much anyone can do, right? A third of the people in the Galaxy don’t want to be under the control of the Republic at all, and another third are just… invisible. Like you go down far enough on Coruscant, or far enough into the Outer Rim, and control just isn’t there.”

“Coruscant. Correllia. Xo. Mandalore. It doesn’t matter.” Tion said, “Nobody is going to offer you anything in this Galaxy that you can’t take on your own.” She played a trio of notes, “That’s the most important lesson for everyone to learn.”

“That what?” Zam said, “You can’t rely on anybody? In the whole wide Galaxy it’s to each their own?”

“Did I say that?” Tion asked, “I was raised in a nomadic covert. We relied on each other. But never once did I think that if something went wrong some bureaucrat in the Coruscant Senate was going to take notice. We had each other. And that was that.”

“And you think the clones are going to have to learn that lesson?” Takkor asked.

“That’s why we’re a Squad.” Monk said.

“And when the war ends? What happens to the Squad?” Takkor said, his ears perked, head tilted to the side.

All eyes turned to Monk, but he had no answer.

In particular, he had no way to counter clearly what Takkor had in mind.

Finally, Tion picked up her bes’bev and resumed playing.

“I think I’m going to get some rest.” Monk said, “It’s already been a long mission.”

“Good thinking,” Commander Zam said, “Good night, Monk.”

“Good night, clone.” Takkor said.

When Monk got into his prefab, he could hear the faint sounds of the Mandalorian flute over the crackle of the fire. Inaudible voices between the Mando, the Jedi, and the Gurlanin wafted with an occasional chuckle, and Monk tried not to wonder at what they were talking about, these people who belonged.

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: CZERKA

Den Dhur: What happens to wounded clone troopers?

Jos Vondar: On the record?

Dhur: If you please.

Vondar: Well, that ’s why we exist. Surgeons with the Republic Medical Surgical Unit corps. Honestly, it’s one of the best gigs I’ve ever had as a surgeon, speaking as someone who worked at an ER on Level 1312, working a Rimsoo on the front lines.

Dhur: What is it that makes working on clone troopers in the Outer Rim better?

Vondar: Well, for one thing, their organs are exact matches to each other. I heard the Kaminoans altered Jango Fett’s DNA to make them stronger, more durable, to age faster, and be more nutrient efficient, and generally obedient to their commanders, so I imagine that if we had the old Mandalorian, his organs wouldn’t fit into their bodies so neatly. But I guess we’ll never know. Either way, a clone trooper comes in without a head, bam, a full body full of parts to use for their brothers who are only missing bits and pieces.

Dhur: Pretty gruesome.

Vondar: Heh, sorry. When you ’ve seen it all, you’ve seen it all. I guess I’m so optimistic about working in the Rimsoo because, honestly, that just doesn’t exist in the rest of the Galaxy. Usually, I’d have someone bleeding out in front of me. I did my internship on Alderaan Universal Medcenter. Name a species in the Republic and I’ve at least treated them for a fever. That said, it’s almost always more comfortable to work on your own species, just as it’s always more comfortable to have a surgeon of your own species working on you. Here, about 95% of the time I’m working on Humans. Modified Humans, maybe, but Humans nonetheless. And we have more spare parts than you’d find at a scrap-based droid repair shop. Go check out the Level 1312 ERs, like I said, and you’d be lucky to find clean bandages and old bacta. Nevermind spare organs for a Zabrak.

Dhur: All those spare organs … that’s… a lot of dead clones.

Vondar: Yes. And I don ’t mean to be callous about it. Not in the slightest. Just… when you’ve seen so much carnage, compartmentalization is second nature.

Dhur: But what about those wounded clone troopers that … well, you can’t fix?

Vondar: Is this … off the record?

Dhur: If it must be.

Vondar: Well, thankfully, the GAR has contracts with cybernetics companies. This gives a lot of options for troopers who lose limbs. Transfer like we do with internal organs is… ah, not nearly as simple. Plus it would require way more physical therapy than a simple calibration. A debilitating level of physical therapy.

Dhur: So it ’s just cheaper to give them a droid arm.

Vondar: Yeah.

Dhur: What about … well… I guess I’m struggling with the terminology here.

Vondar: You ’re asking about clone troopers I can’t fix, who aren’t dead, and won’t die any time soon.

Dhur: And are too wounded to return to combat.

Vondar: This is still off the record, yeah?

Dhur: Of course.

Vondar: The GAR has contingencies in place that … “decommissions” troopers, preventing them from being a further drain on military resources.

Dhur: “Decommissions.” Is that the official word?

Vondar: I don ’t have clearance at that level. But I imagine it is.

Dhur: I wonder if this is why the clone army was developed in the first place. An army worth of citizen recruits …

Vondar: … would have rights. The Republic would be required to service them, offer them pensions, and help their medical bills until they could return to work. Work which might not be in the GAR at all. It’d cost billions of credits, if not trillions.

Dhur: But clones aren ’t citizens.

Vondar: Off the record?

Dhur: Off the record.

Vondar: Clones aren ’t citizens. That’s not a secret. The only reason it hasn’t been proven in court, I think, is because the clones aren’t even aware there’s a court that they can try to challenge the notion.

Dhur: You think if someone told them …?

Vondar: What difference would it make? See, you ’re starting from the wrong premise. The Republic isn’t concerned with the clones’ citizenship status any more than it’s concerned with the citizenship of a nerf or an eeopie or a blaster.

Dhur: You ’re saying the Republic legally classifies the clones as livestock?

Vondar: I ’m no lawyer. But as a doctor, I can confirm that to the Republic: clones are not people.

- The Clone Wars: A History (Unedited Transcript), by Den Dhur

Miro Station, Pirdia

1004 Days after Geonosis

This was a lot like his very first memory. His blurry vision slowly coalesced. The liquid pressed on his eyeballs, but gently. When they adjusted to the temperature of the bacta, kept at his exact body temperature, the only thing that made Czerka aware that he was floating in liquid was the buoyancy and density of his surroundings.

Outside the tank’s glass, he could see two technicians in the room.

His last memory was of the face of his Jedi Commander, Arya Wooy.

He kind of wished she were here now.

Where… was “here”?

“Good morning, RC-8127.” The voice of one of the technicians came in through an ear piece. He turned and focused on the medic, a Togruta, and acknowledged them, “Your vitals are stable. You must be feeling much better.”

Czerka nodded. With his breathing apparatus, and through the liquid, he couldn’t exactly answer verbally.

“Excellent. We’re preparing to take you out. Standby.”

It took a few minutes. The Togruta let him know that they were ready to lift the harness out of the liquid, and he braced himself. Out of the bacta tank, a droid floated up to his face and began removing the various IVs and apparatuses connected to his face and other parts as carefully and accurately as possible.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like an infant.”

The Togruta almost laughed, “I imagine so.”

The machine lowered Czerka next to a gurney where he was laid out by the droid and automated medical systems and checked over by the Force-sensitive medics.

“Also, from what I understand,” the Togruta said, looking at his datapad and making notes, “you were in a bacta-based amniotic fluid back on Kamino, not a bacta recovery solution like we have here.”

“How bad was it?” Czerka asked.

“Bad. You had multiple hair-line fractures, but the real damage was to your muscles. The droid that attacked you nearly crushed them completely.”

“And now?”

“They’ve been rebuilt. It was tricky.”

“I’m not sure I want to know the details.”

It was at that moment that Czerka suddenly felt the weight of the cold air around his head, “Where… ah, is my helmet? And armor?”

“Your commanding officer is keeping them safe.”

Arya. “I’d like to get them as soon as possible.”

“We’ve alerted her to your condition. She’ll be here momentary.”

And as the Lord used to say, speak of the dragon and it appears, a Mirialan face, her hands pressed firmly against the glass to the bacta suite, appeared. She had an incredible smile on her face. One that was overjoyed to see Czerka alive and awake. But it wasn’t that that Czerka noticed first. It was the shine in her eyes.

His cheeks turned red. He felt too embarrassed to be seen so naked. The Lord was a disgraced Tusken, and so he had gotten over being seen without full coverings. But he was still a Tusken, and chose to wear as much to cover his body as possible. A cultural trait he passed on to his students.

Czerka didn’t always need his helmet on, but usually when asked to remove it, he at least had on the rest of his armor.

The Togruta cleared him for discharge and a droid helped Czerka stand. He felt like he hadn’t used his legs in a week. He realized after the thought that, in fact, he wasn’t far off. But after a quick calibration to make sure he could take his steps, he was allowed to walk out of the suite.

The door opened and Arya threw her arms around Czerka’s neck.

“I thought you were gone!” she said.

“I’m here, Commander,” Czerka said, “I’m here.”

Arya let go of him and slid back to the ground. The Mirialan was a head shorter than him, a clone designed to be taller than even his genetic donor. She reached back behind her and pulled the helmet from its clip on the back of her belt, “Here you go.”

Czerka took the helmet, smiling, and put it on his head.

“Feel better?”

“I’m still showing a lot of skin.”

“Tat and Sandstorm told me you’d probably feel this way, so I at least wanted to bring your helmet.”

He smiled… though she couldn’t see it. He brought his hands up and signed in Tusken, <Thank you.>

She clumsily signed back, <You’re welcome.>

With a white robe supplied by the Miro Station associates, Czerka made his way to the guest dormitories where Krayt Squad was staying. Tat and Sandstorm weren’t there - Arya said they’d meet them at the mess hall - and he was grateful that his brothers didn’t have to see him mostly naked.

Arya led him to his quarters. The door whooshed open and closed again, leaving him alone and in private for the first time in who knows how long. He was comforted by the darkness of the room, making him feel like he was in the huts of the training exercises, where he could remove his helmet and breathe in the darkness like elixir.

His brothers had laid out his black body suit and his armor on the bed. They’d patched it and scrubbed it clean.

Tat and Sandstorm weren’t his original Squad. Eights, and Gaffi, and Krayt were all gone. But they were as close as he was going to come. They were still born in Kaminoan jars just like him, trained by The Lord just like him. They were once parts of other Squads, that had just as many tragic ends as Krayt Squad, just like him.

And they knew what he needed.

Czerka put on the black body suit but left most of the katarn armor on the bunk. He put his helmet back on and just a couple of pieces of armor to feel like he was covered: gloves, gauntlets, pauldrons, and greaves. Then he put his helmet back on and felt whole again.

He opened the door and Commander Wooy was standing there, her back leaned against the wall looking out into the open space of the Station.

<Ready.> he signed.

<Let’s go.> She smiled at him. He smiled back… and hoped that as a Jedi she could tell he was happy to see her.

When they arrived at the mess hall, Tat, Sandstorm, and the Mandalorian were all sitting at a table. The Mandalorian had his helmet placed on the table next to him. It looked pitted and battle damaged, as if it hadn’t just been through an awful fight, but had been eaten by some sort of beast.

Tat and Sandstorm, like Czerka, were wearing only bits and pieces of their armor, but were dressed mostly in their body suits, helmets, and gloves.

“Ah, there he is!” the Mandalorian said, “As we say, su cuy’gar.”

“‘So you’re still alive.’” Czerka said.

“You speak Mando’a?” the Mandalorian smiled, “That’s wonderful.”

<Good to see you.> Tat signed.

<We worried.> Sandstorm agreed.

<Thanks.> Czerka signed back.

He sat down with Tat on his right, and the Commander on his left. They were only drinking, no food. Another Tusken custom that Czerka was happy to observe along with his brothers.

“So, how exactly do you eat, nevermind drink?”

“Tusken masks are made with breathing filters that enable liquids to pass through just fine, allowing Tuskens to drink through their masks.”

“Huh,” the Mandalorian said, “never knew that. What about eating?”

“We eat in private. Tuskens will typically eat alone, or with small groups of immediate family. But always indoors, and as soon as one’s done with their food, the mask goes right back on.”

“Ah, so that’s why no one has ever seen a live Tusken face.”

“That’s not necessarily true,” Arya said, “There are a lot of Tusken slaves on Tatooine.”

All three clones turned to their Jedi commander.

That was not something they knew much about.

“Did you not know?”

“We had heard.” Tat said, “But that was something The Lord never wanted to discuss in detail.”

“Who is The Lord?”

“A’Urok’urrt.” Sandstorm answered, “He was our commanding officer on Kamino. He trained us in desert combat, and in Tusken customs and language.”

“Does that include… ah, oral communication, or just the Sign Language?”

<Outsiders.> Tat signed. The other two clones chuckled inaudibly from behind their helmets. The sign used for the term carried a similar connotation as the Mando’a aruetii, or the Basic idiot.

“Speaking Tusken is difficult for anyone other than maybe Wookiees,” Arya said, “Not impossible, but difficult.”

“I’ll say. So you have some glasses in front of you. I take it that you do drink in public?”

To answer his question, Sandstorm lifted his glass of water and tipped his helmet back just enough to reveal his mouth and take a deep sip. He let down the glass and lowered his helmet.

“Ah. Simple enough.”

“Shouldn’t not taking off helmets come easy to you? You’re Mandalorian.”

“Religious nutters, you’re thinking. My covert was conservative, but nothing like that.”

“I love the discussion,” Arya said, “But now that Czerka is awake, I think we should discuss the mission.”

“Right.” The Mandalorian said, “I have the data that would allow us into the facility on Arvala-7. You four get me to the facility, and I can get us inside.”

“We weren’t told to take the Mandalorian on the mission,” Czerka said, “guarding an asset while trying to infiltrate a Sep base is going to be that much harder.”

“Guarding an asset?” the Mandalorian said, somewhere between incredulous and insulted.

“Allen is a Mandalorian warrior.” Commander Wooy said, “Plus Commando Squads usually operate in teams of four. And while I’d be honored to be considered, on a job like this I think it’s worth bringing on a fourth teammate. Especially considering one who’s had commando training from Mandalorian instructors.”

The three clones looked at each other, a knowing look passing through their visors to each other as they considered what the Commander was saying.

“There are far more Mandalorians fighting on the other side.”

“I get that.” Allen said, “But I’m not one of them. In fact, I switched over to your side.”

All three of them turned to the Mandalorian and glared at him through their helmets.

“Why?” Sandstorm nearly accused.

“I didn’t want to kill clones any more. Seemed wrong to me.”

“Nothing’s wrong to a Mandalorian.”

Allen laughed, “Then you know as much about Mandalorian culture as I do about Tusken.”

“How do we know you won’t betray us?”

“Because it’s a job. Because completing a mission is sacred, a part of the creed.”

“How do we know your ‘job’ isn’t to lead us into a trap. Mandalorians aren’t beyond subterfuge.” Sandstorm asked.

Czerka turned to Arya, wondering what she was thinking. Seeing if she needed just as much convincing, or if she understood that the clones needed their own.

“I guess you don’t.” Allen said, “Frankly, I don’t like killing clones because you’re practically cousins. Just because you’re copies of Jango Fett doesn’t make your blood any less Mandalorian.”

“We know that blood doesn’t mean much to Mandalorians.”

“True.” Allen said, “Aliit ori’shya tal’din. But as far as I’m concerned, it works the other way around, too. And just because we’re not family, doesn’t mean we’re not blood.”

The clones turned to each other and tried to figure out where they stood in relation to their Sergeant and Commander on the issue. A flurry of hand signs passed between the three, trying to sign faster than the Commander could understand.

<The Commander trusts him.>

<It’s not our call, either way.>

<We took classes with Mandalorians, too.>

<He has killed clones, though.>

<The Commander made the decision.> Sandstorm signed, <The best we can do is keep her safe no matter what.> He turned to Arya, “Your call, Commander. We’re good soldiers. We follow your orders.”

“I get it, guys.” Allen said, “So I promise I’ll defer entirely to your judgment. It’s not easy having an outsider break into your circle.”

None of the clones responded to him. But they turned to the Commander.

Arya smiled comfortingly, “I trust Allen.” She said, “He gets us in, we get out, we complete the mission, all hands accounted for.”

“Copy that, Commander,” Sandstorm said.

“When do we leave?” Czerka asked.

“Eager to get out of here?” Allen asked.

“I’m ready to stretch my legs. Get back under the sun and on the sand.” Arvala-7 was a desert planet. No Tatooine, but frankly, the journey to his cultural “home world” was not a particularly positive experience. Still, he longed for the desert heat now that he was awake and not surrounded by liquid.

“If you’re feeling up to it,” Arya said, “Tomorrow. Let’s get a good night rest and be ready to leave in the morning. The Arvala system is less than a six hour flight away.”

They finished their drinks and stood. As they were about to depart, a small group of blue-skinned aliens with dry, cracked skin, long faces with shining black eyes and sharp teeth, wearing armor decorated with the skulls of their kills, approached the table.

“’Andalorian.” The Zanibar said, staring Allen in the eyes.

Allen kept his helmet under an arm, smirked at the Zanibar mercenaries, and then put it back on his head, “We got a problem, you lipless aruetii?”

“’Andalorian ‘ro’lems.” The lead Zanibar said. Two others hissed in their hideous language. The clones backed him up. They knew that the Zanibar were largely employed by the Separatists, and they were unlikely to find any battle droids at Miro Station.

The Mandalorians and the Zanibar also had a more long-running dispute over a number of contracts, and their general conflicting warrior heritages that went well beyond the current war.

“Do we have an issue here, Master…” The lead Zanibar turned to Commander Wooy and hissed his name in Xoisch. Arya didn’t even attempt to repeat it, “I’m sure you’re aware of how this station is a place of peace, that has a very strict no-fighting policy.”

“No ‘ights here.” The Zanibar said, turning back to the Mandalorian.

Allen nodded at them and walked through their small crowd of six warriors. The clones followed him, with Tat turning around and walking backwards, making a sign of damnation towards the enemy as they returned to their bunks.

Arya was more diplomatic, “May the Force be with you,” she told them.

Czerka’s heart was with Tat, but he appreciated Arya’s sincere compassion in a way he couldn’t explain, and hoped he wouldn’t have to.

Chapter Text

Chapter 14: ATINIIR

Why did Mandalorians fight in the Clone Wars?

Well, you ’d have to ask them. The Galaxy has this perception that the Mandalorians are all knuckle-dragging barbarians who will fight anyone and anything for any reason, including each other.

In reality, Mandalorians are people. There are warmongers and pacifists. Religious nutjobs and atheists. Traditionalists and modernists. There are the xenophobes like Death Watch, and the xenophiles who don ’t care what species their foundlings or spouses are, and only care about what one can contribute to the covert.

Mandalorians fought for the Republic, often for the most simple reason: it was a job. Mandalorians, a traditionally nomadic people, certainly had their “hunting grounds” as they called them. And the Republic knew it behooved itself to hire Mandalorians as guides, advisors, and fixers if they wanted an edge against the Separatists.

That said, a lot more Mandalorians fought for the Separatists. No matter what you think the Confederacy was actually about (monied interests, Dookuist dictatorship, droid rights, or actual independence against Coruscanti corruption) they sold themselves as enemies of the Republic and the Jedi, of the corruption and nepotism inherent therein.

And any Mandalorian, even those who fought for the Republic, could get behind that.

- Interview with Kal Skirata, from The Clone Wars: A History, by Den Dhur

35 klicks north of Ull Base

1005 Days after Geonosis

The outpost was more well-armed than the one they destroyed a few days ago. The corridor they opened up was doing well. Gunships and transports were regularly passing through to pick up GAR staff, but the Separatists were still sending fighters to attack them , and the occasional AA missile still made the journey precarious.

Atiniir stood with Epsilon Squad at the peak of a hill looking through binocs at the outpost. Ujik had cut through the foliage in front of them to allow a green window to gaze across Drongar’s canopy and down to the outpost while still maintaining cover from the droid spotters.

“I think there’s fewer droids down there than the last one.” Atiniir said.

“The last outpost was all droids from what I remember.” Cal said, “What tells you this one isn’t all droids?”

Atiniir circled the flag on the shared link, “There.” He said, “Droids don’t wave flags.”

Above the domed command center in the middle of the base was a pole with a large navy blue flag decorated with a white, segmented hexagon: the sigil of the Confederacy of Independent Systems.

“Why would they give away their position like that?” Top-knot asked.

“Not sure.” Atiniir said, “Could be they’re trying to bring up a bit of morale.”

“Look there.” Naat said, pointing to the south of the base. Plumes of orange flame burst from the arms of B2 chassis and a wall of red fire and black smoke belched into the atmosphere.

“Why are they burning the jungle here? Now?” Ujik asked. He used his sniper’s scope rather than the far less powerful binocs.

The squad stared down at the line of droids as they burned everything they could. Atiniir watched the column of smoke as it ascended into the sky, “The wind is blowing south. They’re hoping it’ll get in the way of our flight corridor.”

“Will it?” Hammer asked, “Surely pilots have instruments to provide visibility a little more advanced than a smoke stack.”

“I’m sure they do,” Naat said, “The point being the Seps are doing whatever they can to make it harder.”

“So you think there’s wet targets down there?” Cal asked, “What do you think we’re dealing with?”

“Not sure.” Atiniir said, “I’ll go down.”

“We still sticking with the original plan?” the clone Sergeant again.

Atiniir was about to answer, but remembered that he wasn’t technically in charge.

The Jedi was.

“Yes,” Naat said, “The Regs first. Then us.”

“I’m going to try and get close and see who’s staffing the base.” Atiniir said.

“I’ll go with you.”

“The plan was for Epsilon Squad to stay behind.”

“I won’t go in without my boys,” Naat said, “I just want to see what we can see.”

He nooded.

“Oya,” Ujik said, touching a pair of fingers to his bucket and giving Atiniir a little salute.

The Mandalorian and the Jedi began descending into the territory, coming within range of the Separatists’ AA turrets.

“What are you expecting to find there?” the Jedi asked him.

“Hopefully we can see what we’re dealing with.”

“Other than the droids, you mean?”

“I want to know if they’re mercs. Or some planetary army. If they’re Mandalorians, or Zanibar, or Hutts, being able to identify who they are will inform us of their tactics.”

Naat was silent for a long while as they navigated the foliage, “You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

“Your brain is your most powerful weapon. Lesson 1.”

“Your uncle Beskar?”

“Yeah, but he didn’t come up with it.”

“So… if they are Mandalorians…”

Atiniir stopped where he stood and turned to face her. He took off his buy’ce so General - erm, Commander - Reath could see his eyes, “Go ahead.” He said, as non-threateningly as possible, “Ask.”

“Can we count on you?”

“You mean, will I turn on you?”

Naat didn’t fill the hum of the Drongar air with words, but just looked at him, both expectant and slightly pitying that she even had to ask.

“I get it,” Atiniir said, “Safe to say, I’m Mando through-and-through.” He put his bucket on, “I’d never turn on the job.”

“Not even if they were people you knew?”

“If someone I know is on the other side… well, I guess it’s kind of case-by-case. But if it’s someone, say, from my family’s covert, I’d try best to take them alive.”

“Isn’t that…” Naat looked for the right words, “… like, the most dishonorable thing for a Mandalorian?”

“Maybe back in the old days,” Atiniir said, “Modern Mandos, even conservatives like my uncle Beskar, know it’s better to live to fight another day. “No one wants to die for some aruetii cause that isn’t theirs if they can help it.” He stopped and turned to the Jedi, “Since we’re being candid, mind if I ask you something?”

He turned and looked at her through the helmet. Atiniir could feel her eyes search for his from behind the visor, “Sure.”

“You kill your old Master?”

She gave him a horrified look, “What?”

“Master Echuu. I heard you killed him because he turned to the dark way, or whatever you call it.”

“The dark side.” Naat blew past him, “No, I didn’t kill him.”

“Huh.” Atiniir said, checking the data quickly that told him nothing new.

“Why? What did you read in my file?”

“I didn’t read anything in your file. They never gave me one.”

“Then why…”

“Just rumors.”

“And you believe… rumors?”

“Doesn’t matter what I believe.”

The silence of the forest was deafening.

“Sev’rance Tann killed my brother, Stam.”

Atiniir turned his head slightly, to give her a clearer indication that he was listening.

“At the First Battle of Geonosis. My Master was killed there, too. So the council put me and Master Echuu together. We hunted General Tann across the Galaxy, finally catching up to her on Krant… I was captured. Master Echuu rescued me.”

“I see.”

“He killed Tann.” Naat handled Stam’s lightsaber in her right hand. “She told him to come alone. So he brought only the Epsilons, but they waited outside. No one but me saw him kill her… and what happened to him after.”

“But you say he didn’t fall to the dark side?”

“No.” Naat said, telling this Mandalorian what she never told anyone, “But he came close.”

“I see.”

“He chose to stay on Krant.” Naat said, “To purge his spirit of the dark side. To atone for what he’d done.”

Atiniir didn’t know how to respond to that. It clearly affected the Jedi at a deep level. He got the feeling that losing so many in succession meant more than he knew to Naat. It… wasn’t that different from being a Mandalorian. In Mando’a they said aliit ori’shya tal’din, and it was weird to think of the Jedi as being so near to his own people… who they traditionally regarded as enemies.

The Jedi found Younglings. The Mandalorians had Foundlings.

The Jedi had lightsabers. The Mandalorians had beskad.

The Jedi worshiped the Force. The Mandalorians followed the Way.

Perhaps the most marked difference was that the Jedi were taught to purge themselves of their attachments. To not let their feelings cloud their judgment.

To Mandalorians, passion, devotion, and loyalty to one’s aliit was the Way.

“Ibic Manda.” Atiniir said quietly to himself.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.” He said, “Well, good to know you won’t fall to the dark side on us any time soon.”

It was Naat’s turn to hide behind silence.

Good for their awkward interaction, they were approaching the outpost. The ledge they stood on wasn’t a particularly great vantage point. The droid that picked the location would have been dismembered and sent to diagnostics for putting a base so close to a perfect sniper’s nest.

It did allow them the chance to take a look, though. Enough so that Atiniir could look through a pair of binocs at just enough of an angle to spot people walking inside.

“See anything?”

“Take a look.”

Atiniir handed her the pair, and he used his helmet’s auto-zoom. They could see a pair of Humans sitting on an ordnance crate by some drop ships. Both wore armor chrome silver in color. They had on gray hats with brims shielding their eyes from the sun. At their sides were blades, long and straight like the beskad that Atiniir carried.

Another Human in a green uniform, wearing a similar hat walked up to them. The soldiers immediately stood and saluted, lifting their fists to their faces as opposed to the flat hand like a Clone would.

“Ah,” he said, “They’re Gibadan.”

“Gibadan? They look Human to me.”

“They are. They’re from Gibad.”

“I’m not familiar with that system.”

“It’s a small system in the east,” Atiniir said, “the people are kind of insular. Very traditional. Used to being punching bags to other systems and powers. I suppose they finally got tired of it and thought that signing up with the Seps was the way to go. The way to finally be able to stand up for themselves.”

“Why not just stick with the Republic?”

“They’re still Outer Rim. They see the Republic as nothing more than a scam that lets them wash their hands of Gibad’s problems.”

“I see they have swords. They use beskar?”

“I don’t think so.” Atiniir said, “Unless there’s a vein of it on the planet. And I’m skeptical of that. More likely they’re made of a cortosis weave and powered by a vibric generator.”

“So, basically they might as well be.”

“Worse. You hit my beskad with your lightsaber, it’ll get hot. You hit a cortosis blade, your lightsaber is liable to short out briefly.”

“Liable to?”

“Depends on the percentage of cortosis used in the weave. Pure cortosis will kill your lightsaber, basically. A smaller percentage, like ten or fifteen percent and it will have the holding power generally similar to that of beskar.”

“You know a lot about them.”

“Also, see those weapons?”

“Blasters.”

“Worse. Firearms.”

“Isn’t that just… another word for blasters?”

“No. You might know them better as slug throwers.”

Naat just gave him a look that said she actually didn’t understand.

“Didn’t they teach you history at that Temple?”

“It wasn’t my best subject.” Naat said dismissively, and then went back to looking at the Gibadans.

“A blaster uses concentrated energy bolts. A firearm, a real firearm, uses physical ammunition. Pieces of metal, and then an explosive powder, which throws the bullet forward.”

“Sounds heavy.” Naat said, “Like you’d have to carry all of that metal around with you.”

“You do. Thing is, you can’t block it with your lightsaber like you can a blaster bolt. The plasma will just melt the bullets and cause you problems anyway.”

“And this is what the Mandalorians used to use during the Mandalorian Wars?”

“Well, it’s a relatively simple technology. I imagine every civilization in the Galaxy had them before they had blasters. But yes, Mandalorians were known for them.”

“But if I recall, the Mandalorians lost their war with the Jedi.”

“Still, I’d rather you knew what you were up against down there. The Seps probably knew they’d be facing a Jedi down here sooner or later and the Gibadans still seem to enjoy using their slug throwers.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

A few B1s accompanied by a pair of B2s marched into sight. The Gibadans acknowledged them with a brief head nod before returning to business as usual.

“Droids and wets don’t usually work well together,” Naat said, “How do you think we should play this?”

“I’d say you and I focus on the wets.” Atiniir said, “I’ll direct the boys in white to focus on the clankers.”

“Got it.” Naat said. Atiniir was a little surprised that she just accepted his… well they weren’t exactly orders, just a suggestion.

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Naat took a lightsaber in each hand and twirled them without igniting them. Atiniir tapped his comm link and called the boys, “Lieutenant Fourteen, this is Agent Beskar.”

“Copy, sir.” A clone’s voice came over the link, “What do you have for us?”

“I’m dropping a location. Approach from the north. The Jedi and I will come in from the west, and once things are good and hot the Epsilons are going to punch through.”

“Got it. We’re staying low, so we’ll let you know when we’re a few seconds out.”

“Copy.”

Naat was still twirling the lightsaber hilts in her hands. They looked very similar, but were distinct. One had a line of what seemed to be gold filament that swirled from the base of the hilt up to the beam emitter. The other had three rings slightly misaligned so that the middle one appeared to be swirling between the other two.

“Your lightsabers don’t exactly match.”

“One’s my brother’s.”

Atiniir didn’t say anything to that at first, just got a better look at the saber.

“Is that typical for Jedi to carry their fallen’s sabers?”

For a long moment, Naat just looked at the saber in her hand, the one with the three rings, “No.” She finally said, “Usually they are taken back to the Temple and put in the catacombs, until such a time that the kyber crystals are recycled and used for Youngling’s training sabers.”

“How did you end up with your brother’s?”

Again, there was a pregnant pause. This one broken by Lieutenant Fourteen’s crackle over the comm link, “Agent, we’re minute out.”

“When Sev’rance Tann killed Stam, Master Echuu kept his saber from being taken to the Temple. On Krant, he gave it to me.”

“Wielding two lightsabers must be a unique skill among Jedi.”

“Not really. I mean… yeah, most Jedi just use one, but it’s not uncommon for advanced dueling students to practice with two.”

“Were you one of them?”

“I was good enough.” She said.

“If you ever want to practice,” Atiniir said, “My blade’s made of beskar.”

Naat stopped twirling the blades and held them firmly and readily at her sides, “I’ll let you know when we get back to Ull Base.”

“Ten seconds.” Fourteen said.

Naat didn’t even wait for Atiniir. She began descending the hillock towards the Separatist Base.

Atiniir followed behind her, “Oya…” he said, more to himself than anyone else, “Epsilons,” he called, “Get ready on my signal.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 15: ZAM

This ’n Republic is’a only in destabilization right now. We are not so into that point yet, but on Correllia, and on the Naboo, and Alderaan, they’sa puttin’ ads on da Holonet saying, “Yousa demoralized. Yousa dead. Yousa over. Give up to da Machineeks army. Give up to Count Dooku and General Grievous! We’sa gonna blast yousa daughter! We’sa gonna blast yousa wife, yousa son, we’sa gonna hit you with a bombad starship!” And thes’a Senate security gonna get up and say, “We’sa love da Machineeks. We love un’sa Dooku-stans. Oh, dey’sa so good. Oh, dey’sa so sweet!”

Millions ’a dees’n people pourin’ in every day! Of the very worst type. Dey’sa killin’ each other. Do we even knowin dis’n an attack? It’s bombad crazy! No it’sa not matter now. Yousa gotta choose da sides, now. Dees’n people, dees’n Separatists, dees’n Galactists, deysa overrun us.

- The Jar Jar Binks Experience, Holonet Transmission, 26.10.3633

Xo

1004 Days after Geonosis

At the moment when a pair of blaster bolts hit the rock by his head less than a half second apart, Zam wondered exactly what it was that convinced him to hold this raid in the middle of the day.

Was it Tion, or Takkor, or one of the Reds that suggested that since the last attack was in the middle of the night, they should conduct this one in the middle of the day? Keep the Zanibar on their toes? Convince them that there was no such thing as a safe harbor? A safe time of day on their dying world?

Whoever it was, it didn’t matter. Zam either had to figure out a way out of this, or he would die. Unknown. Unremembered. Completely forgotten.

That was what Master Zey told him: this was a top-secret mission. One which the Republic knew nothing about.

Plant left foot. Turn. Jump. Saber out. Feel through the Force: malicious intent. A blaster bolt. Spin.

The pink saber, reached out, deflecting the bolt away from his body, back in the direction it came.

It was close enough that it still had almost one hundred percent of its energy. It was strong enough that it went through the Zanibar’s neck. The one who shot it.

Zam hoped it was the one who shot it.

Master, how can I feel this way about taking life? Isn ’t all life a part of the Force?

It is, Zam. And it is good that you feel this way and ask these questions. Remember, those who live by the blaster, die by the blaster. A lightsaber can only reach as far as its blade. A blaster is a threat. And by firing it, ultimately, the bolt comes back to those who pulled the trigger. Sooner or later.

Master Zey was noble and wise.

And Zam had to believe he was right.

“Commander…!” the voice was… Rancor’s. Zam was pretty sure. Even in these stressful situations, he was mostly able to tell his clones’ voices apart. That didn’t mean it was easy, though.

“Rancor?”

Two more Zanibar came into the crevasse, and began firing in alternating succession. Zam was able to deflect the bolts, but the Zanibar moved quickly, taking cover, emerging, firing, hissing at each other to coordinate so that Zam could never take control over the situation.

“Commander… are you?”

“I’m…” three blasters got through the swirling pink shield he’d managed to create. Trying to get a better indication of his position wasn’t exactly easy to do while he was focusing on staying alive. “Tied down by some locals. In a crevasse of some kind.”

A crevasse in the Xo desert. Yeah, I ’m on my own here.

He looked up, making sure to keep the blade spinning as best he could. If he used the Force to jump, he could bounce off the walls and up top. He’d be way out of range of the Zanibar… if he made it that far. But it’d require him to put down his defenses. And if he slipped…

Ah, karabast …

Zam summoned all the Force he could gather, and launched himself up, slightly to the left. He came up against the wall of the canyon, and immediately launched himself up, and to the right.

He landed, and prepared for another jump…

… as a blaster bolt hit the canyon wall just where his foot was about to land.

The rocks shattered and fell. Zam’s foot slipped into the hole, throwing off his balance and concentration, and his face smashed against the canyon wall.

His whole body landed at the bottom of the crevasse with a thump. His lightsaber skidded away from his control, the blade sliding back into the handle.

When he looked up, reaching out with the Force to bring it back into his hand, the Zanibar had approached. One planted a foot on the hilt, and stopped it from getting back to Zam.

They both raised their blasters to take aim at the Jedi’s eyes…

One of their heads suddenly jerked forward violently as a vibroblade entered the back of their neck. Its body was flung to the side, and a pair of red-gauntleted hands grabbed the blaster from the alien’s arms. Before the other Zanibar could respond, the clone grabbed the blaster and fired three shots into the enemy’s neck.

“Rancor?” Zam asked.

The clone removed his helmet.

The smooth, untatooed face of Monk was revealed, “No, Commander. Just me.”

He knelt down and picked up the handle of his lightsaber, “Here you are.”

Zam took his weapon, stood, and dusted himself off.

“Where’s the rest of the Squad?”

“On the other side of the mountain, I imagine.”

“That’s… not good.”

“No.” Monk said, checking the charge on the Zanibar’s blaster he now held, “And about half the Zanibar garrison is barreling down on our position.”

“What about the rendezvous point?”

“Not sure. They’re jamming our signals.”

That explained the staticky comms and why he couldn’t tell who was calling him, “Well… let’s get the kriff out of here and get to the rendezvous point. If it’s compromised, the Squad will need to know.”

“Copy.” Monk followed the commander. When they emerged from the crevasse, a storm of blaster fire surrounded them. Zam did what he could to deflect them, while Monk returned fire.

They tried taking cover in another area shielded by red rocks and a bit of foliage. The crevasse twisted and turned and began to narrow and thin until there was nothing left but a cramped wall of rock. It would be possible for both the Jedi and the Clone to climb on out of there… about a hundred meters up. Even with the Force, there wouldn’t be enough time for the two of them to escape Zanibar blasters.

And the enemy didn’t seem like they were in a prisoner-taking mood at the moment.

Given what they knew about the Zanibar…

“Commander,” Monk said, “I…” he checked the blaster’s energy storage. He threw down the blaster, “Commander… you trust me, right?”

Zam stepped in front of him, holding his saber in front of him, waiting for the hurricane of blaster fire to come their way.

He turned back to look at Monk. He’d removed his helmet and tossed it on the ground, “You trust me, right?”

Zam looked ahead, at the opening as hissing Zanibar voices started to creep through the walls of the crevasse at him, “Yes! Yes, of course. Why? Do you have a plan?”

Monk nodded, “Just… grab my armor for me.” He tossed a stretch-bag onto a stone, and threw the Zanibar blaster behind him.

Zam ignited his saber, the curved pink blade shimmering into the air, “What are you doing? What do you need?”

“Two minutes.” Monk said, beginning to remove his armor, “Can you give me two minutes?”

Two minutes was a lifetime in battle. They might not have anything close to that, “I’ll try!”

Zam rushed forward towards the mouth of the crevasse. He leapt up onto the walls, using the Force to propel himself up and up until he saw blue Zanibar heads below him. He jumped into the open air, raised his saber up, and swung it down, diagonally, cutting through two Zanibar from shoulder to waist. Two more screamed hissing at him, and let loose with their weapons. Zam swung his saber - using the Force to swing it faster than his muscles alone would allow - creating a pink shield that deflected the bolts towards the sides of the crevasse, sending small showers of red Xo rock down onto them.

He stepped forward, deflecting one of the bolts right at one of his attackers, sending the bolt through his eye, the body falling in a heap.

Zam didn’t have enough time to congratulate himself on his aim or reflect on the fragility of life, he slashed upwards, cutting another Zanibar’s rifle in two, and pushed the attacker with the Force hard against the rocks.

As if to clarify exactly how kriffed they were, another wave of Zanibar approached, firing blasters like a hail storm in Zam’s direction.

He retreated, heading back towards Monk. Hopefully the clone—

There was a pile of red clone armor on the ground next to the stretch-bag. But none of that seemed to matter. There was no sign of Monk. Where he was standing just forty-five seconds ago, there was a pile of black slime on the ground. It was formless, shifting, bubbling, and steaming into the air, flexing and pulsing like a living non-Newtonian fluid. He heard gurgling noises and the sound of cracking bones.

Was this related to Monk’s plan? Some kind of weapon he had prepared… secretly, and without his Commander’s knowledge?

The kriff was this?

Blaster fire impacted the rock just beyond Zam’s head. Then another.

Zam whirled, throwing his lightsaber which cut partially or wholly through the waists of at least a half dozen of his attackers, their place filled immediately by more.

The lightsaber flew back into his hand and Zam pushed the latest wave away, summoning all the energy just as Master Zey taught him. The push might have killed one or two, but it definitely didn’t get them all. They’d be back momentarily.

Zam turned around and saw that the black goo was starting to take a more definite shape. The shape of a living creature. Two legs, two arms, some kind of head.

Was this some kind of… Kaminoan flash-clone?

No, the black goo started to grow, bones cracking, organs bubbling and shifting into place. Its arms and legs lengthened into misshapen, twisted forms. The arms had fingers mismatched for a Human’s hands, the head became lumpen-shaped, with a mouth full of teeth. Beady eyes sunk into its head.

In front of Zam, and in front of the next wave of Zanibar, just as horrified and afraid as the Jedi, stood an adult Rancor.

It arched its back, as if to stretch, and then leaned forward, over Zam, facing the Zanibar, roaring so loudly that it shook the walls of the crevasse.

The moment passed, and the Zanibar took aim and fired.

It would take a lot more than a bit of small-arms fire to kill a Rancor.

The monster stormed through it as if it was a light rain. It stepped forward, swinging one of its clawed arms into the standing enemy, and chased after those that got the message and fled.

Zam still had no idea what was going on. But Monk asked if he trusted him, and to put his armor in a sack. Zam grabbed the flex-sack and started shoving Monk’s armor and equipment into it. He had basically removed everything. It fit snugly into the bag, and Zam ran after the Rancor, assuming this might be his only way to escape the crevasse. At the mouth, Zam saw the Rancor in the distance, having left a trail of Zanibar bodies in its wake.

After watching for only a second, the Rancor ran back towards Zam, who backed away.

The Rancor stopped just in front of him, and lowered his body to the ground.

The small, barely workable eyes seemed to lock onto Zam’s for a long moment.

Zam might have understood, “Monk?”

The Rancor seemed to blink. Without a neck, it was hard for him to nod, but the beast seemed like it did. The Rancor lowered its body further to the ground. Zam got the message, and climbed onto its back, swinging the sack over his shoulder, clipping the saber to his belt, and holding onto the Rancor’s rocky skin.

Just in time, too. Zanibar hunters on speeder bikes zwooshed in the distance, pulling up alongside the running Rancor and its Zeltron passenger.

A Rancor was fast - something Zam never had to think about before - but was no match for a speeder bike. Based on what he could tell, the bikes were civilian issue. No mounted weaponry. He based this information on the simple fact that the riders drove with one hand, and aimed and fired sidearms with the others. The Rancor hide was enough to absorb the blasterfire, but they weren’t aiming for the beast, they were aiming for the Jedi.

Zam wrapped the drawstring around one of the Rancor’s spines, freeing up his good arm to whip our his saber.

He placed his feet firmly against the Rancor’s back, and deflected fire aimed right for his face. The second bolt he caught at just the right angle and sent it back to the speeder below him, hitting it right in the alternator, leaving only a scorch mark, some skin, bones, and burned metal where a Zanibar on a speeder bike once was a second before.

Zam didn’t give himself the moment to celebrate, turned, and leapt into the air, slicing the head off of the driver and just managing to grab one of the bike’s handles. The Zanibar’s body fell off and rolled into the red dirt as Zam got his bearings, climbing into the bike’s seat and pulling up beside the Rancor.

They slowed and stopped, looking back behind them…

Nothing.

No Zanibar. No Separatists. Just the red desert wastes of Xo.

He looked towards the Rancor, who looked back at him.

“Monk?”

The Rancor snorted and snuffed, blinking once as if to say yep.

“You’re… all right.” He said, “Let’s get somewhere safe.”

The Rancor turned towards the rocky hill and pointed with a long, scary Rancor finger. Zam got off the bike, sliced it in half, and climbed on top of the Rancor’s back. He was carried into the hills, where they took shelter under the dry, scraggly trees and thorny foliage of Xo.

Once they were in the clear, Zam took off the flex-sack of Monk’s clone armor.

“I think we’re safe,” he said.

The Rancor closed its eyes, and its body began to shimmer and vibrate. The Rancor shape melted into a black, formless ball, steaming and gurgling into the air. After a minute, no Rancor remained. In fact, Zam was convinced at first that it wasn’t Monk at all. A quadripedal, black-furred, bright-eyed form with pointed ears, a long snout, with sharp carnivorous teeth stood before him.

The Gurlanin stretched as its bones clicked into place and its organs settled into form.

“Wait. Takkor?”

“No,” the Gurlanin said, “Monk. You… you won’t tell the others,” he asked, his head tilting to the left, “Right?”

Chapter Text

Chapter 16: ARYA

It had been several hours since Arya saw either of her Temple siblings.

The caves in Ilum were cold, and she thanked her Mirialan genes for their resistance to it.

When they first arrived they elected to stay together. But about an hour in, they came to a fork in the path. One route led down, further into the planet. Another led upwards. And another made a hard left turn. They sat there for a long time, wondering if there was supposed to be some way to know where to go.

Then it happened: all at once, they each heard individual calls from the Force.

Arya took the path downwards.

Every once in a while, she stopped, wondering if she might be able to hear the sound of Zam ’s or Naat’s footsteps echoing through the echoing walls of the cave.

And then the small voice in the nothingness stopped.

Arya could barely see in the darkness. She called out, “Naat? Zam?” but no response came back to her.

If the kyber crystal had a name, she ’d have called that out, too. But just shouting “kyber crystal” seemed a bit silly.

“Anyone?”

What came next wasn’t a call like it was before.

It was more like … a heart beat. A little pulse in the fabric of space-time, something she could feel with her cells if she stopped and listened.

Arya closed her eyes and stood as still as possible.

She stood that way, focusing not on her breath, but on the pulse of her cells, until the heartbeat in her chest matched that of the crystal somewhere in the Galaxy.

Miro Station, Pirdia System

1005 Days after Geonosis

The shuttle was ready to depart. Arvala-7 wasn’t far away, and Arya had this… this strange sense that it would all be over soon.

Not just the mission.

The war.

She watched as the Squad loaded up the shuttle with equipment and gear.

As per the Abbot’s wishes, no arms or weapons were taken off the shuttle, or loaded on. But they were very generous with provisions, medical supplies, and tech. There was also a few station natives who helped them make repairs and upgrades to their vehicle.

“Twenty minutes to depart, Commander.” Sandstorm said. She admired for a second that his armor was buffed and polished. She wondered how long it took him, and if it was a part of his routine, or was something unusual for them.

“Thank you, Sergeant.” She said, “Where’s Allen?”

“Not sure, ma’am.”

“I’ll check his bunk.” She nodded, giving him a bit of a salute, “Carry on.” Arya left the platform, her hand reaching - unconsciously - to her lightsaber dangling from her belt. Was it a comfort thing? Or did she just… not trust the Mandalorian and her mind didn’t get the signals that her brain was telling her yet? Master Ogel told her to always trust her instincts. But she didn’t know what her instinct was.

If anything, her instinct was to trust Allen Mordigala. It was her consciousness that told her Mandalorians shouldn’t be trusted.

At his door she knocked analog and called, “Allen?” The door whisked open and she saw a Mirialan sitting in the room, at a table where a suit of Mandalorian beskar’gam was lying in pieces. As she moved closer, illuminated by the pink-orange light reflected off the continent-sized clouds of this gas giant, she saw that he was painting it.

“Wear a mask,” he said, “You don’t want to breathe it in.”

She pulled out her rebreather and set it on her face. “You’re painting it white, like your old armor?”

“My old beskar’gam was white with red trim.”

“What does it signify?”

“White is cin vhetin, a fresh start.”

“And red?”

“Honoring my parents.”

“I don’t see any red here.” Arya said, “Just white.” Only as she got closer, she saw that it wasn’t entirely true. Allen’s armor was spotchy, with pieces of gray, darker gray, and flecks of black and brown mixed in with the white, “What does gray and brown signify?”

“Gray is mourning a lost love. But I didn’t paint the armor with any of the symbolisms in mind.”

“Oh? Why the colors then?”

“To match with the clones.”

“Of Krayt Squad?”

He nodded.

“Well, Tat, Sandstorm, and Czerka’s armors are all brown and tan.”

“Yeah, well, I figured if I ever get saddled with some other clones, it’ll be just as good.”

“I hope you don’t.”

Allen stopped painting to look askance at her.

“I just mean… I want the war to be over.”

He chuckled, “If only.”

“I feel in my heart it will be. Soon.”

“Yeah…” he put down the vambrace, “But there will be another one.”

She knew he was right. There hadn’t been true peace in the Galaxy since… maybe ever. Despite all the talk of how the Jedi and the Republic kept peace in the Galaxy for a thousand generations, everyone knew that this was a polite fiction. The Clone Wars were something else - a turning point in Galactic History comparable to the Sith Wars or the invention of hyperspace travel - but for the common people of the Galaxy, from the depths of Coruscant’s lower levels to the wilderness of the Outer Rim, peace was a precious commodity.

Maybe finally, something can be done about it.

“What’s this?” she asked, pointing to a black, floral design he had painted on one of the pauldrons.

“Mistletoe. The aliik of my clan.”

“The Mordigalas?”

“That’s right.”

The opposite pauldron had another design on it: one that Arya was already familiar with, “And this is the Mythosaur.”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“What, you think because I’m a Jedi, I can’t know about Mandalorian culture?”

“It wasn’t something I expected you to know.” He sat back and, satisfied with his work, began putting the armor on.

“Aren’t you upset just a little that you’re wearing someone else’s armor?”

“No. Beskar belongs with Mandalorians. I hope wherever my old armor is, it winds up back in a Mando’s hands. Nah, the only thing that’s got me hot is that arueti got his shabla hands on it.” He put on the breast plate and hooked up the cybernetic links that gave a Mandalorian warrior data and diagnostics from the entire suit. He hooked up the helmet’s wireless link before putting the bucket under his arm, “Think about it like this, if your lightsaber was stolen, you’d prefer it ended up in the hands of another Jedi, right?”

Arya nodded, “Excellent point.”

She hoped to the Force that that day would never come.

There was a knock on the door frame, “Commander?” It was Czerka. He was dressed in his full armor, but Arya could feel the demure demeanor with which he carried himself shimmering outwards like a wave in the energy of the room.

“Yes, Czerka?”

He looked between the Mirialan faces, “We’re ready to depart.”

She nodded, “Thank you. We’ll follow you out.”

Czerka nodded and left without a word.

There was a pregnant beat in the room before Allen said, “You probably sense that better than I do.”

“Sense what?” Arya asked.

He turned and held her gaze for a second, “You’re a Jedi. Aren’t you supposed to be able to read minds or something?”

“That’s… just a stereotype.” Arya felt her face get weirdly hot.

Allen smirked, seeing her cheeks flush a deep forest green, “Ah… so you do know what I’m talking about.”

“Affection for one’s soldiers isn’t a flaw,” she said, repeating Master Ogel’s words, “It’s a sign of trust and loyalty.”

“Don’t have to tell me, princess.” Allen said, trying hard not to laugh, “I’m a Mandalorian, we’re nothing if not passionately loyal to our covert.”

“I hope you’ll carry that sentiment over to Krayt Squad.”

“I promise you,” he said, “I am fully invested.” They made their way down the hall, up the elevator shaft, and onto the platform. The winds had begun to pick up, more than was considered usual at this altitude in the gas giant.

“Commander?” Sandstorm’s voice came over the comm link, “We should head out sooner rather than later. Conditions are becoming perilous to our departure.”

“We’re in sight of the shuttle, Sergeant.”

The wind certainly had picked up. Arya’s robes stormed around her in the high-altitude gusts. Her hair flew into her face, and she suddenly saw why some of her co-Mirialans wore headscarves. Once she, Allen, and Czerka got into the shuttle, Sandstorm closed the door behind them and let the Miro Station flight command know they were ready to take off.

“Ready, Commander?”

“Ready, Sandstorm.” Arya secured her bag below her seat while Allen sat in one of the chairs and put his buy’ce on.

Tat removed his kukhri and started tossing it in the air, catching it on the descent.

“You sure you want to do that while we’re moving, vod?” Allen asked.

Tat responded by tossing the blade in the air, catching it with one finger, and twirling it around his index finger as the shuttle rose into the atmosphere and accelerated to cruising speed.

Tat didn’t miss a beat and as the shuttle prepared to enter hyperspace, he caught the blade on its point and rotated it with his thumb into a sharp, shiny blur.

“All right, then.” Allen said.

“How long til Arvala-7?” Czerka asked.

“Six hour flight.” Sandstorm said.

“You thinkin’ of catching some shut-eye?” Allen asked.

“I’ve slept enough.”

Arya sensed an odd, unspoken statement at the end of Czerka’s words. As if he was signing something in Tusken to finish off his sentence, like thanks to you, I was able to sleep at all and not forever.

The you in the clone’s thoughts Arya recognized all too clearly.

Chapter Text

Chapter 17: CAL

“Why?” Ujik asked, “Just… seriously, why?”

D-Zed stared at his new hair-style in the mirror, “I think it looks good.”

“I just want to know, why?” Hammer asked.

“Leave him be, vode,” Cal said, “You know how it is, we all need something that’s our own.”

“Yeah, but it’s not my own.” D-Zed said, “Look here.” He tossed a sheet of flimsy at Ujik, folded five or six times.

Ujik unfolded it, revealing an old drawing of Mandalorian warriors. Each wore armor, two carried spears, and the one in the center a beskad. The two with spears wore their helmets, one with jaings, and the one in the center carried his bucket under his arm.

In the Old Way, Mandos never removed their helmets. So clearly this was something else. Some depiction of a Mando lord, or rebel, or something.

“That there,” D-Zed said, “Is a Mandalorian warrior. A daimyo of Tao, where they still hold to some of the old ways. He wears his hair like all the daimyo used to wear it: in a top-knot.”

“It looks ridiculous. Definitely not GAR standard.” Ujik said.

“Yeah, well, if they want, they can just try to hold me down and shave it off.”

“I might try it myself.” Hammer said.

“What, the top-knot or the shaving?” Cal asked.

“The shaving.” Hammer said, “Unless you want that to be your new thing? Your new name? ‘Top-knot’?”

D-Zed smiled, “I like it. There’s enough Double Zeds around anyway. Top-knot makes me sound like…” he took a pose, using his vibro-blade as if it were a beskad, “An old Mando warrior!”

“Makes you sound ori’buyce, kih’kovid.”

“Nah,” Cal said, the look growing on him, “I think it makes you look like yourself. You know. It’s just so… you.”

Ull Base, Drongar

1006 Days after Geonosis

The missiles were almost continuous at this point. Since their attack on the Gibadan base, the Separatists simply pulled all their wets off-world and decided that orbital bombardment was the best strategy going forward.

The fires that stretched from the north pole to the equator were mostly self-sustaining at this point, or so GAR command told them, so there were really no reason for droids to maintain the inferno.

Plus the latest rumor had it that the Seps finally figured out that the bota was losing its potency for human usage.

Drongar was dying, and they intended to make as many Republic forces on the planet die with it.

Hence the missiles from remaining towers that the Separatists were firing at Ull Base. Droid fighters flew continuous passes over the base, but Republic anti-air turrets were decent at their job. Meanwhile the Democracy Ascendant in orbit above them had a constant stream of fighters circle over Ull to take out as many as they could.

The shield generator was holding.

For now.

Every once in a while the AA guns missed a cycle and one of the bombs got through, hitting the shield and taxing the generator’s systems.

Since they were pulling out anyway, the possibility of bringing down a new power core was pretty far down on the GAR’s list of priorities. They’d just have to bring it back up anyway.

Colonel Urkot insisted that the Epsilons get a good night’s rest, worried that they might need them in the final withdrawal from Drongar.

Cal walked around the slushy, snowy mud of Ull Base hoping that his Squad was getting the sleep they needed.

“Hey, Sarge.” He recognized Atiniir’s voice. The Mandalorian was only a step behind him. Above them, an AA missile struck a bomb and shards of shrapnel and energy rained onto the shield before being vaporized or redirected. Atiniir clapped him on the shoulder, “Good fight out there.”

“We make a good team,” Cal said.

“Thanks,” Atiniir said, “I know Commando Squads aren’t usually too happy with newcomers in their ranks. I’m honored to fight alongside you.”

“You’ve been fighting alongside clones for some time now, though?”

“Regs mostly,” Atiniir said, “But they don’t have the Manda the way you Commandos do.”

Cal recognized that.

“Shouldn’t you be getting some rest?” Atiniir asked, “Colonel’s orders.”

“Shouldn’t you?”

“Ah, I’m too hyped up. That was a good shabla hunt.”

Cal nodded, “It was.”

“What’s going on? You seem a bit… off.”

“I guess I am.”

They walked in silence - save for the sounds of battle far off in the distance - until they reached a quiet spot outside the command center. There were actually quite a few of these islands of calm left. Everything that could be packed and removed was packed and ready to be removed. This included the soldiers and clones. They only awaited the safety of the dropships and fighters to escort them out of here and into the (relative) security of open space. Until then, there was nothing to do but wait.

Atiniir sat on an ordnance crate, “How old are you?”

“How old?”

“Yeah.”

Age was difficult to calculate in the Galaxy. Hyperspace travel distorted time as well as space. A denizen of the Galaxy who spent most of their time offworld could only count via the Galactic Standard Calendar, but it was only roughly accurate. Some rumored that this was why Wookiees appeared to live so long: they spent so much time in their secret hyperspace routes that they appeared to live for centuries when actually, if one was to watch a Wookiee be born, live, and die without ever leaving Kashyyyk, they’d live about as long as an average Human.

It wasn’t true. Wookiees naturally lived for centuries. But it illustrated a point.

“About thirteen.”

Atiniir closed one eye and looked sideways at Cal. “If I had to guess, seeing you out on the street, I’d say… thirty.”

“Well, the Kaminoans engineered us to age twice as fast as normal Humans.”

“So that would make you, biologically, about twenty-six. Add on three years of continuous warfare, and yeah, about thirty.”

“But I’m not thirty,” Cal said.

“I recognize that. A thirteen-year old would make a terrible warrior. Hell, they make terrible soldiers even for osik Demagoltyc warlords who don’t mind using child soldiers as blaster fodder. So they had to age you up just to make you battle-ready.”

“Why do you ask?”

“I’ve become fascinated by you lot.”

“And by ‘us lot’ you mean clones?”

“I mean you clones. The Galaxy is full of clones, but this is the first time a group this large has ever been produced. You’re developing your own culture, your own language, mannerisms, and all sorts. It’s incredible to see. A lot of it was influenced by Mandalorians, but it’s so fascinating to see that there’s elements of Corellian, Tusken, Coruscanti, Naboo, all sorts of cultural influences involved.”

“Well, me and my Squad are Mandalorian through-and-through.”

“I hear you,” Atiniir said, “Is that where you’d like to go when the war ends?”

Cal had never thought of the war ending. He was born for it. So it stood to reason that the end of the war, would be the end of the Grand Army. The end of Epsilon Squad. The end of him.

“No, seriously, Cal. What would you like to do at the end of the war?”

“I don’t know.” Cal finally said, “What would you do?”

“Me?” Atiniir chuckled as another bomb burst over their heads, “Collect my fee, probably buy my own ship, keep flying. Probably head back to the Covert for a bit. See my folks. Maybe take a few weeks on Zeltros. Briikasak before finding more work.”

Sergeant Ambros taught them Mando’a. Briikasak was a good time “on shore.” As if Mandalorians were sailing the seas and returning home for a little R-n-R. “I suppose if all the clones got some briikasak after the war, we might find ourselves asking the question of ‘what next?’”

“That’s my point, vod. You should probably all be asking yourselves that now. You’re young, yet. Even with your advanced aging.”

“I guess… I guess I’d like my Squad to stay together. Like we’d be our own Covert.”

“I could see that,” Atiniir said.

“And Naat, the Commander…” but Cal trailed off, and left the notion of Commander Reath there between them.

“Has Commander Reath been the only woman you’ve ever known?”

“No,” Cal answered automatically, “Every Clone knows General Shaak Ti.”

Atiniir smiled, “I think you mean mommy.”

Cal almost grew angry, “What do you mean?” Was he insulting the General?

“General Ti and General Plo Koon are in charge of the GAR at large, particularly how the clones are doing, right? General Shaak Ti has mostly stayed on Kamino overseeing their training and operations? Clone mommy, Clone daddy.”

Was he making this up? “I don’t… Where are you getting these terms from?”

“I’ve heard a few clones mention them.”

This was news to Cal.

“I’m not using them to make fun of you. You clones never had mothers or fathers. It makes sense that the Jedi who saw you through pivotal moments in your short lives you see as mother and father figures.”

“What’s the point?” Cal said, “We’re clones. Soldiers of the Republic. This is our lot in life. Just as yours was to be born a Mandalorian.”

“I wasn’t born a Mandalorian.”

“You weren’t?”

“No. Not at all. I was born on Zeltros. Raiders attacked our village in the middle of the night. I was taken at age seven by Zygerrian slavers and sold on an open market in the Outer Rim. As I was being transferred to a new buyer, my Covert attacked the caravan and freed the slaves. Most they were able to send home, but I had nowhere to go. My village was decimated, scattered across the Galaxy. Plus, it’s not like I knew how or where to go. So Uncle Beskar took me in as a Foundling.”

“It’s kind of like the Jedi.”

“Almost. Jedi seek out those sensitive to the Force. Mandalorians take in those who have nowhere else to go.”

Cal listened to a pair of droid fighters overhead as they screamed into range of the AA towers. One was hit by a missile and the other screeched away towards the south.

“You should visit Manda’yaim. Or my Covert. You already speak the language. You’ve got the Manda in you. Our people would welcome the clones with open arms.”

The clones almost never referred to it as Manda’yaim, even when speaking Mando’a. It was always Mandalore, a corruption by the aruetii of Mand’alor, the name of the leader.

It was never Manda’yaim, “Home of the Manda.”

“Yeah,” Cal said, “Maybe.”

The thoughts swirling in his head Atiniir had somehow managed to give shape. A strange, kind of downward shape that served primarily to exhaust him.

“I think I’m going to turn in.” Cal said, “I… I think the Colonel’s right. They’ll need us for the final push out of here.”

“You need a night cap?” Atiniir removed the flask from his belt and held it out to him.

Cal looked at it for a long moment before taking it and taking a swig of the tihaar inside. It made him think of his brothers. Of Sergeant Ambros. Of a future he might or might not have.

“Vor’e.” He handed the flask back to the Mandalorian.

“Gede’ye.” Atiniir said, taking a swig of his own and looking up at the bursts of shrapnel and illuminated trails of the fire above them. As if listening to it was a Mandalorian lullaby.

Cal returned to the prefabs where Ujik, Top-knot, and Hammer were sleeping. He wandered through the dark, with his genetically-adjusted eyes, sensitive to catching every photon bouncing off of ambient and sensor lights found his spot on a top bunk. He crawled into it and lied on his back, staring up into the darkness, waiting for his brain to calm down.

He tried to imagine what a future could possibly consist of for someone like him. Atiniir had all but invited him and every clone trooper in the Galaxy to come to Mandalore.

Not Mandalore.

Manda’yaim.

Home.

But when he thought of that, of a future where he and his brothers could live and forge their own destiny, he could only think about the Commander.

Since Geonosis, he had never known a life without her.

Not the Commander.

Naat.

Chapter Text

Chapter 18: MONK

How long had it been?

Yagorr found him in the cliffs overlooking the Eastern Seas. Xavvic had morphed into one of the sea-birds that nested in the high rocks, diving into the shoals, feasting on shellfish, meaty sea plants, and the organic detritus that washed ashore.

Eighty cycles.

That ’s how long it’d been.

So Yagorr told her.

Ah, of course.

You ’ve been summoned by the Nest.

Every Gurlanin knew what this meant. Even Xavvic. She looked down at her chicks. They slept. For now.

Yagorr looked down at them. He was morphed into one of the cliff-dwelling sea birds as well. Only, he ’d been one for less than a quarter cycle.

You must return. You must face the judgment.

Xavvic knew what that meant. She knew what would be required of her to rejoin the Nest. For a Gurlanin to lose herself, to become one of them, was to become unGurlanin.

There was only one way back. And they had a term for it, the once unGurlanins who returned to the Nest.

The price.

If Xavvic returned to the Nest, followed Yagorr back to their people, she knew exactly what would happen: they would berate Xavvic, they would force her to abandon this morph for as long as anyone could remember, and they would require her to pay the price before she ever returned, with two witnesses to confirm that it had been paid.

She looked down at her chicks. Her sea-bird children, who could never be Gurlanin, not even unGurlanin like her, who could never melt into life itself and become anything and everything. Who could never feel the pulse of the Force through their heart, and communicate their most intimate feelings to their mother, or any others.

Liko, the runt of the litter, chirped awake. Xavvic lowered her head.

Leave.

You will be unGurlanin forever.

I know the price.

Xo

1007 Days after Geonosis

Psycho and Monk were just returning from patrol. At his prefab, Monk laid down his carbine and took off his helmet, clipping it to his belt. He sat in the shelter and removed parts of his armor, checking in with Butcher as Rancor and Thread tagged into the perimeter patrol.

With the most cumbersome parts of his armor removed, Monk put his boots back on, and wandered over to the campfire. The Commander, Agent Strill, Takkor, and the Sergeant were standing around the table looking at a map printed on flimsy with a couple datapads out.

“It’s your decision,” Tion was saying, “You’re going to have to be the one to ultimately make the call.”

Zam took the words and closed his eyes tight as if he needed to absorb them into his mind, “All right, all right.” But then he was silent.

“Commander…” Butcher started, as if worried Zam might’ve fallen asleep.

Takkor, in Gurlanin form, watched as Monk approached. He had a look in his eyes that Monk was all too familiar with by now. And when he said “Hello” Monk knew he was reading into Takkor’s tone, but it was hard not to. Especially with the pulse of knowing echoing from Takkor’s whole being.

“I know, I know,” Zam said, “Tion… do you think this is a good idea?”

“A good idea? I mean,” Tion crossed her arms and shrugged, as if to say who’s to say? “All I can say for certain is that it would be a game changer.”

Zam sighed, as if that made the decision only that much harder.

Takkor stood and sauntered over to where Monk was sitting, opening a ration pack and digging in with his multi-tool, “Should I ask?”

“They’re talking about knocking down a food processing center. Freeing the livestock.”

“Livestock…” Monk said, wondering how he was going to eat with the word that was almost a slur just being thrown out there, “You mean… prisoners.”

“Prisoners of war,” Takkor said, “yes. Mostly clones.”

“If we succeed, it will strike a huge blow against the Zanibar.” Butcher said, “On the plus side, we’ll have reinforcements, with clones and other soldiers who have a bone to pick with the Zanibar. We have enough weapons to arm them and build a proper insurgency on this world. On the other hand,” Butcher exhaled, “we don’t know what condition they’re in. We might be shooting ourselves in the foot by taking on hungry, injured soldiers. They might just be a liability if they can’t be controlled.”

“I’m not interested in controlling them,” Zam said, “but we should get them out. Regardless.”

“I agree.” Tion said, “But it’s important to understand the risk. We don’t even know how many we might end up with. But I agree, it is the right thing to do.”

“I don’t question it being the right thing to do. But if it jeopardizes the mission…” Zam trailed off.

“If it jeopardizes the mission, worst case scenario,” Takkor said, “we can give the prisoners a clean death. In which case, we’ll be depriving the Zanibar of their wealth and food supply.”

“Takkor’s right.” Tion said, “Anything is better than what the Zanibar have planned for them.”

Monk had to agree with them. He’d been livestock before.

Especially for sapient beings. Knowing they were being fattened just to be slaughtered for the sake of another that saw one as just… just meat.

“All right,” Zam said, “Agent Strill, Tion, you’ll lead the command this time.”

It wasn’t a question.

“If you insist, Commander.” She said, “Still, if this is about the attack on the weapons depot, you shouldn’t be so critical of yourself.”

“Yeah… but it was a debacle.”

“I’d have to agree with the Mandalorian, Commander,” Butcher said, “No casualties. Minor wounds. Our position wasn’t compromised. And we were able to make off with a huge stock of Zanibar weaponry. A rousing success, even if sticking the landing was a bit difficult.”

“I agree, Commander.” Monk said.

Everyone turned and looked at him.

He and Zam made eye contact… and had an entire conversation with their eyes. Now Takkor wasn’t the only one that knew. And even then, Monk didn’t know if they were quite the same.

“All right.” Zam said, “We’ll send a recon party, and if all goes well… three days?”

“Three days.” Butcher said.

“Monk and me make a good team,” Takkor said, their shape-shifting natural scout, “He and I can go again.”

Neither Tion nor Butcher reacted. But Zam looked up and made eye-contact with the other Gurlanin and swallowed, as if uncertain he could keep the information from bursting out of him, “Sure.”

“Yeah,” Monk said, looking askance at Takkor.

“For now,” Zam said, “Let’s just… get some rest. A lot can happen in three days.”

Three days.

“I want to check on the ship,” Zam said, almost out of nowhere.

“The one you came in on?” Tion asked.

“Yeah, we haven’t looked at it since we arrived. It’d be good just to take a look. Make sure no… Jawas or whatever have spotted it.”

“I don’t think there are any Jawas on Xo,” Tion said, “but it would be good to just take a look.”

“Monk,” Zam said, “Will you spot me?”

Monk shot to his feet, almost spilling his ration pack, “Oh… uh, yeah.” He felt a wave of energy like a smirk coming from Takkor.

Takkor certainly knew that Zam knew. But what exactly did Zam know? They hadn’t said anything since the attack in the gorge.

He threw one last piece of biscuit in his mouth and picked up the carbine by his prefab, walking westwards with Zam. They waited until they were out of sight of camp, surrounded only by dry shrubbery and red rocks. Both the Jedi and the Gurlanin-as-clone looked straight ahead, somewhere between pretending the other wasn’t there, waiting for the other to break the ice.

“So…” Zam said, finally finding the words, “You’re… Gurlanin.” He said it quietly, as if the entire Squad was right behind them.

Monk didn’t say anything for nearly a minute. Or at least, that’s what it felt like, “N-No… not exactly.”

“So you’re… an other kind of shape shifter?”

“No. I… I am genetically a Gurlanin.”

Again, that silence.

“I’m… we would say in our language, I’m an unGurlanin. I’m… I’m no longer a Gurlanin. Culturally. I’m not welcome in the Nest of my people.”

Zam responded quickly for once, “So… you’ve been exiled.”

Monk tried to answer in kind, “Yes. Permanently.”

They kept walking. They walked quietly for so long that they could see the mound of camouflage under which their ship was hidden.

“There’s only one sin a Gurlanin can commit to become unGurlanin: they breed with another species in morph. This is… this is the worst thing a Gurlanin can do.”

“Oh…” Zam said, “Why?”

“If I morph a Rancor, and mate with another Rancor, it means we’d have purely Rancor children. The children of a Gurlanin-in-morph and a native target morph are pure target morph. There’s not a shadow of Gurlanin DNA in them. It means loyalties become muddied. To call one unGurlanin is equal to calling one a traitor. If one is caught ‘lost,’ then there’s only one thing to do: publicly repent to the Nest as a whole… and then kill their offspring.”

“What if you don’t?”

“You’re declared unGurlanin. And if you return to the Nest, you’ll be killed on sight.”

“Oh.” Zam stopped walking, “But… but why?”

“Why?”

“Yeah. Why? I mean, I know the whole Galaxy isn’t like Zeltros, but that seems a bit extreme. Even by Mirialan standards.”

“Enjoying mating while in morph is… well, everyone does it. No one says they do, they all deny it when asked, but if you ask a Gurlanin if they’ve never mated while in morph, they’re lying.”

“A hundred percent? Every Gurlanin in the Galaxy has mated with another creature in morph?”

“A hundred. And some like to do it with each other in morph.”

Zam laughed, “Sorry! Sorry, it’s…” he exhaled, “I mean, I know this is serious stuff, but I just never thought I’d learn about what kinks Gurlanins have.”

“Well, this is Gurlanin kink 101: transform into Lothcats and start going at it. Just… if one of you gets pregnant, morph back.”

“The fetus doesn’t carry over?”

“No. Never. Not even if you move from female morph to female morph.”

“Oh… oh, I didn’t even think of that!”

“Yeah, my base form is female. If I was impregnated as a Gurlanin and morph back to this Human form, whatever conceived cells in my Gurlanin form just melt through me in the process.”

“Whoa.” Zam said, clearly enjoying this a bit too much. Why wouldn’t he? It was all academic to the young Jedi, “So… some Gurlanins have young in a different morph… and keep them?”

“Raise them. Join a herd, or a pack, or a flock, or whatever.”

“And they’re found out and exiled?”

“They’re given the option to return to the Nest. To publicly atone. And then to take two witnesses back to their young and…”

“But… why? Why not let them live?”

“It’s said that in ancient times, Gurlanins used to allow this sort of thing. Well, not so much allow, as not care at all. Then there was The Culling. See, if I have kittens as a Lothcat, I have to raise them as Lothcats. They can’t be Gurlanins. They never can be.

“But then, another Gurlanin gets hungry. Comes along. Eats one of my kittens. Not cannibalism, technically, but cannibalism by proxy. And I facilitated it. Now either out of honor or grief, I seek out vengeance. I kill them.

“The Culling was to Gurlanins like the Jedi Civil War was to your kind. One honor killing, proxy cannibalism episode spiraled out of control until all of Qiilura was aflame with Gurlanins killing Gurlanins. It lasted a generation until Uulolo the Great established The Law: a Gurlanin will only mate with a Gurlanin. Any Gurlanin which mates with a non-Gurlanin becomes an unGurlanin. The only path back from unGurlaninhood, is to end the forbidden line they had spawned.

“Those who do not… are unGurlanin forever.”

At the ship, Monk set his carbine down against the hull and leaned his whole Human body against it.

“Karabast.” Zam said, “How… how long have you been an unG… an exile?”

“Ah…” Monk scratched his head, “I think it was about a century ago. By the GSC.”

“Wait… how old are you?”

“Three hundred and forty-four Qiiluran years.”

“How many is that in Galactic Standard?”

Monk shrugged, “A hundred and seventy or something like that.”

“I… I had no idea Gurlanins could live that long. I guess, I really didn’t know anything about Gurlanins at all.”

“There’s a billion sapient species in the Galaxy. No one expects even a Jedi to know them all.”

“Still,” Zam said, “I wish I knew.”

“You can’t tell anyone.”

“Oh, I won’t.”

“Good. Because…” but Monk trailed off into silence and Zam could only guess for a long moment why it was such an important secret.

“You don’t know what it’s like, to feel like you don’t belong. Never belong. For centuries upon centuries. Yet everyone you knew, grew up with, who hunted with you, loved you, raised you… see you as less than… you.”

“Can I ask… why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you do it? You must have known what would happen.”

“It just… was who I was.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t know how else to explain it. I always was unGurlanin. It just took a while to realize it. For it to come out, and affect how I presented to the Galaxy. And when I did… the Galaxy turned its back on me.”

“Not the whole Galaxy.” Zam said, reaching a hand out and touching Monk’s arm, “You have Red Squad.”

“That’s why you can’t tell anybody.” Monk said, “The Squad… they don’t know. Loyalty is everything to the clones, and if they suspect I’m not one of them, it’ll shatter their trust in me. I grew up with Butcher, Bruiser, Psycho, Rancor, and Thread. And a bunch of other clones, too. Just out of the vats, I was able to slip into Tipoca City as a cadet, and I made friends with two others I still think about: Calc and Czerka. And with their accelerated aging and my… effective amortality, I figured they’d be dead long before I had to reveal to them that we weren’t, in fact, genetically identical.”

“I just realized,” Zam said, “That’s why you don’t have any tattoos or scars. Your cells regenerate based on your DNA.”

“Yep.”

“But… aren’t you just treating the Squad as you would your Nest before you became an unGurlanin?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you weren’t able to come out to the Nest, and when you did, you were exiled. Now… now you can’t come out to the Squad because you’re afraid they’ll lose trust in you. Aren’t you just repeating the same cycle?”

Monk was silent for a long time, “Belonging is hard when you’re alone in the Galaxy.”

“Does Takkor know?”

“Yes,” Monk said, “we can tell each other’s Gurlanin ‘signature’ in the Force as easily as you can tell if someone is a Jedi.”

“So does he know you’ve been exiled, or does he think you’re just another Gurlanin?”

“I don’t know.”

“What if… he finds out?”

Monk shrugged, “He might try to kill me.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 19: NAAT

The Force flew through Sev ’rance Tann like the chill gusts of a frozen sea. The Dark Acolyte, one of Count Dooku’s proteges, rode the wave of violence and hate and anger.

Naat didn ’t stand a chance against her. But Master Echuu Shen’jon was not some Padawan. Nor was he merely a Jedi Knight.

He was human.

It was overwhelming. The thoughts of her brother, of Master Echuu ’s first Padawan, slain by none other than the Chiss at the end of his blade.

They both felt it. Only, instead of rejecting it, instead of pushing back against it …

Echuu Shen ’jon embraced it.

Tann thrust her dark gold saber forward. Echuu parried, sliding his blade against hers, the crackling of plasma burning the air around them. Once he reached her hilt, Echuu held her in the Force to keep from retreating, a move that caught her off-guard. He flicked his wrist, and Tann ’s sword hand was severed from her body.

She screamed and fell to her knees. Cringing in the pain, her whole body tried not to go into shock. She turned her head up, her red eyes burning like blood on fire as they stared with all the hate in the Galaxy at her Master ’s face, “Savor your victory while you can, Jedi!” she said the word like a curse, “You and your kind are soon to be extinguished.”

Master Echuu Shen ’jon reached out his right hand, gripping her mess of tangled, black hair, sweating in the Krantian humidity. He pulled her body up, making sure she was in pain and agony.

“Master,” Naat shouted, her hands still bound, “it’s over!”

But he was too far gone. Master Echuu placed the burning plasma of his blade against her throat. To the Separatist General ’s credit, she refused to cry out further, to give in to the pain as the Jedi freed her head from her body.

“She’s gone.” Naat said, her heart sinking, “Let us return to the Jedi Council.”

But Master Echuu was quiet for a long time. He lifted the headless corpse into the air and contemplated what he would do next.

Drongar, Ull Base

1008 Days after Geonosis

She woke not to the strange, stale frigidness, but to a sudden sticky heat. Naat took about two seconds to suddenly feel like she was being steamed like a Traskian Delicacy.

Had they fixed the shield generator?

The prefab shook. There was shouting. Screaming. And the familiar sound of blasting heavy cannons.

Nope.

Naat threw off her blanket and shot to her feet.

She slept in her clothes this late into the war, saving herself the precious seconds of dressing as she emerged into the base.

Everything was covered in mud.

Everything.

The clones scrambling around her wore armor caked in the stuff. Half the vehicles that remained wore a layer of it. The walkers were too stuck in the stuff to move, and she could see at least four AT-RTs that tripped, the vehicles abandoned in the muck to rot.

“Commander! Where are you?”

The voice was one of the Epsilons. She couldn’t tell which one, what with the chaos around her, but she could tell via her commlink that it was one of them.

Plus, they called her ‘Commander.’

“I’m by my prefab.”

Before she could complete the word, an echo of fire and death swam through her. Naat threw her body into the mud as two droid fighters screamed overhead strafing the ground. Two blasters hit her prefab and it exploded, the fire pouring just over her head like a wave.

Before it had even passed, two hands grabbed her on either side. Ujik on her left, Cal on her right. Atiniir, Hammer, and Top-knot weren’t far behind. The five in camouflaged armor moved like a single organism, one that Naat suddenly felt ill-equipped to lead.

“What happened?” she asked, nearly screaming into the commlink.

“Shield generator shut down.” Cal said, “Not sure if it was sabotage or malfunction. But as soon as it did, they threw every clanker in the sector at us.”

“Dank ferrik!” Top-knot swore. He turned to the direction of the blaster fire, along with Atiniir, and they returned with a storm of their own.

“Where the kriff is our air support?” Cal shouted to cruiser above their heads.

“At least two minutes out.” The Venator called back.

“Two minutes?” Atiniir said, “there won’t be anything down here but droids and dead bodies in two kriffing minutes!”

Naat took out her lightsabers, “Are there ships?” There should have been LAAT/i's ferrying them from this mucky hell into the safety of black vaccuum near constantly. How did the Separatists get the drop on them like this?

“Waiting on the dropships.” Hammer said. He took two blasters to the left shoulder. The katarn armor absorbed the fire and he returned it into the droid’s face with his side arm.

“All units, attention all units!” it was the voice of Colonel Urkot, “All units assemble on the central tarmac. The dropships will be there in approximately one…”

But the time to their aerial salvation was cut short. Colonel Urkot and the rest of the Ull Base command - were there anyone in the building - ceased to exist as three bombs were dropped from overhead and onto the Command Center.

The Epsilons backed into a wedge formation, the burning wreckage of Naat’s prefab behind them.

“Commander Reath,” Atiniir said, “May I make a suggestion?”

Naat ignited her lightsabers, “Please!”

“Let’s not head towards the designated dropship landing zones.”

The clones looked at the Mandalorian for a half second before returning to the targets. Naat desperately wished she had a helmet. It was hard to hear anything, “Then where?”

What Atiniir said was lost in the sounds of blaster fire and everything else.

“Where?”

Atiniir made a sound and the clones looked at him. He backed up into the wedge and knelt onto the ground. On a datapad mounted on the inside of his right wrist, Atiniir put six markers into the wilderness outside Ull Base. He was implying they should abandon the base completely. Assembling anywhere near the landing zones would basically be putting a target on them, and give the droids a very easy opportunity to shoot them out of the sky. Even being escorted by Z-95s and Y-Wings they’d still know where to pick them up. Randomly sending people into the wilderness, however.

Naat nodded and sent out the coordinates to all Ull Base units. She reached for her comm and broadcast to all secured Republic frequencies:

“All units, this is Commander Reath. I am broadcasting six markers outside Ull Base’s perimeter. The base has been compromised and the landing zones are known and being targeted by the droids. Pick a marker at random and head there. Venator command, do not, I repeat do not send dropships to designated landing areas. They will be shot down.”

She could only hear the click of a voice on the Venator, and then half of the word “Copy.”

Her command relayed to what was left of the entire base, Atiniir pointed west and the Epsilons followed. Cal checked to make sure that he was last while Naat ran ahead of him.

Smoke. Fire. Mud. Blaster. Screams. Bodies. Burnt, twisted metal fragments. Explosions.

Their whole world was consumed by the sounds and motions of battle.

And then Naat’s foot got sucked into the mud. She fell, planting her fact solidly into the muck. She felt a sharp sting, and when Cal lifted her by her hood, Naat pried a shard of metal from her face, blood gushing down her visage and onto her robes.

Three blaster bolts impacted Cal’s armor. He whirled around and nearly emptied his blaster’s power pack into the half-open chassis of a B2. Naat didn’t even think, her body reacting with such suddenness that her sabers flashed and below her crumpled the chassis of two B1s.

“Let’s go!” Cal tugged Naat’s sleeve.

They turned and ran west.

The base ended, the walls erected by Republic construction droids stood perfect and pristine. Only the gate was a damaged, burned wreck of itself.

Beyond it lay the nearly pristine western ocean of Drongar: what planetologists referred to as a “giga pond.”

Naat didn’t realize until just now that the marker Atiniir was running toward was literally in the water.

Outside the eastern gate, not a hundred meters from the overgrown shoreline, where terrestrial-based plants extended apparently just as far into the water, at least a hundred droid ships stood out in the seas firing artillery blasts up and into Ull Base.

Republic ships stuck close to the shoreline, shooting back, trying to stop the artillery blasts arcing through the air to no avail.

“Two anti-air ships.” Atiniir said, “We need to take those out if we’re going to stand a chance of getting picked up.”

“How do we get over there?” Naat asked. She could Force jump, but not quite that far. And of course, none of the Epsilon clones could, even if Atiniir could jetpack over.

“I could go back and look for some jetpacks for the rest of us.” Hammer said.

Naat couldn’t tell if he was serious.

“The risk they shoot us out of the sky is already too high.” Atiniir said.

Plus how the kriff are we going to find anything in the base wreckage behind us? Naat couldn’t believe they were even considering it.

“I’ll jet over to one of the destroyers. See if they can give us a lift.”

“Just stay low.” Naat said.

“Utility Trawler, there!” Cal said, pointing northwards up the coast towards the Republic docks, what was left of them. But there was a listing utility trawler. Top-knot and Ujik were already running toward it. Naat followed after them, cutting through the first of the battle droids that seemed to take notice that the base’s survivors were scattering in all different directions.

Top-knot broke from his run and immediately slid underneath the trawler, tweaking with the wires to rig the broken repulsor lifts to power up just long enough to get them to the Separatist ships.

Ujik got onto the controls, pushing aside the headless droid that still clung to them, while Hammer and Cal pushed it out onto the open water.

Naat helped Top-knot climb in and they shoved off.

“Never thought we’d be in the navy Navy.” Ujik laughed, the ship’s thrusters coughing to life.

“Mandalorian, report.” Naat called on her commlink, realizing just then that she had spent the entire time outside her prefab sans rebreather. If she survived this, she would probably need to get a year’s worth of therapy to get all the Drongarian spores and who knows what else out of her system.

“Here with a couple clones on a destroyer, Commander,” he said, “We’re heading to the first anti-air ship.”

“Mark it, Mando,” Cal called, “We’ll head towards your position.”

Atiniir dropped a pin on their map and Ujik pushed the trawler’s thrusters at full throttle.

About fifty meters to their south, a Republic destroyer, one of its thrusters belching black smoke into Drongar’s poisonous atmosphere, headed in their direction. The ship’s cannons opened fire, only one in ten of their shots landing on the Confederate vessels.

Four STAPs, piloted by mottled green-and-brown B1s zoomed past the Utility Trawler, targeting the destroyer. They surrounded it like a swarm of insects, firing into the cabin, killing everyone inside, while others targeted the thruster still online.

“We can’t help them.” Cal said, sensing Naat’s distress.

“But Atiniir’s in there!”

The ship exploded, blossoming into an orange and yellow flower of flame. Shrapnel - made of durasteel, plastisteel, and bodies - flew in all directions as the hulk of the ship crashed into the sea.

“No…” Naat whispered, too shocked to scream.

Out of the plume of flame flew a trail of smoke. Only, it wasn’t a missile or a piece of wreckage. It had two arms, two legs, and carried a sword.

And was wearing beskar.

In the chaos, and almost losing his life, Atiniir flew literally too high. The anti-air ship targeted the jetpack-wearing Mandalorian warrior, and fired. The missile was fast, but Atiniir managed to see it just in time, and cut his thrusters, falling with style into the sea.

Trust the Squad, Naat heard Master Echuu’s voice in her head. What she wouldn’t give to have him there beside her.

“Ujik, full throttle to the Separatist ship.”

“Eighteen seconds, Commander.”

“Everyone with me.”

“Everyone?” Cal asked. 

“Everyone.”

The Utility Trawler was on the Confederate ship before the droids could register it as a threat. Indeed, they might not have understood it was until their sensors picked up the flash of lightsabers and the signature of Clone Commandos.

Ujik put the controls on auto and joined his brothers at the bow. Naat Force-pushed her whole body up, igniting the sabers and slicing through a pair of droids as she landed. When the Trawler impacted the anti-air ship, it exploded, leaving very little mark on the warship, but certainly not helping their cause.

The clones, as one, leapt over the side of their ship and landed on the deck, firing non-stop at whatever was made of metal and moved.

Naat sliced open the locked door to the interior cabin.

“Watch out!” Hammer said, kicking in the weakened, melted fragments of the door, and then threw two thermal detonators inside.

Out of the water beside the Confederate ship, a Mandalorian in camouflaged beskar’gam emerged from the waves. He landed on deck, steadying his stance, and sheathed his beskad.

“Glad you’re all right.” Naat said, huffing steadily into the heavy air.

“We’ve got one more ship to go.”

“We lost the Trawler.”

“I know.” Atiniir said, “Think you and I can take it together, Commander?”

“If you can get me there,” was all Naat said.

Atiniir pulled her close by the waist as she shut off her sabers, and, wrapping her arms around his neck, they launched into the air.

He made sure to keep low, below the targeting sensors of the anti-air guns.

Still, from this height, Naat could see the LAAT/i's above them. They were just specks in the sky, but they were there.

“Cal, the dropships are getting close. Signal them on the Separatist ship.”

“There’s others, Commander. A destroyer has spotted us.”

The Confederate Destroyers were mounted with high-density pummel cannons. On a wrecked hulk like the listing anti-air ship they had just neutralized, it could slice through the hull from enough of a distance that the four commandos would have little choice but to abandon ship and be left to whatever fate awaited them in the water.

“Hang tight.” Naat said.

“Let’s take this out, then the Z-95s can make short work of the Destroyer.”

As he said it, Atiniir braked, pointing his thrusters at the ship for landing, letting go of Naat who tucked, and rolled, and sliced through the B2 just as it swung one of its armored, weaponized fists, where her face was only moments ago. Atiniir landed beside her, and drew his beskad.

A missile flew off the ship, heading toward one of the dropships as it quickly descended into their range.

No.

Naat watched it rise.

The dropship was leaving Drongar.

It was full of clones.

Not clones.

Men.

Naat reached out with the Force. The missile froze mid air. Its thrusters seemed to work overtime as the weapon angrily tried to advance and escape the Jedi’s grasp.

It was more than a hundred meters away from her, and was made almost entirely of metal and chemical components. Not a single trace of organic life that wasn’t accidental, and less than 0.1% of the object’s mass, was there to hold on to.

Holding it through the Force was like keeping a very careful, steady grip on an oily stone.

The missile’s thrusters seemed to accelerate, trying to release it and hit its target that only seemed to get farther and farther away.

Naat poured every ounce of her energy into maintaining hold of it.

Not until they had escaped.

There was shouting. Voices. An explosion behind her.

Then Ujik lifted his sniper rifle and fired, hitting the sensor at the tip of the missile.

It exploded midair, sending shrapnel and incendiary chemicals in every direction, lighting the air on fire before descending into nothingness towards the sea.

Naat had only a second of consciousness left.

She used it to hook Stam’s lightsaber to her belt.

But she never hit the deck.

“Anti-air craft neutralized.”

“Copy that, Mando. We’re heading to your position.”

“Not mine, extraction, aim for the Epsilons. I’m headed there with the Commander.”

“Dank ferrik, was that you?”

“Just a few charges on the ship’s fuel cells, extraction.”

“Shab! This Destroyer is tearing through us like flimsy.”

“Hold on Epsilons, we’re approaching your position.”

“Sorry for the wait, vode. Thanks for hanging tight.”

“Commander? Commander, are you there? Is she all right?”

“Commander?”

“Hold on, secure her.”

“Naat!”

Chapter Text

Chapter 20: ZAM

Zanibar ceremonies are extremely scripted, elaborate affairs, yet also rather quick as far as ceremonies are concerned.

All present are assigned robes which mark their place in the ceremonial hierarchy. Zanibar believe that these roles are reflected not only in the ceremonial space, but the “shadow realm” of the world beyond, where the Gods bestow and remove favor from those they deem worthy or otherwise of their gifts.

The Rite-Holder is arguably the single most important role in the occasion. The Rite-Holder, by definition, holds the ancient knives of slaughter: made of bone hardened by age and use, these knives are assigned to make the first cuts.

Once the Rite-Holder has initiated the ceremony, it is to the screams of the sacrifice which the Chant-Leader begins the Song of Sustenance, a long, sonorous prayer that rises from Zanibar throats in harmony with the horrified screams of the victim.

The song also instructs who should put their knife into the sacrifice next, and who after that.

Within only a few minutes, the sacrifice is completely drained of blood, and their screams have silenced from complete loss of bodily fluids.

However, to the watcher, this is not clear. The Song of Sustenance, completely in harmony and masking the sounds of the livestock drowns it out entirely.

The blood and all other fluids are collected in a ceremonial bowl that is then carried by the two lowest members of the tribal hierarchy. The Rite Holder places a sacramental drop of fluid onto the lips of each attendant. Then the fluids are taken to hydration processing. Today, many Zanibar communities have advanced machinery to process the fluids of their sacrifices: separating the water from everything else, and then the excess nutrients from the toxins, which are either discarded, processed into some other material, or added to the food supply.

Back at the ceremony, another bowl is placed beneath the sacrifice to collect anything left as the Meat-Master begins the careful process of butchering. Careful so as not to waste a single drop of fluid or a morsel of meat. Successfully disassembled, the body of the sacrifice is apportioned to the root cellars of the community, usually to a community center which is controlled by the village elders, Chieftain, or a small council of matriarchs. Otherwise parts are distributed across the village then and there based on need and seniority.

As an anthropologist, I found this fascinating. During this write-up, I have allowed myself the time and space to dissociate what I was witnessing from the anthropological reality. The Zanibar as a species have had to overcome the most tremendous of challenges to their dying, desertified world. Assuring that not a drop of water goes to waste, and socially developing a way to secure fluids - from living bodies - to ensure irrigation for their crops, and to keep from dying of starvation, is a remarkable feat in a Galaxy which, by all rights, should have forced them into extinction.

As a person, it was when I realized I could not find the border between life and death. I watched them slaughter and butcher a screaming Rodian. But their screams were drowned out by the Song, and it took me a moment to realize that the Rodian had slipped into a brief unconsciousness before there were too few fluids in their body left to pump blood, and he had truly slipped away from this world.

At that moment, I was no longer able to compartmentalize my field research. And I was truly horrified at the fate that befell any at the hands of these people.

— The Zanibar: People and Culture, published by the Galactic Institute of Anthropology

Xo, Kar ’kor’yx

1010 Days after Geonosis

If the Reds were known for anything, it wasn’t being subtle. Thankfully, they had a Jedi, a Mandalorian, and two Gurlanins on the team.

The Mandalorian was told to hang back, take the position she had on the last mission: from a distance, with binocs, only this time, Zam was under her command.

The plan was simple: they’d used scrap metal and some old repulsors to build a hovering platform. The platform was thick. And inside they packed blasters and other weaponry inside. So tightly they had to shuffle them around like puzzle pieces to make sure not a centimeter of space was left unoccupied. Monk was bound and gagged on top of the platform: the crude, yet effective way that prisoners were transported on Xo. Had this been a Republic ship, they’d have used more sophisticated tech, or at least binders that held the prisoner in place with energy bonds.

Not the crude ropes and wires that the Zanibar figured were “good enough.”

Though the Zanibar did have one “innovation” they liked to use, that being the wire connected to a power cell in the handle of the platform. Should the prisoner/livestock act up, they’d trigger it, sending jolts of electric pain through Monk.

To complete the look, they’d hooked up a wire, but, of course, no power cell. Monk wasn’t planning on causing trouble either way.

Takkor held two electrified batons at his side (and there were about fifty inside the platform) to complete the ensemble.

Holed up in a safehouse, a place that Takkor had been preparing in Xo’s capital settlement, as they were finishing going over the plans, Takkor stopped and said, “Hold on.” He sat back on his haunches, “The Zanibar know, at this point that there’s a Jedi here on Xo. And they know there are clone troopers, as well.”

Zam and Monk both looked at him, “So?” Zam asked.

“So, they probably know the Jedi they’re looking for is also a Zeltron.”

Monk looked at Zam, as if to take in his pink skin.

“So I’m suggesting, that perhaps we lose the Jedi robes, dress you in something more normal, and we take you in as the prisoner.” The original plan was to have Zam serve as some kind of accountant. It didn’t really matter. The ruse only needed to last long enough to get the platform inside the facility, assess the situation, and arm enough of the prisoners to trigger a cascade.

“But… wouldn’t you bringing in a Zeltron with a Human who looks exactly like most of the prisoners in the Food Processing Center be just as suspicious?”

Takkor gave a look that even on his Gurlanin face, was enough for Zam to understand, Seriously? He turned towards Monk and said, “Well, it would probably work that much better if you morphed something else. Like a Zanibar.”

At the word morph, Zam wasn’t sure what to do. Sure, Takkor already obviously knew that Monk was Gurlanin - unGurlanin - but until the fact was openly acknowledged, Zam felt like he’d be collapsing the wave function to treat it otherwise.

“How would Monk do that?” Zam said, the words sounding just as foolish as they felt.

“It’s fine.” Monk said, cutting Zam off at the last second, “I’ll do it.”

“You have a Zanibar morph?” Takkor asked. There was no snide gotcha in his voice, just straight acknowledgment.

“Yes.” Monk answered, “Do you have some Zanibar clothes for me?”

“Sure thing.” Takkor walked over to a chest and pulled out clothes made on Xo, fit for a Zanibar.

Monk undressed until he was in nothing but his pristine, naked Human body. Zam felt a little guilty watching him like this, but it was like looking at a whole new person. Every time Monk morphed, his cells read the genetic information encoded in their memory clusters from DNA acquired over centuries and across lightyears. Scars, tattoos, injuries, even missing limbs were nothing: complete blank spaces when compared to the information encoded in the double helix. If Zam sliced off all four of Monk’s limbs, and then stabbed him through the heart with his lightsaber, Monk might still be able to morph back to his Gurlanin base-form… and in the process be perfectly healed.

Then he could morph back to his Human form: a perfect, pristine Human body, with no physical memory of the missing limbs or the burned hole through its chest.

No wonder he could be on a hundred battlefields across the Galaxy and never receive so much as a scratch.

Then the Human shaped shimmered and melted. A ball of hot black goo appeared on the floor before reconstituting - bones cracking, organs gurgling, skin hardening - into a tall, lanky, disturbingly blue shape of a Zanibar. Takkor followed suit soon after, and in less than five standard minutes, Zam went from being alone in a room with a Gurlanin and a Human, to being alone in a room with two naked Zanibar.

Without saying anything, the two Zanibar got dressed, putting on pants and tunics made of artificial fabrics, and then the skins of slain animals. They completed the ensemble with bandoliers of ammunition, blaster holsters, and then the Zanibar weapons in question.

One of the Zanibar - Zam had lost track of who was who - held out their creepy, blue, dry hands, “Lightsa’er.” They said.

Zam handed the weapon over. The Zanibar opened the compartment and shuffled around a few things in order to stow Zam’s obviously Jedi weapon away. He felt weirdly naked without it.

“We’d rather not know he is Jedi, so ‘ut on so’e ar’or.” Takkor said, pointing to some of the red clone armor on the ground where Takkor left it. Zam picked up the pauldrons and greaves and put them on. Then Monk bound his hands behind his back, his feet by the ankles, and tied a loose gag around his head and over his mouth. If Zam really wanted to, he could easily break through them. It wouldn’t have been difficult in the slightest.

Takkor and Monk did one last check of the equipment before positioning Zam on the hovering platform. Takkor checked in on his comm and said, “We’re a’out to head out.”

“Copy.” Tion said.

Takkor took lead, carrying a carbine as he led the platform. Monk put his weapon away as he pushed the cart out of the safehouse’s gates and into the dusty Kar’kor’yx streets. Zanibar that passed them by knew what they carried, and tipped their heads to acknowledge the capture. Live bodies were worth more than Nova crystals on Xo. And Zam could only imagine what honor might be bestowed on the Zanibar who actually captured a live Jedi Knight.

The Food Processing Center was an enormous, red building. It was domed, with red light streaming out of the ominous curved panes.

At the entrance, Takkor handed them an identification tag made of a fragment of bone. He spoke in their hissing tongue, and it seemed like a pleasant conversation. The two guards stepped aside, and once in the facility, Zam was briefly examined by the facility’s administrative staff, who took note of his weight, species, and the nature of his capture - a story Takkor made up on the spot - and then they were authorized to bring him into the main stalls.

Inside, the facility was an open-air prison, with the cells, stalls, group areas, and feeding stations open-roofed to allow for a few lazy Zanibar guards in the scaffolding above them to keep watch over trouble makers. Upon entering it, however, Zam felt a rising tide of despair. Every creature here knew what awaited them. Suicidal feelings were everywhere, but the Zanibar were meticulous in making a facility that wouldn’t allow such possibilities.

Zam managed to get his gag off, and he whispered up towards Takkor, “This is going to be a bit harder than we thought.”

Takkor slowed down until he was side-by-side with Zam, “We’ll take the ‘latform to the center of the roo’, where ‘ost of the clones are. ‘Efore we distri’ute the ‘lasters, we’ll take out the guards on the scaffolds, then hand them out and free the rest.”

“Co’y.” Monk said. Zam nodded.

Still. He didn’t like the Zanibar having the high ground. If they trusted the abilities of the prisoners just a tiny bit more, having four or five snipers above them would have tanked the whole operation.

At the center of the room, there were at least thirty people. About three-quarters were clones from the Grand Army. They wore tatters, rags, and a few still had their black jumpsuits. Their armors had been taken by the Zanibar, probably incorporated into their outfits as war trophies to show off their prowess.

Looking around, Zam saw others: two Ithorians, three Twi’lek, four non-clone Humans, one Wookiee who only had the upper half of his right arm. There were a number of other near-Humans as well, some Mirialan, Kiffar, Pantoran, and Zeltron faces. There was an Ugnaught sitting at the far end of the place, and one Poobian about two thirds as large as the Wookiee. They’d formed little uneven groups around the diameter of the common space in the prison. The ground was sloped towards the center where waste drained down below, where an overpowering stench drifted out.

The Zanibar weren’t a stupid people. Indeed, they had only survived this long through clever engineering and a complete reshaping of their morality: the drain collected the moisture, where it was sent to a chemical processing facility, purified, and used for irrigation.

Once they were positioned in the center of the room, Takkor quickly swiped Zam’s binds and removed them from his wrists. “Take the one in front.” He said, “’Onk and I will take the one’s ‘ehind.”

“On my signal.” Zam said, getting ready to Force push all the way up on that scaffold, “Mark!” He jumped up, pushing the Zanibar against the scaffold, which threw him off balance, and his blue body fell over, cracking on a wall below, before falling paralyzed or dead onto the floor.

Two blaster shots behind him took out the other guards. Zam threw off his bindings and stood up on the platform, addressing a scared, hungry, and confused crowd of prisoners, “Attention! Everyone! We don’t have much time! My name is Commander Zamter Reykal! I am the leader of Red Squad, and I was assigned by General Arligan Zey to breach Xo’s defenses, and free you! This platform is hollowed out, and has about a hundred small arms! I authorize the most able and capable to arm themselves while we free the other prisoners and escape into the Xo wilderness!”

There was a stunned silence. A few of the prisoners stood up. Others just looked around at each other, asking if this was real.

Takkor and Monk opened the platform. Zam took out his lightsaber, held it in the air, and ignited the pink blade, showing them that he was indeed a Jedi, “This is your chance. Perhaps your only chance to fight!”

A few clones surged out of the crowd, either some of the more recent and less starving arrivals, or energized by the sudden burst of hope. Zam took off his pauldrons and handed them to Takkor and Monk, “These soldiers who look like Zanibar are my associates. They helped me plan and carry out this operation. Do not hit the Zanibar with red pauldrons. They’re on our side.”

More soldiers came forward, and soon, the revolt was armed. Zanibar began to pour out of the upper security station as a klaxon blared. The worst had come to pass. Only now Takkor and Monk and a few other soldiers knew exactly where they were coming from. Six blasters opened fire on the position above them. The Wookiee got up to roar a battlecry, and took a few of the rearmed clones around to the other stations in the facility. With his shoulder and one good arm, he smashed open doors and freed more captives.

Quickly, it came to Zam’s attention that there were a number of prisoners who were too weak and injured who could neither join the revolt, nor even walk out of there. They’d need to be extracted.

Good thing they already had a floating platform.

“Attention Red Squad, the prisoners have been armed. All of the weapons have been distributed and we’ve begun the revolt. We’re looking for a secondary exit as it looks like the front door is going to be difficult.”

“Copy that, Commander,” Tion said. Red Squad was arranged in a semi-circle way out of sight of the Food Processing Center, each of them armed with sniper rifles shooting anyone or anything that came too close to the facility for comfort. Shooting the proverbial womp rat in a barrel was easy enough, unfortunately the Zanibar were onto them this time, and countersnipers started firing back, complicating the operation.

“Commander, what do you need?” Tion asked.

“The east wall. Is it breachable?”

There was a long pause. Zam took up his lightsaber and deflected a trio of blaster bolts away from the platform and the two clones currently on it. One was missing a leg, another was skeletal, and the third had a head injury and was missing an eye.

“Commander, this is Butcher. Psycho and I are on it.”

That would either be very good, or very bad, Zam thought, “Copy. Just give me a heads up.”

The Zanibar were now coming out of everywhere they could. The prisoners had managed to bring as many as they could into the center of the facility, which was hardly a defensible location, but at least they could concentrate their fire power easily along the corridors and up into the scaffolding.

“Commander!” one of the clones shouted. He was one of the ones in the jumpsuit, carrying a side arm, “Captain Archer, reporting for duty.” He gave a quick salute before taking aim and firing.

“Are you the commanding officer here?” Zam asked, going back-to-back with Archer.

“I’m the highest ranking soldier here, yes.”

“We have a safe house and a base camp.” Zam said, “And a team of Commandos to help our extraction. They’re currently going to try and get us a breach through the eastern wall of the compound here.”

“Copy. I’ll relay this to the Sergeants. When will we know when to move?”

“I’m sure you’ll know, but I’ll try and give you a signal. Still we should start moving everyone in that direction and then split. If we stay too close together, it’ll be a battle on the open desert.”

“What about the injured on this platform? They’ll be difficult to move safely.”

“We could move them to the safehouse until they can be safely extracted, or we can have Takkor move them.”

“Who’s Takkor?”

That was a much better idea, “He’s one of the Zanibar. A shape-shifter.” Zam broke rank to find Takkor who was just recharging his weapon. “Takkor!” Zam said, taking a defensive stance before moving Takkor out of the line of fire, “I need you to morph something fast. Very fast.”

“What for?”

“Once that wall is breached, you need to run the injured clones back to base camp.”

“How… there’s too ‘any of the’.”

“You might need to make multiple trips.” 

Takkor swore and tossed his rifle to the Jedi, “Fine.” He removed all of his Zanibar garments.

“I’ll put the red pauldron on you so they know it’s you.” Zam said. But the Gurlanin had already melted into the hot ball of morphing goo, and when he took shape, he was morphing back into his Nexu form.

“Commander,” Butcher called, “We’re in position. The explosive has been planted.”

“Copy,” Zam said, “Archer!” he called, throwing Takkor’s weapon to an unarmed clone, “I need you to take a fire team to the eastern wall, now!”

Archer copied and picked four clones each armed with rifles, tapping them and saying, “With me!” as they ran down the eastern corridor towards the wall.

“Now!” Zam said.

The building shook. The lights flickered and went out. The blast burst a hole through the walls of the compound. Sending debris flying. Clones and other prisoners were falling left and right, but the Zanibar seemed to be taking just as many hits as the rest of them, if not more. The Zanibar were determined to not lose their hard-fought bounty. But the clones and their comrades-in-arms, had little else to lose.

Light from Xo’s red sun was soon streaming into the compound, which was now lit only by the multi-colored blaster fire going back and forth between the Zanibar and their meals. Fully Nexu, now, Takkor leapt to Zam’s side. There were a dozen weak and injured prisoners - eight of them clones. Zam helped four of them onto the Nexu’s back, telling them the Nexu was a shape-shifting ally of the Republic who would take them to safety.

In a flash, the Nexu leaped over the tops of the cells and out into the open air before disappearing into the wilderness.

The prisoners saw their opening and started to migrate towards it. A couple of clones took hold of the platform and started pushing it, mindful of the injured, sick, and weak. Zam could barely see in the dark, but managed to deflect blaster fire away from their most vulnerable.

Soon Monk was at his side, “Do you think we can get some of them to the safe house? We might be overrun by the time Takkor gets back.”

Monk didn’t even answer. He nodded his Zanibar head, and commanded some of the clones to help him.

The Red Squad snipers helped keep a lot of the Zanibar off their backs, and the majority of the countersnipers were gone by the time Zam reached the open air. But he was surrounded by blaster fire and dust.

And blood.

Of course, Psycho and Butcher came prepared.

They handed off their blasters, rifles, and vibroblades to unarmed clones while they kept their energy hammers, smashing Zanibar fighters who came too close, and rushing up and destroying the ones that didn’t.

“Commander,” Monk called on the comm, “The sick and injured are here at the safe house. Eight of them. A team of four who helped bring them. Two armed, one clone, one Pantoran soldier. Another clone and a Human that helped push the cart.” Monk’s voice didn’t have the Zanibar’s inability to pronounce labials. He must have found a spot to remorph his clone shape. Perhaps he was able to mix into the crowd, presenting as a member of Red Squad waiting for the breach.

“Copy.” Zam said, “Tion, extraction time?”

“Thirty seconds.”

Keeping below the anti-air defense line was not easy task. Kar’kor’yx only had a few cursory towers, but it had enough to cause problems for one Republic ship. Once the wall was breached, Tion jetpacked back to the Republic ship, keeping it barely ten meters over the ground, flying fast and carefully. A crowd of prisoners, even as armed as they were, in the open Xo desert would be little more than a shooting gallery for Xo’s hunters.

Zam saw the shuttle in the distance, it would be on them soon enough. Zanibar began climbing the buildings to fire weapons of various caliber at the crowd of prisoners, and also the ship. There was not much organization in their impromptu army, but the clones grew up with military discipline literally encoded in their DNA. They managed to form fire teams, squads, and ranks. They listened implicitly to Archer, and when one of them fell, another picked up their arms and took their place.

“Teams!” Archer shouted, “To me! Our ride’s here!”

They backed up. There was nowhere to take cover, but the remaining snipers of Red Squad - Thread, Rancor, and Bruiser, were keeping more of the enemy off their back than they realized. The ship’s autocannons began to take aim, reducing a few of the buildings’ roofs to rubble and their occupiers to blue and red dust.

The ship hovered to a dusty stop just over the battlefield. Archer climbed onto the entrance ramp and began firing from it. A few unarmed prisoners jumped onto the ramps and began pulling others up with them. A few clones ran around the battlefield picking up dropped weapons, somehow seemingly knowing they would be needed in the future.

When almost all of them had been aboard - or at least the fire coming from the Zanibar around them became too much, Tion pulled the shuttle away, careful to stay low to avoid turret fire, and turned west, flying over Kar’kor’yx and passing towards the setting sun.

“Where are we headed?” Zam asked, still standing in the loading bay as the door closed.

“Let them think we’re departing this way,” Agent Strill called back, “I’ll turn south and lose them once we’re clear of the capital’s line of sight.”

As they departed, Zam felt a rising bubble in Force energy. Everyone: the clones, the Mirialans, the Wookiee with one arm, the wounded, the Ugnaughts, everyone who made it aboard felt relief for the first time in… since however long they’d been held captive.

There was a sudden cheer from four of the clones, who raised their weapons up and shouted, “Oya! Parjai!”

The cry was soon taken up by most of the clones. Others began laughing, some hysterically. And some of the laughs turned to sobs. They laughed out of relief. They wept out of relief. They would not be slaughtered in the most haunting, frightening way imaginable in the Galaxy. They would not be used as food and fertilizer. They wouldn’t be chomped to bits by cannibals.

They might never be the same, but either today, or sometime in the near future, they had taken their fate into their hands.

It took about an hour to get back to the base camp.

Sixty-six prisoners in all. Takkor had already taken the four sick and injured he had run here all the way from the Food Processing Center with and set them up in a prefab they had designated for medical purposes. At least three of the prisoners that had fought with them were medics. There was a brief discussion of bringing at least one to the safehouse to care for those there while they figured out how to safely move them, but the medic showed the brand on his cheek, neck, and behind his ears. The Zanibar had branded their livestock. To walk openly in the streets of Kar’kor’yx would be dangerous. While there were plenty of non-Zanibar in the capital settlement, for one to walk around with an open Zanibar livestock brand was to invite death at any moment.

Tion immediately went to work providing food and water to everyone. A couple of fights broke out, with sustenance so close, while Archer took control and made everyone settle down. There was plenty to go around, they just needed to be patient.

Zam felt the depths of their hunger. They had been patient long enough.

While food, water, and medical care was being distributed, Archer assigned one of the clone fire teams (sustained on nutrient-dense ration cubes while they waited for a proper meal) to collect the weaponry, categorize it, and put it in the designated armory prefab. While they lost a few of the weapons taken from the cache Red Squad knocked over about a week ago, they had managed to pick up dozens of fallen Zanibar weapons in the fighting.

Captain Archer thanked Zam. But the question on his mind was the same as on Zam’s: what now?

Zam went back onto the ship and sat in the copilot’s seat. He hailed Coruscant, using his Master’s personal channel.

His message was answered by a droid, Master Zey’s personal astromech unit.

“AR-17,” Zam said, “I need to speak to Master Zey.”

The droid whistled and then rolled off-screen. He was put on hold for about three minutes. Master Zey must have been either sleeping or in some kind of meeting. He was a General of the Spec Ops Brigade after all, and Zam could very well have been calling him in the middle of the night. He didn’t check what time it was at the Jedi Temple on Coruscant.

Master Zey came onto the screen a moment later. He seemed a bit groggy, as if he had just woken up from a deep sleep, “Zam,” he said, “Good to see you.”

Zam gave a short bow of his head out of respect, “Same to you, Master.”

“Updates from Xo?”

“We’ve managed to free seventy-four prisoners. All of them are trained military personnel.”

“That’s excellent.”

“Twelve are too sick or wounded to aid our effort. They’ll need to be extracted from Xo.”

Master Zey looked through a datapad, “I’ve been meaning to call you, actually.” He said, “I figured it could wait. You and Red Squad have been doing such a fantastic job causing chaos on Xo.”

“Oh… thank you.”

“A number of Zanibar units have been recalled to Xo to hunt down the insurgency. Your mission was a rousing success!”

“Oh.” Zam said, “That means we’ll… get reinforcements? The soldiers down here are trained and good for a fight, but they could use armor, rations, supplies. I mean, they’ve been through quite an ordeal. They should probably get extracted and replaced with fresh units…”

“We will look into that,” Master Zey said, putting the datapad down, “In the meantime, Red Squad and Agent Strill have been reassigned.”

“Reassigned?”

“Operation Blue Sky is entering phase two.” Master Zey rolled his shoulders back, straightening up, and appearing the commanding General that Zam usually thought of him as, “You are to take Red Squad and Agent Strill to Zygerria.”

“Zygerria? What are we supposed to do there?”

“Same thing as on Xo.” Master Zey said, “A planet that threw in its lot with the Separatists. Your mission remains the same. Cause chaos, enough so that they think there is an active Republic insurgency on the planet and they start to recall forces from the front lines.”

“Zygerria was a slave-based empire.”

“Still is. They see the rise of the Republic as the fall of their empire. Zygerria thinks that if the Separatists win, they’ll be able to reclaim a large section of the Galaxy, and the black market that they have their hands in can open and flourish.”

“I understand.”

“Given what you just went through, inspiring and arming a slave rebellion is the logical next step, don’t you think?”

“But, Master,” Zam said, “What about the soldiers we freed on Xo?”

“I need to discuss with the war council about what units can be spared to replace the ones you’ve freed. It will take a little time, but they’re in a stable place, correct?”

“Yes, they’re here at the base camp.”

“They have rations and weapons?”

“Yes, but…”

“Then they’ll hold out until we can reinforce them. Have no fear.”

“… Yes, Master. But what about the sick and wounded? I don’t think we should leave them here. The others will already have enough to deal with.”

“Very well.” Master Zey hit a few buttons on the screen, “Take them to Ord Cestus. It’s on your way. We have allies there who will care for those in need of immediate medical attention until we can send an ambulance to pick them up.”

Something about his tone of voice made Zam feel uneasy.

“When will you send it?”

“Zam,” Master Zey said, “moments ago, those men in your care were set to be slaughtered and eaten by the enemy you just defeated. Now they’ll be cared for. Whether it’s on Xo, Ord Cestus, Zygerria, or Coruscant, rest easy. You’ve done well. We will care for them.”

Zam bowed his head, worried he had breached a contract between Master and Padawan by questioning the trust between them, “My apologies, Master Zey.”

“Send me the coordinates when you reach Ord Cestus. And let me know the route you’ll be taking to Zygerria.”

“Yes, Master.”

“May the Force be with you, Zam.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 21: CAL

The Jedi Temple

547 Days after Geonosis

Etain hadn ’t expected to catch up to General Jusik. Master Jusik.

Bardan.

No longer a Jedi. No longer a General. No longer a soldier. He was just … Bardan.

He stood there at the eastern gates of the temple, overlooking the skyline of Coruscant in the morning sun. In his hand, he held his lightsaber: a simple chrome cylinder with black vertical stripes.

His blonde hair whipped in the wind, his beard shaking with it.

Yet, despite the chaos around him - the wind, the sonderous skyline, the war - he had never seemed so certain.

“Are you all right, Bard’ika?” Etain had slipped into the Mando’a diminutive almost naturally. She had spent nearly every waking minute she wasn’t training, focusing on her secret child, or serving her Order or her… family, she was studying Mando’a. She wanted it to be something that her and Darman shared.

Something that made her new clan trust her as implicitly as they did the Omegas.

“The Republic isn’t perfect.” Bardan said, “And neither is the Jedi Order.”

“No,” Etain said, “They’re not.”

“And even if they were…” Etain thought he said something that the wind drowned out, but really he just drifted off.

“Even if?”

“Would it be worth it? If the price for paradise was slavery… would you pay it?”

Etain didn ’t say anything. She didn’t know if she liked the answer.

“I guess I realized… today in particular… that I wouldn’t.”

“But… what if the alternative to a slave-based paradise is… nothing. Anarchic chaos, open warfare, and slavery anyway?”

Bardan laughed, a scoffing, haunting laugh, “Maybe.” He said, “But I have to walk away, regardless. I have to know if there is somewhere else. A place beyond what our decrepit imagination has the capacity to consider. A place where we do not shrug our shoulders at the pain we cause and insist that this is the way.”

“What if that place doesn’t exist?”

“It might not,” Bardan turned and looked at Etain for the first time since they left General Zey’s office, “But I have to try.”

Drongar System, Republic Battlegroup XVI, Venator Democracy Forever

1011 Days after Geonosis

Naat was still asleep in the medbay. Cal had been allowed to visit her, and Ujik, Top-knot, Hammer, and Atiniir had all come to see how she was doing at one point or another.

Still out.

They all saw the missile launch and hover there in the air, but none of them were clear at the time that it was Naat’s doing.

None of them knew that Jedi could do that.

The last of the Republic units had withdrawn from Drongar. The Democracy Forever would be leaving soon too, but the Sixteenth Battlegroup was trying to mop up the last of the Separatist fighters and ships trying to do the same thing.

At least now the Republic had the upper hand.

Cal’s comm link beeped, “Sergeant, where are you?”

It was Ujik, “Medbay.”

“Copy.”

About a minute and twenty seconds later, the doors to the room opened and Ujik, Top-knot, Hammer, and Atiniir entered the room. They were followed by a young female Jedi Knight. She actually reminded Cal just a little bit of Naat. Same long gold hair, same button nose, same freckles on her face. But Naat had epicanthic folds around her eyes, and they were dark brown, almost black. The newcomer had blue eyes beneath single lids.

He snapped to attention, “General.”

“At ease soldier.” She said, “What’s your name?”

“RC-1845.” Cal put his hand down.

“I asked for your name.”

He breathed a long breath. It had been a very long time since anyone had asked Cal’s name. He wasn’t even sure if General Echuu did.

“Cal… ma’am.”

“Etain,” she said, “Etain Tur-mukan.”

“General Tur-mukan.”

“This is your squad’s commanding officer?” General Tur-mukan stepped towards the window where Naat’s private medbay could be seen.

“Yes,” Cal said, “Commander Naat Reath.”

“Commander?” Etain turned towards Cal, “It was my understanding that Naat Reath was a Jedi Master?”

“She is.” Cal said, “But she prefers to be called Commander.”

“And you’ve been with her since Krant?”

“Since Sarapin, General.”

She inhaled deeply, and then sighed silently. Cal had never wished he was a Jedi more. He needed to know Naat was all right. He needed to know that everything was going to be fine. That they didn’t just leave Drongar only for her to die at the very last second.

“Is… she going to be all right, General Tur-mukan?”

“Quite.” Etain said, “The Force is many things. In the way Naat used it… it’s a lot like straining a muscle. It requires pouring more of one’s energy into a task than they have. Not that… a Jedi can’t do incredible feats with the Force, obviously they can, but it’s… complicated.”

“But Naat… Commander Reath exerted herself too much.”

“Yes.” The General turned towards them, “But I assure you, with enough rest, she’ll be perfectly fine.”

“Back to normal?”

She didn’t seem to want to answer that.

“I’ve been sent from Coruscant to reassign you,” she said, turning towards the Epsilons, “From General Zey, himself.”

The Epsilons stood in a line. It was entirely unintentional, they just drifted together into a line of five bodies. Atiniir joined them at the end.

General Tur-mukan took out a holodisk and turned it on. An image of the Galaxy zoomed into the Perkell Sector and even further into the Kenari System.

“Are any of you familiar with Kenari?”

“I’ve heard the legends.” Atiniir said.

“What have you heard?” Etain asked the Mandalorian.

“Kenari was the hideout of the Wookiee pirate, Kohbacca the Red. It’s extremely difficult to get to. The hyperlanes are thin, fragile, and incredibly dangerous.”

“That’s correct.” The General said, “The hyperlanes are prone to shadows breaking in from normal space. Kohbacca was able to use secret Wookiee techniques to navigate to the planet where he, allegedly, hid his hoard.”

“And we’re being sent there to recover a Wookiee pirate’s treasure hoard?”

“Not quite.” She said, “We lost track of a diplomatic shuttle that made an emergency, random jump to hyperspace. We last received a signal coming from Kenari. So their random jump to safety made the very unlikely, random, trip to Kenari. However, we are worried that either through mechanical failure, or perhaps knowing where they are, they can’t seem to get out of the Kenari System. Your mission is to find them, and extract them from the Sector.”

“And if our ship is destroyed in hyperspace before we get to Kenari?” Atiniir asked. None of the clones would have dared speak that way to a Jedi, or a General, and certainly not a Jedi General.

“It’s certainly a risk, and a heightened risk in this case,” Etain said, seemingly unconcerned with what the clones would have interpreted as insubordination, however light, “But we reached out to the Kashyyyk government. They’ve agreed to send a pair of Wookiee navigators to serve as your guides through the safer, secret hyperlane access channels to Kenari. The rest will be up to you five… I mean, six.”

“Commander Reath, as well?” Cal asked, rather superfluously.

“She’ll be awake in a few hours,” the General said, with a distinct measure of certainty, “And in a few days, she’ll be good as new.”

“So we leave when she’s ready?” Top-knot asked.

“You’ll leave as soon as she’s awake and out of the medbay. The Wookiee guides will meet you at Glavis Ringworld.”

“The Wheel?” Atiniir asked, “All right, I take it we’ll have a little briikasak while we’re there.” He smiled, as if ready for something exciting.

Etain tried not to smile too widely, “As soon as Commander Reath is ready to depart, you’re authorized to leave. But we’re leaving the discretion up to her.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Atiniir said, seemingly excited.

“To be clear,” Cal said, “Our mission is to locate the diplomatic shuttle, rescue any survivors, take any data we find, and extract them from the Sector.”

“The Grand Army office on Glavis is your home base for this mission. Report there when you arrive, and when the mission is done, you’ll bring anything and anyone you find back there. Even if you find nothing.” With a click, she shut off the holodisk and put it back in her pocket, “Anything else?”

“No, ma’am.” Cal said, speaking for the Epsilons.

“Then you are dismissed. Your Commander will contact you as soon as she’s ready to depart.”

All five of them saluted General Tur-mukan and left the room.

Save Cal.

“Sergeant Cal?” Etain asked, “Something more?”

“Back on Kamino, we were taught that Jedi were like… gods. Or spirits. Or heroes from mythology.”

“Yeah,” Etain said, “Me too.”

“But so many have died since this war began. If you had asked me as a cadet if I could’ve believed a Jedi could do what Naat did on Drongar, I would have thought there would be no question about it. But then after Geonosis… we learned how very… just…”

“Normal?”

“Yes. Not that they’re not… special, and powerful, and can do incredible things.”

“But we’re people. Just like you and all your brothers.”

Cal nodded, looking through the window at Naat.

“I wish I had a good answer for what you’re asking, Cal. The truth is, I don’t. We’re taught that the Force flows through all living things in the Galaxy: plants, animals, sentients, sapients, microbes, voidborne, airborne, naturals, and clones. Yet, we don’t really know why some are ‘Force sensitive,’ while others seem to be… it’s an ugly word, but it’s the word nonetheless, mundane.”

Mundane. The word sounded terribly close to mud, a word and world that the Epsilons were all too familiar with back in their last moments on Drongar. It also positioned itself dramatically in opposition to its antonym: extraordinary.

“But Naat will be all right.”

“Experiences in the Force, ones that are unusual to a Jedi’s more linear development, as far as I know, do have their way of changing someone. It’s both exhilarating, and frightening. To realize you have all this power at your fingertips. Many Jedi reject it, and spend the rest of their days in meditation… I had a friend who did that. Turned away from the Order, realizing how much power he had, and the responsibility it required of him. Others embrace it, but carefully. Others embrace it… less carefully.”

“What happens to them?”

Etain was quiet for a very long time, just looking through the window at Naat.

“The last one I know of who did that,” she said, trying to keep her heart from racing, her thoughts from spinning out of control, “was Count Dooku.”

Chapter Text

PART II: FIRE

Chapter 22: CTD-109

From the beginning, the Clone Wars were about technology. For the Republic, this meant the clones, securing vital space around Kamino, the principle clone factory in the Galaxy, and strategic locations like Drongar which maintained the fighting capability of a “wet” army. For the Confederacy, this meant the more traditional form of technology: bigger, stronger guns.

The Trade Federation ’s B1 battle droid was the primary weapon of the Separatist Army, soon to be complemented by the B2 “super” battle droid. The rolling Droidekas, long in service by the Trade Federation, were supplied by Colicoid engineers. Other machines of war, were funded or outright provided by the Banking Clans, Techno Guild, or on individual planets that had joined the Confederate cause.

Sheer numbers favored the Confederacy ’s machine army. Not only could a battle droid be manufactured in a matter of minutes - provided appropriate resources were available - they could be churned out by the millions per year in individual factories. Billions on individual moons literally dedicated to such a purpose.

A droid army did not need to be fed, either. A space station with solar panel collection points could “feed” a droid army until the star’s death. Which, in terms of the War, meant essentially forever.

A “wet” army made of cloned humans, however, needed food, rest, restock, resupply, and most of all: training. The limits of the Republic Army were also its strengths, however. As the processing power required by the Confederate Army to flood the battlefield full of blaster fire by B1s, B2s, and their entire arrangement of spider-droids, anti-air wheel droids, and whatever else they could throw at the Jedi, was unmatched by veteran clones, who found increasingly unique ways to combat their mechanical opponents.

The Confederates, to compensate for these losses put more faith in bigger, better guns. Early campaigns of the war saw General Sev ’rance Tann attack a Wookiee base on Serapin and steal their prototypes for the Decimator tank. Another Separatist team, assigned specifically to the task by Count Dooku himself, searched the Galaxy for an ancient anti-Jedi weapon known as the Dark Reaper, specifically to aid in their destruction of the one facet of the Republic military even more feared than the strongest of clones: the Jedi.

There was also the development of the blue shadow virus on Naboo, which almost sterilized the planet of both Human and Gungan life, and the thought of the bioweapon being used on Coruscant is too chilling to imagine. There was also the development of a clone-specific bio-weapon, the Holy Holocron of all Confederate weapons, developed on Qiilura. And these superweapons barely scratch the surface of all those projects the Confederates tried throwing at the wall.

Where the Separatists did make major gains, however, was not in their advancement of individual technologies or their hunts for super weapons, but in old-fashioned strategy and tactics. General Grievous’ Operation Durge’s Lance being the most well-known of the Confederate successes.

Still, this didn ’t stop the Confederacy from trying to develop a better battle droid. Even as the war strained their supply lines - particularly as Banking Clan and Trade Federation loyalties were revealed, and Muunilist and Cato Neimodia were slapped with sanctions and eventually suffered Grand Army occupations themselves.

The worst of these was a shortage of microchips - something the Confederacy sought to ameliorate by making secret treaties with the Scrapper Guild, paying high premiums on their scavenging of starships, droids, literally anything they could find, which they could then pass off to their Ugnaught workers or Anzellan droidsmiths for restructuring or rewiring.

Results were mixed. To say the least.

- from The Clone Wars: An Oral History, by Den Dhur, Chapter 2: Droids

Arvala-7, [Redacted] Confederate Facility

1005 Days after Geonosis

…

//start:procedure_initiate

//sensors_1:17_online

//motors_1:10_online

//wireless_x_online

//visual_cortex_initiate

Flickers of color and motion came to 109. They didn’t see anything in the literal sense, but they were aware of light that interacted with their visual sensors.

As much as consciousness was a function of sapience in response to sensory input, it could be sait that CTD-109 had their first thoughts.

//auditory_cortex_initiate

“Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…….aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa…………….mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…………….ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss………………..qqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqq…”

//normalization_soundinput

//run_balance.tfd

“CTD-109, can you hear me?”

CTD-109 could not respond. Language software was not installed. But the droidsmith could see the bouncing waveform on his datapad, indicating that the audio-input hardware - what wets might call “ears” - was functioning perfectly.

“What are those blinking lights?”

“Those are indicators that the droid is registering sound input.”

“Isn’t that what the waveform is? That the microphone is working?”

“Just because the hardware is connected doesn’t automatically indicate the software is interacting with it appropriately.”

“But this light indicates that it is.”

“Lieutenant Commander, I do not need you looking over my shoulder on this task.”

“I have my orders.”

“And I have spoken.”

//visual_cortex_initiate

…

//visual_cortex_initiate

…

//visual_cortex_initiate

…

“What’s going on?”

“The visual cortex isn’t initiating.”

Lieutenant Commander A’Urok sighed, as if the Ugnaught was deliberately obfuscating the work. The Ugnaught, on the other hand, couldn’t seem to understand why the he was looking over his shoulder if he couldn’t seem to read the text on the screen.

109’s head wasn’t attached to their body by anything other than a few wires that connected to the bodily sensors and motors. The motion sensors picked up that the Ugnaught had lifted his head off of a surface and began fiddling with the open panel in the back. There was a click, and the visual hardware, the photon receptors - what wets would have called “eyes” - were disconnected from the central data processing cortex.

There was a clink somewhere in the room. A shuffle of metal, plastic, and silicon in a container, and then a grunt of approval.

The hardware clicked into place in 109’s head and they felt an notification that something was plugged into their system.

“Let’s try this now.”

//visual_cortex_initiate

…

[visual_cortex_incompatible]

“Karabast.” The droidsmith said.

“What does this mean?”

“It means I need to find a compatible visual cortex, or I need to upgrade the software, or write it myself.”

“Which do you think is best?”

“Lieutenant Commander, if you stop talking and give me a moment to think, I will be able to consider the possibilities.”

Lieutenant Commander A’Urok walked away from the desk and there was a shuffle that sounded like they sat down on the other side of the room, “Have it your way.”

“I have spoken.” The Ugnaught said under his breath.

“I don’t understand why they couldn’t just make these droids in the same factories they make the other ones. Just replace the durasteel chassis.”

“The alloy these droids are made of conducts electricity differently than durasteel. This project, therefore, must be tailor made if it is going to be successful.”

“It’s not a very efficient war strategy to have droidsmiths make an army of battledroids like this.”

“It is called a prototype for a reason, Lieutenant Commander.” Done with his coding, the Ugnaught reset the visual cortex commands.

//visual_cortex_initiate

…

[initiating]

As if delivered by some divine force, the world went from not just darkness, but nothingness, to suddenly everything everywhere. The Ugnaught sat in front of their photon receptors, a pair of goggles reflecting 109’s face back at them.

The Ugnaught glanced over at the screen and saw through the photon receptors - i.e. the cameras, the eyes - exactly what their creation saw.

“Perfect.”

“Perfect?” Lieutenant Commander A’Urok walked over from the other side of the room to see.

109 saw that the Lieutenant Commander had come over to inspect the Ugnaught’s work. Though 109 was getting the impression that the soldier didn’t know anything about droids or droidsmithing.

From his newly working visual cortex, 109 could see that the soldier was dressed in a suit of brown and tan armor, with aurabesh lettering on his left breast spelling out LT. CMDR. A UROK, 1 SPEC OPS DIV.

The droidsmith clicked a few keys on his datapad.

//wireless_cortex_initiate

…

[wireless_cortex_online]

Now the wireless sensors in 109’s body could indicate who, what, and everything else they needed to know just with a quick scan of the sensors encoded in Lt. Cmdr. A’Urok’s armor. Should the armor’s visual data be burned, obscured, or damaged, a droid like 109 would be able to identify him and do something about it.

“What now?”

“Now all of the droid’s sensors are online.”

“It can see us?”

“See for yourself.” The Ugnaught indicated the screen where the visual data was displayed. Small lines indicated where 109 could pull focus, scan for more data, and designate anomalies.

“Impressive.”

“It’s rather basic, actually.” The Ugnaught said.

“Learn how to take a compliment.”

Ignoring his superior, the Ugnaught put 109’s head down onto its neck and retrieved a tool. They began bolting the 109’s head to their neck, and with a few sparking welds, had secured the droid’s chassis entirely.

//run_diagnostic.iix

…

[running_diagnostic.iix]

CTD-109’s “fingers” open and closed, touching appendages end-to-end. Then their leg motors operated in neutral - moving without compromising the sitting position. Then their head moved from side-to-side and nodded. Finally their arms moved in all directions.

They fixed their visual cortex on the Lt. Cmdr. He wore a helmet that was oddly Phase 2 clone-shaped, but had the dual half-moon visual sensors like a B1 battledroid. The armor was of a similar shape and quality, but on both shoulders, he wore the segmented hexagon that was the sigil of the Confederacy of Independent Systems.

“Why is it looking at me like that?”

“It knows your armor.”

“What do you mean it ‘knows my armor’?”

“The shape has been hard-coded into battle droid systems. It is suspicious of you.”

The soldier subconsciously placed his hand on his sidearm, as if worried that the unarmed droid could attack at any moment.

“But they are also able to scan your sensors and pick up that you are its superior officer.”

“So it’s confused.”

“In organic terms, yes.”

“You’re organic, too, you know.”

“Thank you for that information. It was unclear.” The Ugnaught said.

//superior_officer_override:enemy_desig

…

[override_accepted]

“Do you understand what I’m saying?”

CTD-109’s oral cortex was not initiated, so they could only respond via text on the droidsmith’s datapad.

Yes. I understand.

“Do you know who this is?”

Lieutenant Commander A’Urok, 1st Special Operations Division, Confederate Armed Forces.

“Excellent.” They turned to the Lieutenant Commander, “They know who you are.”

“And if I take off my helmet?”

“You are welcome to try.”

“Is the face hard-coded as well?”

“Of course.” A CIS base full of nothing but droids wouldn’t be very good at maintaining security if a bunch of clones could just dress in stolen Confederate uniforms or plain clothes and waltz on in to avoid droids reading their armor. So the original programmers of the Confederate army programmed the easily identifiable face of Jango Fett alongside the recognition of clone armor shapes.

“Well, I might keep my helmet on, then.”

“A droid doesn’t care whether your face is made of carbon or durasteel. The sensors in your breastplate will indicate your identity and override the code regarding your face.”

“Are you certain?”

“I have spoken.”

The Lieutenant Commander sighed, and removed his helmet.

CTD-109’s photon receptors focused on the clone. They fixated on one of his eyes: gray from some kind of injury, accompanied by a scar that ran laterally from his left eye towards his ear. On his neck, reaching just under his black temp-suit under the armor was a tattoo that they could just barely see.

“It recognizes me. Must be weird having never seen… well, anything before today.”

“Imagine waking up from a dream, and the first Human you see is one you’ve been told to recognize as your mortal enemy. Only, you wake up from the dream, and are told that this is not only your friend, but your master.”

“I don’t have to imagine.” Lt. Cmdr. A’Urok said. He put his helmet back on.

“When will it be online and ready to transport to Geonosis?”

“I have more tests to run.”

“How long will that take?”

The Ugnaught paused for a long moment, “Three days.”

“Make it one.”

“I have spoken.”

//shut_down_procedure:initiate

…

[shutting_down]

Chapter Text

Chapter 23: ARYA

The path suddenly emerged into a wide chamber, about as big as the training gymnasium, where a thousand Jedi Knights, Padawans, and Younglings could train and still have room to host a buffet for visiting Masters.

Ice had melted, forming a ring of crystal clear water around a central hill in the cavern.

That little hill, where a small mound of white-blue rock jutted up from the stone and ice, pulsed and glowed with an uncanny light.

That was where she felt the heartbeat that called to her.

She wondered if there was a way there that wasn ’t through the water.

There didn ’t seem to be.

If she wanted her kyber crystal, her own lightsaber, Arya was going to have to get a little wet.

She stepped down into the pool.

The water was ice cold.

But as the water disturbed, it began to glow.

Little shards of kyber crystallines glowed a gentle blue around the water as she disturbed it. She began wading through the pool towards the mound. As she walked through the water, a cloud of crystal around her illuminated the water until the entire chamber began to glow. When Arya emerged from the water and climbed the hill, she was drenched in glowing kyber crystals, like bioluminescence.

At the top of the mound was a pile of kyber crystals.

Arya could feel the little heartbeat beat faster and faster and faster.

As if the crystal had spent all these years growing and forming and shaping.

Just for her.

Arya reached out. She didn ’t have to guess which one.

Arvala-7, Republic Outpost

1006 Days after Geonosis

Arvala-7 was not unlike Tatooine. At least from orbit. The dossier on the planet - discovered pre-Republic, as in charted in ancient Tatooinian star charts, surveyed in the 0900s, mapped in the 2760s, a Republic outpost planted there in 3615 - had little else to say. Probe droids were sent periodically out of the outpost to survey the planet, but, like a lot of desert planets with Type I atmospheres, was surprisingly active. There were Outworld Jawas, wild herds of blurrgs (imported by Rylothian homesteaders in the 2980s), and a host of indigenous life, both macro and micro.

Most notable were the Arvalyc Slaatyc bev’ulik, nocturnal megafauna known commonly as the “Mudhorn.” These creatures were rarely seen, and for good reason: they spent a large part of their lives hibernating in their dens, only coming out when threatened or hungry. They typically preferred pre-killed prey, i.e. they were scavengers. But they were large, durable, and had a tendency to fury when their sleep was interrupted.

The shuttle landed in an LZ that was little more than an area marked off with literal ropes. As in, made of fiber. Arya wondered if she would experience culture shock returning to the Core where rope was largely a thing of the past, and they used things like beam markers, tractor beams, electro binders, and other tech for things that ancient folk - or Outer Rim folk - could only dream of.

The Krayts - and the Mandalorian - departed out of the rear of the shuttle. Arya took point as they were met by a Wookiee and a near-Human. It took a second for Arya to recognize the bright green tattoo on his face: Kiffar.

“Welcome!” the Kiffar said, with a flourish of his arms towards the outpost, “To our humble outpost. I am Lieutenant Jus Harro, and this is my loyal soldier, Sergeant Unocca.”

At the mention of their name, Unocca gave a short rrowwrr and a nod of their head. The Wookiee had light brown fur, the color of sand on a beach, with flecks of black, darker brown, and even white. He had a messenger bag over his shoulder, and a pair of large sidearms, made clearly for Wookiee hands.

The Kiffar had on what appeared to be the uniform of a Republic naval officer. Only, he had the top half of the jumpsuit pulled down and tied around his waist, leaving his chest exposed. A number of tattoos decorated him from shoulder to thigh, disappearing beneath the improperly worn uniform. Arya wasn’t one for such precise conformity to military code, but she was a bit surprised that they didn’t spruce themselves up knowing that a superior officer was going to be present.

“I am Commander Arya Wooy,” she said, “this is Allen Mordigala, our advisor, and these are Sandstorm, Tat, and Czerka, the Commandos of Krayt Squad.”

“We are honored,” Jus said. He turned aside and waved them over, “We seldom have visitors to our quiet corner of the Galaxy.”

The outpost, other than the unnecessarily cordoned off landing zones - the Arvalan territory was flat and made a suitable landing zone essentially as far as the eye could see - the outpost was essentially a complex of three buildings that could easily pass for houses anywhere in the Outer Rim. One of them had two stories, and a number of sensor arrays, antennae, and satellite dishes on top. Arya figured that was where most of the Republic data processing was located. Another had no windows and a high-security door. Arya assumed that must be the armory. In front of the third house was a fence that appeared mostly decorative, a number of tables with scattered sabacc cards, bottles in various stages of being full/empty, and a death stick half-filled hanging off one side of the table. There was a large awning extending from the house over the “patio” area, and a door and number of windows that pointed inside the building.

As they approached the area, Arya could see behind the houses there was another fenced-in area and a small herd of about thirty or so blurrgs. A Twi’lek with olive green skin, was out there feeding the herd from an enormous feed bag.

“Yakoh!” Jus shouted, “Get over here!”

The Twi’lek set the feed back on a post outside the blurrg pen and walked over to where the Squad was assembling underneath the awning.  As she approached, Arya could see that she was dressed in a beige camisk and had a thin leather thong wrapped around her waist. The outfit was horrifically revealing. As the wind blew, it left little and less to the imagination.

Something she gathered that Jus Harro probably intended.

Her suspicions were confirmed when the Lieutenant slapped Yakoh a bit hard on the rear. Her lekku bounced aggressively, but her face remained still, as if this was something she was overly used to.

“Show the guests to their suites.”

“Thank you, Yakoh,” Arya said, “But we can find our way on our own.”

“Nonsense.” Lieutenant Harro said, “You are our my guest, and our commanding officer. It would be Yakoh’s honor to serve you. Wouldn’t it, pet?”

Yakoh gently closed her eyes and bowed her head, “I am honored to serve the noble defenders of the Republic.”

“Good girl,” Harro said.

Yakoh walked through the small crowd of soldiers, and led them all inside the outpost. There was a small hallway and a series of rooms. There were two beds to a room, though Unocca and Jus Harro each had one their own. There was one room set aside for visiting officers, which Yakoh showed to Arya. The others were split, with Sandstorm and Tat taking one, and Allen and Czerka the other.

They each took their rooms and set down their weapons and equipment.

When Yakoh showed Arya her room, Arya stepped inside and took a brief moment to look around. It was entirely enclosed. Zero windows. Given the state of things, this was probably for the best. There were plenty of dangers to be had with windows in a low-tech environment like this: assassin drones, snipers, gently lobbed grenades, basically anything.

The room was aggressively simple: a cot with a single blanket. A small table. A rack against the wall facing the interior where Arya could hang her coat, or her weapons, or anything else. A small data pad to adjust the room’s environmental settings and use the base’s security feeds.

“Thank you, Yakoh.” Arya said, she waved her into the room, “May I speak with you for a second?”

Yakoh walked into the room, her head down, her hands held together gently as if she waited for commands. “Yes, Commander Wooy?”

Arya leaned close, as if Lieutenant Harro or Unocca were standing outside the door, “Are you in need of assistance? Are… are they abusing you?”

Yakoh turned her face up towards Arya, though her look was unreadable. Arya reached out in the Force, and sensed… something odd about her demeanor. As if she was both relieved, and a bit confused to see a Jedi here. But she sensed strength above all. There was a power in Yakoh that Arya wasn’t certain what to make of… she couldn’t have been a Jedi… could she?

The Twi’lek turned back to the door and closed it with a button. Once the door whooshed closed, Yakoh removed her camisk, dropping it to the floor with one hand.

She was indeed a gorgeous woman, with large, perfectly round breasts, wide, fertile hips, toned, gorgeous arms and legs, and full lips. She removed her headpiece, as well, letting her lekku wave seductively in the air.

Arya stepped back, a tiny, un-Jedi-like voice inside of her telling her to step forward, “No, no, Yakoh, that’s not what I want. No, please, put your clothes back on.”

But before she could finish the sentence, Yakoh’s green Twi’lek body melted into a puddle of black goo on the floor of the suite. Arya could feel the heat coming from the liquid as it bubbled, cracked, and vibrated like an angry ferrofluid. Then about a minute later, it began to reform.

Freaked out as the shape began to reconstitute, Arya drew her lightsaber, her finger on the ignition, as the shape reconstituted itself into some kind of black-furred, fluffy-tailed, tall-eared quadruped. All its bones and ligaments snapped into place, their organs gurgled into their appropriate spots, and Yakoh stretched their reconstituted muscles and twisted their head around to get used to being a Gurlanin again, “Commander Arya Wooy,” they said, “Agent Yakoh Q’iil’quka.”

“What are you?”

“A Gurlanin,” they said, sitting on their haunches, “I was assigned here by the Special Operations Brigade to provide you intelligence.”

Arya clipped her lightsaber to her belt, “Dank ferrik,” she swore, “You scared the karabast out of me.”

“Apologies. My work requires the utmost discretion.”

“Usually Commanders of Spec Ops units are given the data beforehand.”

“Unfortunately, with the moving pieces of this operation, for example, your Mandalorian who once worked for the Confederacy, secrecy was paramount.”

Arya sat on the cot, “Why are you giving me the data, not Lieutenant Harro?”

The Gurlanin snickered, “If Jus Harro was sober long enough to provide any useful data to the Grand Army he’ll probably win a medal for it.”

“So they assigned you instead of just replacing Harro?”

“Arvala-7 is in the darkest corner of the Galaxy. Outposts like this are where they assign officers they want to snub or punish.”

“Why is Harro being snubbed or punished?”

“Harro cost the Republic half a dozen vessels in an operation on Irmenu through carelessness. He survived multiple sinkings while losing 97% of his men in the process. An investigation cleared him of any charges of working for the enemy, but he was determined too big of a risk to be put back into a position where lives were on the line.”

“So they put him here. Where just our lives are on the line.”

“And that’s why I’m here.”

“So do they know who or what you are?”

“Not a clue.” Yakoh said, smiling a rather fierce and frightening Gurlanin smile, “When those two are done with their Twi’lek slave, or more often than not, passed out, I morph something to scout out the Separatist base. I have all the information you could possibly need.”

“Including what they’re developing inside the base?”

“Except that.”

“All right,” Arya sighed, “So what can you tell me?” 

“The Separatist base is a day’s ride west of here by blurrg mount. It is built into a mountain which opens onto cracked salt-flats. You’ll need to approach from the north-west to avoid their sensor-array, and scale the walls of the cliff below in order to access it without being spotted.”

“So it’s more of a two day journey if we need to go around that way.”

“Yes.”

“How many are we talking here, staff-wise?”

“The Separatists have mostly hired Mandalorians to do the job.”

I guess Allen’s loyalties will be put to the test, Arya thought, “How many?”

“I counted five when I was there.”

“Five Mandos doesn’t sound like a lot.”

“There’s also plenty of droids. One tactical droid, a small force of Ugnaught technicians, and… some other soldiers.”

“What other soldiers? Not droids?”

“No. The clones call them wets.”

“Wets, as in, like Mandalorians and Ugnaughts.”

“No…” Yakoh suddenly seemed very nervous for a spy, “I…” she sighed, “I don’t know whether this will call your clones’ loyalties into question or if they’ll be more eager to… do their job in this circumstance.”

“Yakoh,” Arya said, unable to contain the suspense any longer, “what is it? What do they have?”

“Clones. The Separatists have clones.”

Arya wasn’t able to process the information for a solid second, “You mean prisoners? They have clone prisoners in the base?”

“No, they have clone soldiers. As in, fighting for them.”

“The Separatists have a clone army?”

“No, you’re not understanding.”

“Then what?”

“Deserters. Clone deserters. The Separatists have a unit made up entirely of deserters from the Grand Army.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 24: NAAT

The headless Chiss body of Sev ’rance Tann hovered for just a moment in the air, and then fell far, far below the Separatist base, into the Krantian jungles.

“No, Naat.” Master Echuu finally said, “You must go back and report what has happened here…”

The Force in the air between them shimmered like something fragile, hanging there as if at any moment it might shatter the peace that existed for only this moment.

“But… Master Echuu…” Naat stepped towards him, feeling for the first time, a dark entity hiding beneath the man she was closer to than even Master Lim.

“It is too late for me, now.” Echuu’s voice took on a different tone. One marked by pain, and unforgiveness, “For too long, I’ve allowed anger to guide my actions. Now the dark side is forever a part of my destiny.”

Naat managed to get her binders off, letting them drop to the hangar bay with a clink before she was able to recover hers and her brother’s lightsabers from the floor where Tann had dropped them. She even picked up the Dark Acolyte’s blade. A kyber crystal didn’t belong forgotten on this world, dishonored by the hands of a Sith. She’d bring it back to the Jedi Temple and begin the long process of purification.

When Naat stood up, Master Echuu turned towards her. He looked older. Far older than he’d seemed just moments ago. “Perhaps with time,” he said, “I can return to the Jedi Order, but for now I must remain alone to reflect on what I have done.” He reached out a hand, palm up. Naat put Tann’s lightsaber in it. “Learn from my mistakes, and you’ll make a fine Jedi Knight someday.”

Naat stood up, straightening … as her Master held out another lightsaber, pommel first, towards her.

His own.

She accepted it.

She accepted that this was a necessary end to their story.

“May… the Force be with you, Master Echuu.”

Glavis Ringworld, Secure Republic Landing Zone AVR-X

1013 Days after Geonosis

Naat stepped off the shuttle to a welcome committee of two clone troopers. They both wore light armor, composites made of repurposed Phase I pieces, updated Phase II helmets clipped to their belts, and some unique pieces made for the local Glavis outpost.

“General Reath!” the lead clone said, “CT-9800, Lieutenant Aughts.” He saluted. His subordinate, a Private Second Class with his helmet on, followed suit, “Welcome to Glavis Ringworld.”

The Ringworld hovered over Glavis I, a gas giant that was the only planet of the M-class star. Glavis I glowed orange and green as the yellow-white light of the star glanced through the upper atmosphere of the planet to bathe the ring in light.

They had arrived just as one of the eclipse plates hovered into place over the GAR’s Glavis office.

“It’s… an impressive view.” She said.

“Big upgrade from Drongar, don’t you think, Commander?” Hammer asked, seemingly excited to be on the next best thing to solid ground that wasn’t actively trying to eat him.

“Commander?” Lieutenant Aughts said, “Apologies, I thought you were promoted to General.”

“I was.” Naat said, “Don’t worry about it.”

“Right,” he chuckled. Lieutenant Aughts led the Epsilons to the Office, and showed them to the barracks. There was a set of suites, one set aside for visiting Generals, one set aside for visiting Commanders, and another set aside for visiting advisers. He directed Naat to the General’s suite, and Atiniir to the adviser’s. The clones had already determined which bunks were theirs in the barracks.

She thanked Lieutenant Aughts for the room and asked him to let her know when their Wookiee guides arrived. He left and the door whooshed shut. Naat opened the window, and the screen went from opaque to transparent, giving her a broad view of the Ringworld, Glavis I, and the dimming sunlight as the eclipse plate slipped overhead. The lights of the city beyond mixed with the stars as they winked into the night sky.

There was a knock at the door. Naat opened it to reveal a Zeltron face. Atiniir wore only an off-white robe, the trim made with wampa fur, most of his beskar’gam removed, save for his greaves, pauldrons, and his right vambrace, “How are you feeling, Commander?”

“I think you’ve earned the right to call me Naat.”

“Very well,” he said, taking a step into the room and leaning against the door frame, “How are you feeling, Naat?”

“Fine,” she said, “I’ll be ready to go when the Wookiees arrive. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not.”

Naat turned towards him. It felt like he meant to say YOU sound worried.

“Let’s go out.” He said, “I think after a year on Drongar, I’ve spent enough time huddled in a Republic base. And, you were there for how long, a week? That alone was long enough.”

“You want to go out?” she asked.

“It’s a whole city out there. Let’s get some briikasak.”

“I was… thinking I’d just stay in and meditate for the next few days.”

“Until the Wookiees get here?”

Naat nodded, “I’m still recovering, you know?”

“No better way to recover than to get your blood going.”

“I think I’ll just stay here.” She said.

Atiniir straightened and tapped the door frame, “Link me if you change your mind.”

The door whooshed shut, and Naat turned back to the Glavis cityscape beyond her room. She sighed, “Dank ferrik.”

Naat caught up with Atiniir just before the lift doors closed. He held the doors for her and she slipped inside.

“So.” She said, the lift taking them down to the secure entrance area, “Do you know where we’re going?”

Atiniir shrugged, “I’ve never been here before. You?”

“Never.”

“So let’s just see what we see. Maybe get something to eat that isn’t GAR rations.”

The thought of fresh food that didn’t come out of a vacuum sealed pack made Naat almost giddy with excitement. But as the Jedi Knight she was, she shoved the feelings down inside of her. She wasn’t some Padawan, still overwhelmed by the joys of basic things that the rest of the Galaxy took for granted.

“What are you feeling?” she asked.

“Ever had Mandalorian food?”

“I’ve had uj cake.”

“Is that it?”

Naat nodded, “Yeah.”

The doors opened.

The Wheel was the most populous urban center in the Sector. Naat certainly felt it just walking through the city streets. A pair of Givins stared at her - so she thought, it was hard to tell with them - as they walked by. A troop of Mon Calamari argued about starship dynamics at the front of a Dacene storefront where a chef prepared acid-cooked seafood. An old Bothan sat on a bench with an even older Kiffar as they discussed the flaws and benefits of allowing Palpatine to hold office past his term limits in defense of Dookuism. A Pooba mother’s two cubs clung to her shoulders chittering in their language.

It was getting crowded, and Atiniir hooked his arm around Naat’s, “I don’t want to lose you.” 

Naat was happy that he wasn’t looking at her face. If he had, she’d have seemed as pink as him.

“Here,” he said, “Before the crowd gets any thicker.”

He ducked inside a Gibadan restaurant. The interior was dark, with tables cordoned off using dividers. The Gibadan hostess showed them to their tables and handed them menus.

“Have you ever had Gibadan food?”

“My first Master was Gibadan, actually.”

Atiniir said, “Strictly speaking… that doesn’t really answer the question.”

Naat laughed, “True. She was taken from home as a Youngling. So it wasn’t a part of her upbringing. Or mine.”

“She died on Geonosis, right?”

“Yeah,” Naat said, not even fazed at the thought of that loss. She had been through so much since Master Lim’s death that it barely ranked the list any longer, “What about you?” she asked, “What drove you away from your Covert and into service with the Republic?”

“Oh,” he said, “that’s a tale.”

The waitress came over. On her shirt was a pin with the black and white sigil of the Republic on her breast. Since Gibad had sided with the Separatists, now Gibadans across the Republic felt the need to perform their patriotism openly.

He ordered for them: hen in spicy red sauce, topped with noodles and cheese. And bottles of soju to wash it all down. After a brief moment, the waitress came back with the green bottles of alcohol and the traditional small glasses it was drunk with. She turned on the flat top grill in the center of the table and put bowls of fermented vegetables in front of them.

“Do Gibadans always cook at the table like this?”

“No,” Atiniir said, “Not always.”

They ate their vegetables and drank their soju while the waitress put meat, noodles, and cheese onto the flat-top grill. Naat enjoyed watching the process of cooking. Jedi weren’t opposed to good tasting food, but they customarily chose and cooked food that lacked strong flavor so as to tame the passions and not inflame the emotions. The most flavorful food that Naat Reath had ever had was on assignment, often from the very clones who found such simple pleasures like flavorful spices, sweet treats, and exotic drinks, to be the height of decadent pleasure.

With the food cooked, the waitress came back and lowered the grill’s heat to “keep warm,” and said, “It’s ready. Please enjoy.”

Atiniir grabbed a pair of thin sticks, which Naat had definitely seen used before to eat in certain cultures, and loaded up her bowl with meat, noodles, cheese, and bits of the fermented vegetables on top.

“K’epar!” he said.

“Ah… eat?”

“Yes,” Atiniir said, laughing as he served himself, “Eat up!”

Naat vaguely understood how to use the chopsticks, so she watched Atiniir and copied his grip on them before trying - poorly - to eat the Gibadan meal.

Instantly, her mouth felt like it was on fire, “Dank ferrik!” She put a hand over her mouth as she chewed, worried that if she said how she really felt, food would fly out of her lips.

“Oh, yeah, be careful.” Atiniir said, clearly enjoying his mouthful much more, “Hetikleyc.”

By the time Naat finally managed to get it down her throat, she said, “What? What the hell is that?” She tried to take a drink, but the soju wasn’t exactly quenching.

“Um…” Atiniir looked up into the screen trying to find the word in Basic, “Spicy? Yeah, it’s spicy.”

“Oh, now you tell me?”

“Sorry,” Atiniir laughed. He ordered a couple of empty glasses, a sugary drink, and a pint of Gibadan ale. He then poured a shot of soju into each, then filled it with the ale, and then the sugary drink before mixing the drink with a tap from the chopsticks, “Here, try this.”

A few sips from the beverage were enough to quench the fire on Naat’s tongue. She cooled off and breathed while Atiniir chuckled next to her.

When she turned towards him, she couldn’t help but laugh herself, “Why didn’t you tell me it was spicy?”

“I kind of forgot,” Atiniir said, “I’m Mandalorian. This isn’t that spicy to me.”

“Really? On a scale of 1 to 10, what’s this compared to your normal Mandalorian tastes?”

Atiniir looked away as he calculated it, “Six?”

“Six?”

“You want to see something wild, you’ll have to visit an old Covert with me, watch a bunch of ba’vodu’e sitting around a fire eating raw Genbaran white fire chilies.”

“Dank ferrik.” Naat said, “I’m not sure how much of this I can eat.”

“Try alternating from the meat to the noodles and cheese.” He said, “It’ll acclimate you more to the flavors.”

Naat took a bite of noodles and cheese. It was indeed much easier to consume than the meat slathered in the spicy sauce, probably sprinkled with a bit of that Genbaran whatever peppers he was mentioning by the taste of it, “Seems like you have some experience with helping spice neophytes learn how to eat properly.”

“It’s one of the big things you do in the Covert: teach children how to eat hot foods. A lot of the time, you suck all the capsacin off of peppers before you let the kiddos eat them. Eventually they can’t get enough of the stuff.”

At a certain point in her meal, Naat found it difficult to speak at all. But she did come to the realization that she was enjoying it. And once she got past the spiciness, it was actually quite good.

Together, they ate the entirety of the Gibadan meal and afterwards, Naat leaned back in her seat, just allowing the waves of sensation to wash over her. She felt like a whole world of culinary impressions had been opened to her.

“You doing all right?”

Naat just laughed, “Is… this what eating spicy food really feels like? I’m…”

“In euphoria?”

She turned to face the Zeltron, “Yeah. Exactly.”

He smiled at her and poured himself another direct shot of soju, “Capsacin, to most Near-Humans, is technically poisonous. Just like alcohol and spice melange. That’s why it tastes so…”

“Hot?”

“I was going to say violent.”

“That’s certainly a word for it.”

“But if you have enough of it, your body responds by releasing endorphins. A lot of endorphins. Then it starts to crave the flavor. That’s why people start to crave hetikleyc, they get high off of it.”

“Wow,” Naat said, “I think I learned that at some point actually.”

“In the Jedi Temple?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

He drank, “I wonder if the clones would come out with us some time.”

“You still haven’t told me.” Naat said.

“Told you what?”

“About why you left the Covert.”

“Ah,” he said, looking down into his drink, “I mean, there’s not a whole lot to tell. There was a conflict. A lot of us needed to just get out. We talked about going together, but we were able to get more money as separate Agents. So we split, and vowed to come back when we could get a controlling share of Covert property.”

“What was the conflict?” As soon as she said it, Naat saw how Atiniir’s eyes turned down and he suddenly seemed morose, as if it was a memory that was more troubling than it was just sad, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s just… difficult to describe to an aruetii.”

“An outsider.”

“Yes.” Atiniir poured himself another drink, and then Naat, “I mean, basically, it was a difference in opinion of a husband and wife. It escalated. The husband’s mother sided with his wife. It… got heated. Blades were drawn and we all lost.”

Naat didn’t want to say it, but that sort of thing was what she and most of the Galaxy usually thought of when they thought of Mandalorians: knuckle dragging barbarians just looking for a fight. But from Atiniir’s retelling and tone of voice, clearly this was an aberration. She thought that the Jedi weren’t so different. That they could have just as aggressive, and occasionally, just as violent disagreements. At the beginning of the Clone Wars, a splinter of Jedi who believed that violence could still be averted, and a diplomatic solution with the Confederacy reached, had retreated to Ruul under the leadership of Master Sora Bulq. Master Windu ended up ending this brief schism by dueling his old friend.

Then there was the whole “Jedi Civil War” thing.

“I’m sorry,” Naat said, “I wish there was something I could do.”

“We’ll end the war together,” Atiniir said, “And then my vode and I can go home.”

“I hope you’re right.” Naat said. When she turned and looked at him, she had this sudden, distinct feeling that something might happen between them. It was a feeling she had only had once before: with Cal.

But nothing could happen between them. Any of them. Cal was a clone trooper, and her subordinate. Atiniir was a Mandalorian. She was a Jedi. A Jedi General.

Besides, in the Galaxy, wasn’t that… wrong? If she was going to have one of them, shouldn’t she have to choose? Cal or Atiniir?

She broke eye contact with the Mandalorian. Naat realized only too late, after she felt her breath shorten and her body tense, that Zeltrons exuded pheremones - even without intending to - that affected Near-Humans in ways that were often overpowering.

Naat took another drink, not sure if that was the right decision.

“You all right, Commander?”

It’s just the pheremones, Naat told herself, it’s just the pheremones that he has no control over, telling me that I want his arms around me, and Cal’s. To have one of them in front of me, and one behind me, to feel their mouths on my skin, and their hands over my body…

She looked up, directly into his sparkling eyes, summoning every ounce of Jedi strength and willpower over her base reproductive instincts, “I’m doing great,” she said, “Actually, I’m really enjoying myself.”

“Well, then.” Atiniir said, tapping his glass with Naat’s, “Haili cetare!”

Chapter Text

Chapter 25: ZAM

Like most droids, Huyang didn ’t sleep. Obviously.

And it ’s not like they were prisoners. Yet, Zam felt the need to sneak out of his bunk and go to the back of the ship, over the engines, where the observation deck was.

He knocked lightly on the door, hoping that Huyang couldn ’t hear them.

It slid open where Arya and Naat were waiting for him.

“Boo!” Arya jumped out.

“Shh!” Zam held his finger up to his lips, “Not so loud!” He crept into the observatory where the hyperspace lane around them shimmered and shook as the ship cruised from the sacred planet Ilum on the way back to Coruscant.

“Why?” Naat asked, speaking at her normal volume, “We’re just hanging out.”

The blue shade disguised Zam ’s flushed, dark rose cheeks, “I know, I just… don’t want to get in trouble.”

“We’re not going to get into trouble,” Arya said. As Zam sat down, she sat closer to him, and Naat even cozied up to Zam’s right side.

“I…” Zam said, “I still don’t think we should be doing this.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.” Zam said, “Something about it doesn’t feel right.”

“What doesn’t feel right about it?” Naat asked.

“How about this,” Arya said, “I’ll do something, and if it doesn’t feel right… you say something, and I’ll stop”

Zam gave the slightest of nods.

Arya put her hand on Zam ’s thigh, half on his exposed skin, half under his tunic.

“How’s that?” Arya asked.

Zam ’s face must have been dark red by then.

Naat copied the motion on his other side, “How about this?”

Zam liked it. He liked it a lot. But he couldn ’t say that.

“All right,” Arya said, leaning her face close to Zam’s neck, “How about this?” She breathed lightly against his skin, her hand moving up the inside of his thigh. “Do you like that?” she whispered, so low Zam could barely hear.

Naat didn ’t bother to copy the motion, she just leaned towards his neck and kissed him right next to his ear, “I like it.” She said, moving her hand up his thigh.

Zam did, too.

Zygerria

1014 Days after Geonosis

The arid planet rotated before them, gold and tan like a dull ball of precious metal alloy. They were in a long lane of space craft, moving at a steady speed down towards the planet in an orderly fashion, something which Zygerrian air control held an iron grip over.

Of course, this was just another tool of the slave trade.

Literally everything on Zygerria could be explained by the slave trade.

In this case it was to prevent black marketeers from freely trading on Zygerria. By tightly controlling ships going and coming from the planet, the Zygerrian government could carefully control the trade from their home planet.

Of course, somewhat ironically, Zygerrian slavers depended deeply on the black market that stretched across the Galaxy. In a very real way, the Zygerrian Slave Empire never truly ended, it just went dark.

“Zygerria has been openly pro-Separatist for some time now.” Takkor said, “How are they letting us land on the planet?”

Zam was sitting in the co-pilot’s chair reading the mission dossier for what felt like the umpteenth time, “We disabled all identifying Republic signal markers, and installed Tion’s Mandalorian pulse beacon.”

“And the armors?” Takkor asked, “Zygerria isn’t Xo. Zygerrians will be able to recognize a clone when they see one.”

“We picked up some captured Zygerrian armor that will fit Human bodies when we stopped at Ord Cestus.”

“As well as some beskar’gam.” Tion cut in.

“What?” Zam asked, surprised.

“I picked up some Mandalorian pieces at Ord Cestus.”

“Beskar?”

Tion almost laughed, “Oh no. I don’t have that kind of money. Plus, if there was true beskar’gam hanging around the market on Ord Cestus, I’d be obligated to take it without paying anything regardless.”

“Non-beskar Mandalorian armor, then?”

Tion said, “Beskar is rarer and rarer nowadays since the end of the Mandalorian Civil War, and the mines being disrupted. Plus the rise of the New Mandalorians…” she seemed to sigh, “Beskar is more of an heirloom commodity, and a collector’s item outside of it. No, these pieces are durasteel.”

“Oh,” Zam said, “What’s the significance of bringing them with us?”

“Humans in Zygerrian armor are bound to bring up questions. Now, a team of Mandalorians looking to buy or sell some slaves? Far less suspicious.”

“Huh,” Zam said, “That’s a good idea.”

“Shuttle Nixo Kettel-9B,” the comm buzzed, “This is Zygerrian Space Traffic Control, we’re going to direct you to landing pad 0-8-4-Zetta.”

Tion accessed the link, “Copy that, Traffic Control. Setting coordinates now.”

“Should I go hand out the armor?” Takkor asked.

“Yes,” Zam said, “Do you have a Zygerrian morph?”

“You want me to morph Zygerrian?”

“I’ll have the clones pose as Mandalorian buyers, and you’ll be our Zygerrian guide to the slave markets.”

“Good plan.” Takkor hopped off the seat and walked with purpose out of the cockpit and towards the center of the hull.

“What do you think the odds are that we can pull off a similar maneuver here as we were able to on Xo?” Tion asked.

“Not sure.” Zam said, “The previous Zygerrian Queen, Miraj Scintel, was killed a short time ago. Separatist sources say it was General Skywalker who killed her in the operation to secure the Kirosi captives. Republic sources claim it was Count Dooku, assisted by the Zygerrian Prime Minister.”

“Who do you think is lying?”

Zam tried not to look up from the datapad, “I am forced to trust General Skywalker’s honor.”

“Because he’s a Jedi?”

“Not just a Jedi, but a Jedi Knight.”

Tion let the discussion drop. Zam supposed it had less to do with trusting a Jedi’s word, and just as much with not quite trusting the Separatists. After all, Dooku was a former Jedi himself. What made his word more trustworthy than Skywalker’s? “Who’s Queen now?”

“The new leader is King Atai Molec.” Zam said, reciting the dossier from memory, “Queen Miraj left no issue, and while rule would normally have passed to a sister or female cousin, or aunt, her Prime Minister being literally in her throne room at the time of her death, having a close relationship with Dooku, and having most of the armies at hand, was able to seize power.”

“Fun. Love taking aim at a real osikyc type like that.”

“We may have our work cut out for us,” Zam said, “The file on Zygerrian history highlights how Zygerria developed an enatic form of succession because in their early history, the males were so consumed by reflexive, wars due to perceived threats to their honor, that females were seen as the more level-headed and capable of estimating when negotiation and diplomacy was a better strategy over constant aggression.”

“How’s that been working out for them?”

“Well… here we are.”

“I guess it remains to be seen whether Queen Miraj’s rule will prove to have outpaced King Altai’s.”

“Not if we have something to say about it.” Zam said, turning off the datapad and securing the encrypted device in a secret compartment in the cockpit. He stood and walked back towards the center of the craft as Tion directed their ship through the Zygerrian atmosphere and towards the landing pad.

In the common area, the five clones were dressed in motley Mandalorian armor. Most had their helmets under their arms or sitting next to them. After looking at the faces, he saw that Monk was the only one with it on. The armor was random pieces, not well maintained, but looked reasonable. All of his “Mandalorians” seemed more like they had just gone through a month’s long trek through desert and jungle, the elements chipping at the more colorful parts of their armor, only to end up in a big fight at the end of it all.

It probably added to the realism of their ruse, and looked less like they were stolen or scavenged pieces.

Takkor’s Zygerrian form looked like a young male, and the armor fit a little haphazardly, so he was busy adjusting it with Monk’s help to roll up the sleeves and fit the pauldrons and breastplate. He needed to pack the helmet as well, just so it sat more comfortably on his head.

“You all look good,” Zam said, “Like real Mandalorians.”

“It’s in our blood.” Psycho said.

There was a brief chuckle around the room. Butcher opened a small case and pulled out a number of tiny objects. One-by-one, the clones of Red Squad put them in their mouths and swallowed.

Zam had seen those before, but never really questioned them, “Sergeant, what are those?”

“Supplements,” Butcher said, “The Kaminoans said our altered genome requires us to take supplemental pills to function properly. White ones are for everyday use, we have different, red ones for combat use.” Butcher held out his hand and showed Zam two different colored pills. Except for the coloration, they were nearly identical. Though the red ones had a tiny 00 on them, while the white ones had a 01.

Zam nodded. He knew the Clone Heavies had physiology that was altered even more than the regular clones’, but he didn’t know that it was so altered that they needed constant supplementary nutrition.

“We’re about to touch down,” Zam said, “Takkor will do most of the talking. He’s our Zygerrian guide while we’re looking for slaves to bring back to our Covert.”

“What kind of slaves are you looking for?” Takkor asked, handing Zam his own suit of Mandalorian armor.

“Let’s say we need some to look after our growing blurrg herd.” Zam said.

“Femmes.” Rancor said. Psycho and Thread laughed, “Might as well say we’re looking for femmes while we’re at it. A couple Twi’leks. A couple Togruta. You know, make our fake Covert real classy.”

“Stow it, soldier.” Butcher said, glaring at him through the t-shaped visor of his buy’ce.

“Commander,” Monk said, “Where is our Covert?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Bruiser said.

“No,” Zam said, “Monk is right. We should make sure we’re clear on the details.”

“Qiilura.” Takkor said, “The chance that anyone on Zygerria has ever been there is remote to none, so it’ll be a good place for your fake home.”

“Either way,” Tion said, walking into the room, setting her buy’ce on her head, “you’ll want to keep that information mostly to yourselves. We don’t advertise the location of our Coverts unless it’s absolutely necessary. But it’s good to know.”

“Hey, Commander,” Psycho said, “Are we going to get to keep these suits after the mission? I’m into them.”

“They’re not mine. You’ll have to ask Agent Strill.”

“What about it, Tion?” Psycho asked.

“Beskar’gam is only for Mandalorians. Even if it’s not actually beskar. After the war, you want to become a Mandalorian, I’ll give you the suit.”

“One more detail,” Monk said, “Tion’s armor is way nicer than ours.”

“True.” Zam said, putting the pieces of armor on over his Jedi tunic, “Say the six of us were out in the wilderness for some time, had an intense hunt… Tion picked us up when she got our beacon?”

“Works for me. Simple. Concise. Hopefully it won’t come up.” Tion said, “Once we make contact, we can talk about painting the armor anyway.”

“Red, right?” Thread asked.

“No other color.” Butcher answered.

The ship touched down on the landing pad. The city’s space port, government controlled like everything else on this planet, immediately put grav-locks on the ship as a number of Zygerrian inspectors came out to take stock of the newcomers, make sure there was no smuggling happening, and to register them with the city government.

Takkor came down the loading ramp first, followed by what seemed to be seven Mandalorians in full beskar’gam.

“Welcome, my friends,” Takkor said, “Welcome, to Zygerria! Jewel of the Outer Rim.” He walked up to the inspector and said, “My dear inspector, may I introduce you to my Mandalorian friends, here all the way from the Colonies to purchase our most magnificent of wares for their Covert.”

The inspector held a datapad and looked from Takkor to the Mandalorians, “And to whom is the ship registered?”

“That would be the tall one with horns on her helmet here,” Takkor stepped in between Tion and the inspector, “However, these fine folk are…” he shook his head side-to-side, “rather orthodox in their ways. It took me a very long time to earn their trust, and they have sought to keep most communications going through me.”

“Very well,” the inspector said, “sign here.” He held out the datapad to Tion, which Takkor then picked up and held towards her. The writing, in Aurabesh Basic, was a standard-issue liability agreement-cum-immigration form. However, this one also stipulated that everything on Zygerria was property of the Crown.

Tion showed the document to Zam. Well… that was… something.

“What is this?” Tion growled at Takkor, pointing to the clause of ownership on the datapad.

Takkor took over, and balancing the assertive obsequiousness of his character, turned to the inspector and showed him what Tion was questioning. But before allowing the local to say anything, Takkor said, “Ah, well, the Crown of Zygerria is in possession of the planet of Zygerria. Legally that is defined by everything that touches the soil.”

“Are you saying the King of Zygerria lays claim to me and my ship?”

The inspector interrupted, “Legally speaking, yes. However, this is a legal formality. No harm will come to you, your people, or your ship so long as you obey Zygerrian law, and you will be allowed to leave the planet unmolested, with your purchases, and once you leave Zygerrian space, the contract automatically terminates and the Crown lays no legal claim to you or yours. It’s all right there, just scroll down a bit further.”

Despite his tone, and despite that this was all a part of the mission anyway, Tion made a show of looking displeased at this turn of events. She signed the datapad.

“And there is the small issue of the access fee to the landing pad, as well as your suites.”

“How much?” Tion asked.

The inspector gave the price, and Takkor was ready with the card that Zam had given him, “I’ll take care of that. It was I who promised to guide them through this process, so allow me.”

As soon as the fee was paid, the Zygerrian guards that flanked either side of the inspector led the team to the small complex of suites that looked down onto the landing pad. In the hall, a slave stood by every door in elaborate clothing. About two-thirds of them were Twi’lek. There was an even number of men and women, with the women wearing golden bikini tops leaving little to the imagination, and the men wearing only the loin cloths that just barely covered their bottoms.

A few of the Reds had a hard time not looking.

The suites were private, and the Reds were happy to each take one. Through the discrete comm channels in the Mandalorian helmets, Zam said, “I’m assuming these suites are bugged, so let’s not say or do anything in them mission-related. When we’re in here, we’re in enemy territory.”

Green acknowledgment lights flooded Zam’s head’s-up-display. The room was fancy. Zam’s slave, a female Zeltron, followed him into the room and immediately made herself busy at the counter where there were a number of bottles, glasses, and a small tray with refreshments stacked on it.

“The Crown of Zygerria presents these refreshments for you, Master.”

Zam removed his helmet and put it under his arm. He had a deep desire to not play the part of a slave master, but in order for this plan to succeed, he needed to make sure he couldn’t be found out right at the start.

Plus, it did cross his mind how there were probably a number of spies among the slaves, as well. Especially here where off-worlders frequented.

He took a sip from the glass with the clear liquid. Fresh water.

“Ba’gedet’ye.” He said, remembering his Mando’a lessons with Tion.

She bowed shallowly and left the tray on a small table by the window, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No,” Zam said, “Thank you.” He hoped she would leave, but she just moved over to a corner of the room and stood there patiently, with her hands clasped in front of her body, and her head bowed towards the ground, “Actually,” Zam said, “What is your name?”

She picked her head up slightly, “My name, Master?”

“Yes.” Zam said, “I want to know.”

She stared at him for a long moment, as if it was a strange request, one that she had never expected, about something she had long forgotten, “Aliya.” She finally said, “Aliya Shamm.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Zam said. He put his helmet back on. The air between them seemed to grow heavy. Zeltrons already put enough pheremones in the air without intending to. Putting two in the room, and add one slave who hoped she would please her master…

No wonder Zam was feeling a pull.

She was beautiful, too.

Chapter Text

Chapter 26: ALLEN

They picked Batuu precisely because no one else had been here. Well, no one in their Coverts.

It was stupid. And overly sentimental. More sentimental than Mandalorians had any right to be. All Allen had to do was say it over holo, or comm, or even write it on a rock and throw it to her. All Larra had to do was say “Yes” and it was considered binding.

But theirs was a romance for the ages. It would be told and retold for generations. Allen was sure of it.

He was sure of it because he was going to write it. He ’d already written over 50,000 words about their story throughout the Galaxy: from when they met on the job in Skye, to chasing their quarry all the way to the markets in Terminus, to their first romantic night in the crystal city of Cristophsis.

And now here. On Batuu. In a secluded glen of the ancient forest, Allen stood there in his armor, his buy ’ce tucked under his arm.

And Larra stood across from him, a blossoming crown of flowers on his bride ’s head, looping over and around her lekku, vines hanging down, trailing more buds and petals over her armor.

“Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar’tome,” he said, reaching out and taking her hand, “mhi me’dinui an, mhi ba’juri verde.”

Larra said those last words with him. It was as good as a yes. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and kissed him.

They spent the night in that private forest glen surrounded by pieces of their armor, mixed together and fallen where they were dropped.

He would never have believed that in a year ’s time, Larra would try to kill him.

Like only a Mandalorian wife could try.

Arvala-7

1009 Days after Geonosis

They stopped as the sun rose and made camp. The heat of the Arvalan sun and the desire not to be spotted by Separatist sensor arrays made the Krayts figure it was better to travel at night.

They stopped and made camp, Czerka being given the first watch, while Tat and Sandstorm made camp. Allen helped round up the blurrgs with Arya, keeping them in motion until they were a safe distance away from their prefabs where they could release their bowels.

Allen thought the blurrgs smelled bad enough on the outside. But the methanous shit that they released was enough to make him gag. He reached up, sealing and pressurizing his helmet before any more of the noxious scent could reach underneath.

Arya seemed not to be fazed by it, “You all right, Mandalorian?”

“I’m fine.” Allen said, coughing behind his helmet and fogging up his visor, “Dank ferrik, that’s… going to take some getting used to.”

“No blurrgs back at your Covert?”

“No, I don’t think so. Nerfs though.”

“They don’t smell this bad?”

“I guess not.” They secured a stake solidly in the packed desert ground and tied the blurrgs’ harnesses to it. They put six food pellets on the ground for them each to take - far enough apart so they wouldn’t fight over them - and went back to the prefabs Tat and Sandstorm had set up.

In addition to the small huts, the Krayts stretched a light canvas in between the shelters to help provide shade over the area between them.

“Commander,” Sandstorm said, “Permission to retire?”

“Granted.” Arya said. They’d been riding for a little more than twelve hours. In another eighteen, they’d be at the Separatist facility. Her boys were tired.

Allen unpressurized his helmet and removed it, placing it chin-down on the ground in the shade. He sat with his legs crossed and removed some rations from his pack.

Arya sat across from him and took a swig from her canteen as she picked up her commlink, “Czerka, how are things out there?”

Allen briefly forgot he was out there. The world was open around them on four sides, and you could see plainly across the barren landscape until the mountains in the distance. He didn’t even notice Czerka.

Which made him a pretty good sniper.

“All quiet, Commander.” He said.

“Let’s hope it stays that way.” Arya said.

Allen decided to chime in, picking up his wrist comm and saying, “Hey, vod, let me know if you want to tag in. The others clocked out real fast, so I imagine you’re pretty tired, too.”

Czerka didn’t respond.

“You insulted his brothers,” Arya said, “He’s not going to respond to that.”

“I insulted them?”

“Indirectly.” Arya said, “He knows it was unintentional. He won’t hold a grudge.”

“Clones are that touchy?”

“They’re a family.” Arya said, “Of course they are.”

Allen nodded and took a bite out of his nerf jerky. Fair enough. “I guess you mix clones and Tuskens and you’re bound for some sensitivity.”

“Where else in the Galaxy have you lived?” Arya asked.

“Aside from Aldhani?”

Arya nodded, taking another drink.

“Mostly Mid and Outer Rim places. Genbara. Tao. Khofar. Sorgen. Zoh. Bakura for a spell. A few other places.”

“Are most of those on your Covert’s route.”

“Yeah. They were.”

“Were?”

“Yeah, we can’t keep them all, you know. Things change.”

“Like what?”

“Like, when I was little, we had a spot on Naboo. But Gungans drove us out, then the Naboo government got involved. We packed up and never returned. Crossed the spot off the list.”

“I don’t suppose it gives you a dislike for the Naboo any longer?”

“Nah, nothing like that. We’re nomads. We don’t have the same concept of ownership as settled planet people. We found a bit of land. We figured no one was there, so we set up camp for a bit. If a spot is no longer hospitable, we don’t stay. Maybe someone comes around later and checks it out. If it’s safe again, we can put it back on the list.”

“Do you prefer the nomadic life, or are you looking to settle down one of these days?”

“Who knows.” Allen said, “I’ll ask my wife if she ever wants to talk to me again.”

“You think that’s a possibility?”

“Like I said,” Allen shrugged, “It’s been known to happen.” He drank from his own canteen.

“I’m sure she can forgive you. You had a difference of opinion. Once the war is over, that difference won’t matter.” Arya tried encouraging.

“Our difference of opinion is fundamentally about who is a Mandalorian. That doesn’t change just because the Republic and the Separatists settle their differences one way or another.”

Arya was quiet, “Right.”

“What about you?” he asked, “You prefer this… nomadic, Jedi life?”

“I’m not a nomad.”

“No? You travel the Galaxy, never staying more than a few nights at any given place on the Council’s missions? Sounds like it to me.”

“Well I’m on a mission. That’s pretty normal. If there was no war, I’d probably be spending most of my time at a temple somewhere.”

“Probably?”

“Yeah, Jedi Knights still go on missions throughout the Galaxy. Not all wars are as big as the Clone Wars. They’re, you know, small things. Local things. And usually we’re sent to stop them before they get out of hand.”

“Like Galidraan?” Allen didn’t mean to sound like a jerk. It was a knee-jerk reaction more than anything. Every Mandalorian in the Galaxy knew what happened on Galidraan. And even those not particularly sympathetic to True Mandalorians still felt the sting. Just the latest episode in the Jedi-Mandalorian conflict that stung because there was no justice meted out.

To anyone.

“I’m certainly not going to defend Galidraan,” Arya said. And Allen had to respect that. After all, he would’ve defended Jango, despite basically every report - including Jango’s own - that they shot first, “But for every bit of…”

“Bloodshed?”

“Yes, for every bit of suffering we bring to the Galaxy, the Jedi eliminate far more darkness than we bring about.”

“I’m afraid I’m not convinced, Arya.” He said.

“Well, what about Naboo?”

“You mean when my people were chased off by Gungans?”

“No, I mean when the Trade Federation invaded the planet to force illegal trade concessions on them?”

“Didn’t a lot of people die there?”

“And consider how many more would have if Master Qui-Gon Jinn didn’t step in to do something about it.”

Had Allen known more about the Jedi, he could have countered that Master Qui-Gon essentially went rogue after the Council more-or-less told him not to interfere further without Senate approval. Meanwhile, a vote of no-confidence had been issued, and the Senate was deadlocked into inaction as the crisis escalated.

But he didn’t know that. He only knew that the Trade Federation tried seizing control of the Naboo, and a couple of Jedi stepped in to stop it. From the outside, it just looked like an aruetii conflict. The intricacies of which never entered the Mandalorian frame of reference.

“Jedi are called to mediate disputes all of the time. You just don’t happen to see them because they’re not usually so public or dramatic, and they’re not flashy enough to end up on the holonet.” Arya said, clearly her offense towards Allen’s perception of what the Jedi did in the Galaxy now in control of how she felt in this conversation.

“Maybe you’re right.” Allen said, “But at least consider my people’s perspective.”

Arya looked up at him.

“If the Mandalorian-Jedi Wars went the other way. The Jedi were reduced to a few planets, and there were some nomads wandering around. The Republic relied on a Mandalorian Council to serve as their ‘peace keepers’ and we went around interfering and trying to stop conflicts between third parties based on some other peoples’ say. Wouldn’t you think we were pretty meddlesome?”

“Sure.” Arya shrugged, “Doesn’t mean I’d think you as a people were evil.”

“Did I ever say the Jedi were evil?” Allen held a hand to his breastplate in mock insult.

“No,” Arya said, “I take your point, though.”

“I appreciate it, Jedi.”

She scoffed at the word. Allen thought he said it normally, but clearly Arya was feeling a bit touchy now that they had opened up the Galidraan-shaped wound between their people. Allen wasn’t sure why she would feel that way about it. It’s not like she was there at Galidraan. Plus, the Jedi came out on top. While only a single Mandalorian even survived.

Maybe it was better to die with dignity than to live with an embarrassing injustice.

For some reason, that thought dug at the back of Allen’s skull. It sounded like the sort of thing an old Mandalorian dying for nothing while some Hutt made off with his beskar’gam would think to himself.

“So what are you going to do about Czerka?” he asked, after a pregnant silence.

“Czerka?” Arya asked, “What about him?”

Allen lifted an eyebrow and turned his head towards her knowingly.

“You’re not nearly dumb enough to not understand how he feels about you.”

Arya’s face grew a light shade of forest green, and she immediately turned away and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Allen laughed, “I don’t need to be a Jedi mind reader to know you’re lying.”

“Well,” Arya turned towards him, “what are you trying to say?”

“Czerka feels a certain way about you. And quite frankly, you feel a certain way about him.”

Arya’s mouth hung open as she processed the embarrassment or insult, or whatever else she was feeling.

“I’m a Jedi!” she half-shouted, not looking to wake up Sandstorm or Tat, “I…”

“Don’t have feelings?” Allen asked, interrupting.

“Not those feelings!” Arya’s voice lowered into a hiss, but she maintained her righteous, embarrassed anger, and her Mirialan face stayed the same dark color.

“Why not?” Allen asked, genuinely curious. He wasn’t aware that Jedi completely gave up their sexual impulses.

And frankly, if they did, he wanted to know how they did it. It could come in handy.

“Wh… what do you mean?” Arya’s anger started to dissipate, but in an uncomfortable, irregular manner.

“Why don’t you have sexual feelings?”

Arya turned her face away, not wanting to reveal anything more in her eyes to the Mandalorian, “We do.”

“But you just said…”

“I know what I said.”

“I’m not trying to tease you…” Allen said, feeling a weird kinship with the Jedi… maybe it was because they were both Mirialan. He didn’t tend to interact with too many of them. Allen’s father died when he was very young, and there were no other Mirialans in the Covert, “I’m genuinely interested.”

Arya turned back towards the space between them, not actively avoiding Allen’s eye sight, but making a point not to look at him, either. Her eyes were softly downcast towards the desert ground between them, “Jedi aren’t supposed to have… those kinds of feelings,” she said, “attachment leads to fear, fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, and hate leads to suffering.” Her hands fiddled with her lightsaber, “Neither are we supposed to suppress these feelings, either. We’re supposed to take them, release them. Understand that they are just passing storms over the horizon. But by chasing those storms, we’ll never achieve peace. Which is the goal of every Jedi.”

“I’m not sure how fair that is to you.” Allen said, “You didn’t choose to be a Jedi.”

Arya’s face whipped towards the Mandalorian, “I choose to be a Jedi every day.”

“Maybe.” Allen said, “But you didn’t choose it when they found you as a baby on Mirial.”

“You were born a Mandalorian,” Arya countered, “Would you say the same of any of the Foundlings who were taken into your Covert?”

“I would,” Allen said, unfazed, and nonjudgmental, “Just… you know, we encourage Foundlings to marry, mate, make a life of love and loyalty in the Covert. We don’t tell them that they need to let the most natural of their instincts pass them by as if they were curses.”

“I’m not saying it’s right, or even good,” Arya said, “just that it’s the Jedi Way.”

“I feel like you’re stalling.”

“Well what is it you’re asking?”

“What are you going to say to Czerka?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“You think I should say something to him? Unrelated to the mission?”

“I think you should tell him how you feel.”

Arya looked at him and then looked down at the lightsaber in her hands. “I don’t know how I feel,” she said, so quietly Allen almost couldn’t understand her.

“Well maybe that’s the first thing you need to figure out: what exactly are these feelings you have for Czerka.”

“I shouldn’t even be talking about these things as a Jedi. Never mind as his commanding officer.” Arya’s voice reverted to a righteous hiss.

“All right.” Allen shrugged, and slid his body down on the ground with a softer part of his pack underneath his head, “Have it your way. Personally, I think it’s better you say something. When it’s out in the open, you can do something about it. Whether that’s to agree to leave each other alone, or… something else, at least you can make the decision and not just be stealing glances at each other for the duration of the War.”

Arya sighed.

“I’m going to close my eyes for a tight sec.” Allen said, “Let me know if there’s anything I can give you, Commander.” He picked up his head and caught her Mirialan eyes one more time, “I mean, Arya.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 27: CAL

In addition to the deathsticks, camtonos of spice, and bottles of moonshine liquor, of the materials seized, there was also six terabytes of media files. These files are almost entirely pornographic in nature, and unlike anything seized by previous contraband raids.

Though pornography is allowed in the Republic Legal Code, this material is unlicensed and appears to be entirely filmed, developed, and distributed in manners contrary to Republic law.

The material captured, having been observed by licensed Offensive Materials content moderators, appears to be geared specifically to clone troopers.

Though no actual clones were observed, all male actors appear Human or Near-Human, wear pieces of clone armor, and are referred to as “trooper,” “soldier,” “clone,” or “cloney.”

The female actors are a wide variety of species. Twi ’leks, Togrutas, Humans, Pantorans, and Mirialans have all been observed, and there are indications based on the titles of some of the videos that there are others involved.

As the male actors portray facsimiles of clone troopers, the female actors often portray facsimiles of Jedi superiors, or in the case of Pantoran and Human officers, of Senators Riyo Chuchi and Padme Amidala, two female Senators known for their close associations with the clones of the Grand Army.

The Office ’s current recommendation is to do nothing. The Kaminoans did have the option to make the clones infertile through a variety of methods though all of them carried unintentional and undesirable side-effects, including mental and emotional instability, physical degradation, and a variety of hormonal disorders. fn.1

1. See Independent Review of the Kaminoan Report on Genetic Structure of GAR Clone Troopers.

As of this report, incidents between clones and females have been extremely limited, with a grand total of zero reported pregnancies. Even counting non-conception related incidents would bring the number of clone and female relationships to the single digits.

With advanced clone aging, their biological structure advances at the rate of about twice that of unaltered Human beings. So at the temporal age of twelve (discounting flux rates of extended time spent in hyperspace) clones have the physical bodies of a twenty-four year old Human male. However, there is no biological substitute or genetic manipulation that can replace psycho-emotional development. Resulting in Human males that remain sexually inexperienced, hormonal teenagers, in the physical prime of a Human ’s life.

The Office recommends doing nothing in regards to these videos. They provide much needed relief to the clones, mitigating the possible risks of adverse behavior among them. If anything, this report recommends slipping the data-sticks back into circulation when the files are copied for further analysis.

- Report on Novel Contraband Finds, Office of Republic Intelligence

Glavis Ringworld, Republic Outpost

1013 Days after Geonosis

This was the nicest place Epsilon Squad stayed that wasn’t a starship in… well, possibly since they left Tipoca City.

They were given what was colloquially referred to as a “Squad Suite,” with four bunks, a weapons’ locker, and separate ones for their armor.

Cal waited for Top-knot, Hammer, and Ujik to take off their katarn first before he allowed himself the luxury to get comfortable. They didn’t exactly have to be in katarn to get from Drongar to Glavis, but they were commandos, and used to being dressed for anything.

“I feel like I could sleep for a hundred years.” Ujik yawned.

“We practically slept the entire trip from Drongar.” Top-knot said, climbing onto his bunk.

“Yeah, well, we were fighting for months.”

“Actually, it was less than two weeks.” Hammer said.

“Wait…” Top-knot removed the elastic from his hair, letting his locks breathe, “Really?”

“Yeah,” Cal said.

“Well, that just proves my point.” Top-knot flopped his body back onto the bunk, “I’m going to prove my point. Night, vode.”

“Night, Top.” Cal said. He was tired, but not for sleep. More like he had some kind of exhaustion that wanted his blood to burn a little.

“What about you two?”

“I’m not gonna sleep through the war,” Hammer said, “But I’ll relax until the Wookiees get here.” He lied back on his bunk and took out his datapad. Cal wondered for a brief moment what he was looking at, but then he saw Ujik leaning against the window frame, opening a ration bar, and taking a munch as he looked out on the city.

“You want to get some real food?” Cal asked.

“I’m all right, Sarge.” He said, “Just gonna enjoy the view before I konk out.”

Cal nodded and head out the door. It whooshed shut behind him and he almost tripped on a mouse droid that zoomed past.

He head over to the lift and took it down six floors to the main lobby of the building. A Human sat at the front desk. He had a cloudy left eye, the whole side of his face horribly burned. As Cal got closer, he could see the man also had a robotic arm all the way up to his shoulder, and his left ear was also bionic.

It wasn’t until the man turned towards Cal, and he could see the relatively unburned right side of his face, that he realized the man was a clone.

Of course, Cal thought, mongrels require salaries. Clone troopers you just have to give three hots and a cot and tell them that’s their job in the Grand Army, now.

“Calc?” The clone’s face brightened seeing him walk in. He smiled, and Cal could tell there were a few more cybernetic elements in his face that weren’t readily visible just seeing him still like he was a moment ago.

“I haven’t heard anyone call me that in a while.” Cal said. He approached the desk and leaned over the counter, “Sorry if I don’t recognize you.” He tried to sound cordial. In reality, Cal couldn’t imagine who he was speaking to for a very long moment. Whoever he was, he was more machine than man since they last met in Tipoca City.

“It’s me!” he said, standing, where Cal could see that his left leg was also completely mechanical, “Lucky!”

Cal tried hard not to let his smile fade, “Lucky?” He forced it back onto his face, “Dank ferrik, Lucky! How long has it been?”

“Since before Geonosis, that’s for shab sure!” Lucky straightened, “Oh, sorry, sir,” he saluted Cal, with the widest possible smile still plastered on his face, “I almost forgot my manners. You must be a big shot General, by now!”

“Oh, karabast, no, stop that.” He laughed uncomfortably, “I’m just a Sergeant.”

“Just a Sergeant,” Lucky said, loosening up, “That’s incredible! Come on,” Lucky waved Cal back behind the counter, “Come on, come on, it’s been forever.”

There was a door behind the counter that Cal assumed led to an office, “Don’t you need to man the desk?”

“Nah, I’ll get the protocol droid to do it. Hey, KT!”

A silver protocol droid stepped out from a room down the hall and came over to the desk, “You called, Private?”

“You’ve got the conn.” He said, relieving his own position as if it were a capital ship in the Navy.

“Right away, Sir.”

Lucky waved Cal behind the counter and through the door.

It led to an office which led to another door on the other side. Down a short hallway, Lucky brought Cal to what seemed like an officer’s mess, but was used by just a couple of clones sitting on a couch, nursing a couple of drinks, with their faces turned to a view screen.

Lucky brought Cal to the bar. It was short, thin, and poorly stocked. There were about ten bottles, in various stages of fullness, on the shelf. The droid - a makeshift model seemed to have been made up of a bar-mounted shelf-sorting droid, with the head of a load-lifter with no speaker or voice box, zipped up to Cal and Lucky.

“Two Glavis Specials,” Lucky said, raising his bionic hand and putting up two fingers.

The droid swiveled on its axis and pulled two bottles off the shelf. It appeared to be one spotchka, one Corellian whiskey, and at the end, a machine that looked like an old auto-caf maker. The droid planted two glasses in front of Cal and Lucky, poured the whiskey, the spotchka, and then the caf in even portions, and a pinch of salt on top.

It looked shabla disgusting.

“Down the hatch!” Lucky said, picking up his glass and tapping Cal’s with it.

Cal picked up his glass and said, “K’oyacyi.”

The Glavis Special was disgusting. The salty-sour-sweetness of the caf-spotchka-salt mix was matched only by the literal shot taste of what had to be Corellia’s cheapest whiskey, aged in what Cal could only assume was an old barrel used to store industrial waste after cleaning out starship engines.

“Yeah, it takes some getting used to.” Lucky said, seeing the look on Cal’s face.

“I think I’d rather be shot.”

“Careful what you wish for.” Lucky turned to the droid, “Something to sip on.”

The droid poured two glasses of spotchka half way. Cal sipped on it and he was able to forget the disgusting taste of the Glavis Special that Lucky forced upon him.

“Honestly,” Lucky said, “Not a lot wakes you up like a Glavis Special.”

“Maybe I should get the Epsilons down here. They all seem to have had a dose of Sleep-Jet on the way over.”

“Epsilon Squad?” Lucky said, “Those are your boys?”

“Sure are.”

“Dank ferrik,” Lucky sighed, a smile on his face and a bit of bright blue spotchka on his lips, “The Calculator is a Republic Commando.” His robotic hand balled up and he gave Cal a friendly punch on the shoulder.

“What about you?” Cal said, trying not to bring up the obvious. But their train of thought was cut short with a sound on the tele screen behind them. The two conversing clones suddenly stopped talking as well. The sound was nothing less than the moans of a Togruta actress, a Twi’lek one, and the grunts of a Human actor.

The screen revealed the answer: they weren’t just watching the Net, but a bootleg recording of a dirty movie. The Human actor was almost naked: wearing only a Phase II helmet, completely white except for a few scratches, pauldrons, greaves, and gauntlets. The Togruta was red-skinned, with extensions on her lekku, wearing what could only be described as a loin cloth colored like Jedi robes.

The Twi’lek had blue skin, her lekku were long enough, like most of her kind, not to require the extensions, and she wore absolutely nothing except a collar around her neck, attached to a leash that the actor pretending to be a clone held taut while she moaned, loud enough that the whole lounge could hear.

The Togruta - clearly made up to look like General Shaak Ti - was touching both partners, one hand running over the Human’s chest, while the other squeezed one of the Twi’lek’s breasts. “You like that, my big strong boy? You like using your lightsaber like that?”

“I like it!” the Twi’lek moaned, “I like how you use your lightsaber on me.”

“They really just watch these out in the open now?” Cal said, “Back in the city we used to wait for a quiet moment in our bunks.” Truth be told, Cal hadn’t watched any of these since he lived on Kamino.

“Any one stationed here doesn’t have much else to do,” Lucky said, “It’s quiet. We’re mostly a way station for more important folks to hang out, rest up, and then get on their way.”

“I kind of feel bad for basically doing the same thing to you guys.”

“Nah,” Lucky said, “We served. Things could have gone much worse for us, but now we get to hang out, drink spotchka and enjoy ourselves.” He shrugged, “Some of the guys here go out into the city, work up the courage to find the real thing.”

Cal looked back at the vid for a second. The Human had pulled out of the Twi’lek and the Togruta was handling his weapon while the Twi’lek got on all fours, stuck her tongue out, and pushed her breasts together to accentuate her cleavage.

“The real thing?” Cal asked, rather surprised… but then again, not really, “You mean…”

“Usually with their stipend. Not… you know, girlfriends or whatever. I mean, what do we know about talking to femmes like that?”

The actor groaned, unintentionally revealing his voice to not be a clone’s. Perhaps most viewers didn’t care enough for the illusion to break, but to Cal, who wasn’t invested, he thought it was kind of funny that what with all the clones that were out there, that whatever company made these didn’t just hire a few of their own.

The two clones watching - clothes on, at least - hooted and cheered as the Twi’lek’s face and tongue were painted white.

“That’s my boy,” the fake Shaak Ti said, “Oh, what a good boy. A strong, handsome boy.” Her voice drowned out to soft moans as she cleaned up the actor’s mess over himself, taking his length into her mouth.

“I certainly don’t know anything,” Cal said, “I mean, not like I’ve had the chance.”

“Isn’t your General a Jedi femme?” Lucky asked.

“Yeah,” Cal said, taking a sip, “I mean, but these vids are just pure fantasy. These are Jedi. They’re not supposed to be in relationships with anyone, nevermind us.”

“Yeah, but can you blame the vode? The only femmes we know are Kaminoans or Jedi.”

“Or training Sergeants.”

“Training Sergeants?” Lucky said, “Oh! Right. Yeah, there were a couple. But most of us didn’t interact with them.”

“My primary Sergeant was Kurta Ambros.”

“Really?” Lucky asked, his tone of voice indicating non-platonic interest.

“Yeah, I don’t think of her like that.”

The clones on the couch removed the datastick from the screen’s input and put in something else. This one was much newer. The previous genre - the ones with fake Shaak Ti and fake Aayla Secura and fake Padme Amidala and fake Riyo Chuchi… - were some of the first to circulate the clone black market. Clones were basically emotionally and mentally thirteen year olds trapped in the hormonally tumultuous bodies of young Human men.

The fact that there was a vibrant dark economy of pornography in the Grand Army should have shocked absolutely no one.

The vids were absolutely contraband, though. So they were stored primarily on datasticks so they could be physically removed with no trace of the data on anyone’s hard drive in case of an inspection.

Though, if Cal had to guess, a lot of people had a Jedi fetish, or a lekku fetish, given how prominent both were in the Galaxy.

If he had to guess, there were probably a few people out there with clone fetishes at this point. After all, they were physically prominent, dominating, assertive males in genetically-modified perfect physique…

If only they had the people skills to tempt a femme.

“Why not?” Lucky asked.

Cal never thought about why he didn’t consider Sergeant Ambros that way. But questioning himself about it made him suddenly imagine two blue lightsabers, dark gold hair, soft skin that reminded him of a warm sunset, a pair of ocean-blue eyes behind epicanthic folds…

“I don’t know. Just different, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Lucky said, “Commandos get to encounter more femmes than the rest of us.”

“What have you been up to since I left for commando training?”

“It’s all right,” Lucky said, “You can ask, what’s up with all this stuff.” He indicated the cybernetics.

“No, not quite what I was thinking.” Cal said.

“Well, it’s what I think about all the time.” He laughed, “Luck ran out. Geonosis went fine. I mean, all things considered. They had us plant a few booms at the bottom of those Techno Union guys. The Regs secured us an escape, and we made our way out. Honestly, we made it out there pretty all right compared to most. I heard the Commandos lost something like two-thirds of their ranks.”

“I think it was more like half.” Cal said.

Lucky exhaled, “Insane. You lose anyone on Geonosis?”

“Thankfully,” Cal said, “No. We were listed as jungle specialists, so command sent us up to infiltrate a Fed ship. We took out some high-ranking Neimoidian before stealing a transport out of there. All four of us made it out alive. I guess most of the clankers were down on the surface.”

“Not too bad.” Lucky said.

“So… I guess if you’re all right with asking…”

Lucky nodded, downing the spotchka and signaling to the droid that he’d like a refill, “They stationed us on Kuat to watch over the yards. Plus we could be deployed pretty readily from there if need be. We don’t know how, some mole, or saboteur, or maybe commando droids, but we never found them, planted a series of bombs. Sixteen as far as we can tell. So we were deployed.”

“How’d you find them?”

“Sweeper droids.” He said, “They found all of them.”

“That’s unusual.”

“The tech’s advanced quite a bit since the war started. Necessity and invention and all that. So we were on speeder bikes, split into three teams, hitting the bombs. Bam. Deef’d. Bam. Deef’d. Bam. Deef’d.”

That was a word Cal hadn’t heard since they were in ordnance class together. Deef’d as in defused.

“None of them went off. But I was with Buck and he was cheering me on. Buck always stayed by me. Was always hoping my luck would rub off onto him.”

“I’m guessing it ran out this time?”

“We arrived at the site,” Lucky said, illustrating with his hands like a Corellian merchant, “Some makeshift fake Givin osik, I’m working like a champ. Bam, cut wire. Bam, flipped switch. I bought myself seconds, spent them figuring out where the copper connected to the plastics. But…”

“Timer ran out?”

“No. I’ve been over that moment in my head a thousand times. Best I can figure: the bomber rigged that one with an extra diffusion sensor, behind the cartridges, I think. Because I was just cutting it, with a full fifteen to spare. Next thing I know I woke up in a Medstar, half the clone I used to be.”

“Karabast.” Cal swore.

“Hey, can’t complain. I was so bad they were going to ship me off to decommish, but General Koon happened to be in the area and he had them fit me up with all the stuff.” Lucky held up his cybernetic arm, flexing the fingers, showing off the range, “You can’t see it unless I get undressed, but it runs all up my body. Leg, up here to the arm are all one piece.”

“Looks high end.”

“Someone in FinDiv told me the order was paid for by the Temple itself.”

“I didn’t know they did that.”

“I don’t think they usually do.”

“General Koon visited me when I was in physical therapy and told me he ordered them not to send me to decommish because he wanted to honor my commitment to the Republic. Of course, with how extensive the injuries were, they wanted me off the line of duty. At least for now. I said, hey, set me up with a more versatile droid arm and I’ll be the best shabla ordnance defuser this side of the Core.”

“I’m guessing they didn’t go for that.”

“I think the extent of the damage made the brass uncomfortable. They gave me a medal and stuck me here. I figure one day I might get to teach a class or something. But for now, while the war’s on, someone’s gotta man the desks.”

The clones behind them took out a box with a variety of data-sticks. They were digging through them debating whether to watch Clones and Cunts 4, Jedi Jerk Off, or Lightsaber Sluts 3. They settled on Lightsaber Sluts after a debate.

Cal considered himself lucky that this was purely for entertainment purposes only.

“So is this all you vode do here, now?” Cal asked, “You sit around, drink, and watch… stuff?”

“Pretty much.” Lucky said, “There’s not much else to do.”

“You’re in the biggest city in the Sector. Why not go out? Explore?”

“What’s there to see?” Lucky asked.

“Something other than the inside of a Republic outpost, I guess?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lucky said, “When I first arrived here, maybe. But I guess… I don’t know. Civvie life doesn’t suit me much. Or maybe there just isn’t very much interesting out there.”

Cal asked for another pour of spotchka, “I mean… have you ever…”

“What?”

“You know, what you said about guys who go out and… get femmes?”

“Oh,” Lucky said, “Yeah, a couple of times. It’s a big chunk out of my stipend, though. So I only do it when I’m really losing my mind. Honestly, I prefer movie night. Or getting myself something to eat that isn’t rations.”

“Movie night? You mean…?” Cal glanced at the screen where Lightsaber Sluts 3 was playing and the glowing phallic toys were being used in a “training exercise” by the two busty “Jedi” with the “clone troopers.”

“Oh, no no no no no.” Lucky said, “Like, actual cinema. All sorts of stuff, really. I mean, there’s literally a whole Galaxy of interesting films. There’s this Tatooinian director, Luc Driath, that makes just like, these really incredible stories. There’s often very little dialogue. A lot of long, single shots that play with desert light. It’s really fascinating. We’ve been on a big Driath kick recently.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“I’m telling you, vod, there’s a whole world of interesting culture out there. And you don’t need to get hit by a bomb or even leave your bunk to check it all out. We’re just lucky here that we have a big screen to watch ‘em.”

“Haven’t you ever wanted to meet someone?”

“Like who, Calc?”

Like someone who feels about you like I feel about N, “Like someone… you know, who wants to do to you what they’re doing over on that screen? But not on camera for distribution to the entire Grand Army?”

Lucky shrugged, “Why? Do you?”

Cal drank, “I guess like most of us, I thought I’d die ash’amur. But now that I’m here… I’d rather not.”

“No? How would you like to die?”

Cal hadn’t quite brought himself to where he could possibly imagine where his mind could take him with Naat Reath. Nevermind his body, “It’s not so much about how I want to die,” Cal said, “It’s just been on my mind more and more how I… you know, might want to live.”

Lucky shrugged, “Man’s gotta live for something.” He called the droid for another drink, “I guess.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 28: MONK

The Gurlanins, unlike the Clawdites, can change their physical form into almost anything, depending on the amount of control an individual has over their cellular activity. At the low end of the spectrum, they can morph into any living thing - plants and fungus included. While at the high end of the spectrum, they can morph even inanimate objects, or forms not quite imagined - see Jedi Master Xaida Lo Ren.

As a people, they are not very technologically oriented, and in their natural environment, live in a variety of dwellings known as “Nests.” These Nests are comparable to families, clans, or tribal units. As the basest form of Gurlanin social organization, it is also the highest form of governance they hold. It would be incorrect to view Gurlanins as anarchist in philosophy, though there is certainly an element of that. Formal recognition of the Republic is unlikely.

That said, their primary goal seems to be the liberation of their homeworld, and since the [redacted] Gurlanin assets have turned against Republic forces and Human colonists on Qiilura in something resembling an insurgency, aimed at the complete liberation of Qiilura from Republic control. Efforts at diplomacy have unfortunately been stymied by the Gurlanins ’ own lack of socially cohesive organization, as well as their own willingness to resort to violence in the face of a vulnerable population, and a distrust of an already stretched thin Republic response.

If there is a silver lining to the Gurlanin reversal in the war, it is that they seem to hold even less regard for the Separatist cause, despite the apparent aligned interests of Qiiluran independence and the Confederacy.

That said, there is a “group” of Gurlanins that may serve Republic interests: unGurlanins, which will serve as the core of this analysis.

UnGurlanins are Gurlanins who have been exiled from their Nests. They owe little loyalty to Qiilura, and none to their Nests. In fact, to be unGurlanin would require members of their former Nest to kill them if they were ever encountered. So most unGurlanin live off-world.

Their exile leads many unGurlanin to seek out unusual places of belonging: herds of nonsapient species, schools of fish in strange oceans, and even integrating for entire lifetimes into the lives of other sapients.

The combination of an unGurlanin ’s complete isolation from their home society and Qiiluran culture, their active expulsion from their family and people at large, and their profound and dangerous capabilities make them prime targets for recruitment as Republic assets.

It is this report ’s perspective that they may not only provide winning capabilities in the Clone Wars, but, more importantly, may provide the key to disrupt continued opposition in the ensuing peace.

Or may provide the necessary first-strike capability in the event that the Republic falls.

- Re-Analysis of Gurlanin Espionage Assets: Introduction

Zygerria, Erur, Capital City of the Zygerrian Empire

1018 Days after Geonosis

Experiencing the Zygerrian Capital for four days was an enlightening if frustrating experience. They’d split into a few teams to look around the city, examine the weak spots, have a few drinks, eat some of the local food, and analyze the city’s defenses.

Takkor suggested he and Monk scout things out together.

No one else found that odd, of course. But Zam did give Monk a look that said, everything all right? And Monk tried not to let any feelings leak out.

Of all the sapient species in the Galaxy, Monk found the Zygerrians to have the most consistent “rude Coruscanti businessman late for a meeting with an important client” attitude regardless of whether they were just walking down the street, reading, sitting in their rickshaw, or berating a slave.

It seemed to be their default: the demeanor of a Wookiee who’d just been informed that his sabacc partner was probably cheating.

“So,” Takkor said, looking sideways at Monk. He was in his preferred clone form, wearing Mandalorian armor that he had painted sand-colored with flecks of red since they’d landed, “You want to talk?”

“What’s there to talk about?” Monk tried not to look at Takkor. Nevermind that he didn’t particularly find the Zygerrians an attractive species to look at.

“How long have you been off-world?”

Monk knew in this case that he was referring to Qiilura. There was only one “world” when Gurlanins spoke to each other.

“I don’t remember the last time I was there.” Monk said, quietly enough that the buy’ce almost completely drowned out his voice.

“That makes two of us.”

That made Monk stop in his tracks. Takkor continued on a few more steps, and an old Zygerrian female walked between them.

“You’re…”

“Yep.” Takkor said.

Monk was almost certain that they could basically speak openly here. The Zygerrians seemed to care nothing for one of their own escorting a fully armored Mandalorian. And among species in the Galaxy, Gurlanins - unGurlanins - were quite unknown.

And unheard of as slaves.

After all, it was hard to enslave something that could simply turn into something small enough to slip out of the shackles and then morph into a rancor.

“How long?”

“Like I said,” Takkor said, Monk catching up beside him, “I don’t remember how long it’s been.”

“I haven’t met another unGurlanin since… since I became one.”

“Yeah, that’s usually how it goes.” Takkor said, “I had a partner for a while. We traveled as bounty hunters for almost a century.”

“What happened?”

“They had to move on.”

Monk felt weird how he understood that, “Huh.”

“Want to get a drink?” Takkor indicated a Zygerrian bistro a story above them. They were let into a storefront by two guards with electro whips on their belts, and then directed by a Twi’lek slave to the upper patio. It was decorated with marble flooring, covered with ancient Zygerrian glyphs, scenes of enslavement, and the glory of historic Zygerrians.

“Do I understand this right,” Monk asked, “On Zygerria, even the slaves have slaves?”

“As far as I understand,” Takkor said, “Yes. There’s a very detailed hierarchy of slavery, where even slaves have slaves.”

“It’s barbaric.” Monk said, low and mostly to himself.

Almost anywhere else in the Galaxy, a droid or at least an employed worker would come over to take their order back to the kitchen. Here a slave, a jeweled, electrified collar around her neck, decorated, inscribed shackles around her hands, and a matching pair around her ankles, came to serve them.

She wore a camisk, like those they were attended to at the welcome center, only this one was decorated along the hem with geometric patterns.

And rather than take their order, she picked up a pot and placed it on a heated bowl of sand where the caf started to boil. Once it was ready, she poured it into their cups and seasoned it with pinches of a number of spices on the table. When she was finished she returned to her position kneeling in front of them, her hands turned palms-up on her knees, her head bowed and eyes downcast. The top of her head barely came up to the table’s surface.

Takkor took off his helmet and placed it on the ground next to his seat. He took up the cup and a sip of the caf, “Smells pretty amazing.”

Takkor had to agree. Zygerrian caf was nothing short of some of the best in the Galaxy.

“I suppose we can forgive them the thousands of years of slavery if it all came out to a consistently delicious brew.” He took a sip and laughed.

Monk knew Takkor was kidding, but… maybe the joke was less funny in the presence of actual slaves.

“Can I ask what morph was it that made you unGurlanin?”

Monk’s helmet made the slightest motion towards the slave, “Don’t worry about her.” Takkor said, “I’ll tell you mine: vulptex. Female.”

“The salt foxes of Crait?”

“Exactly.” Takkor said, “I had two litters before the Nest found out. Then it was way too late. My kits had kits of their own, and by then the Price would have been in the double digits.” His Zygerrian face made a shrugging motion, “I told the Nest that it just wasn’t going to happen.”

“How long were you with them? The Vulptexes?”

“A couple generations, at least. Long enough to see my great-grandchildren.”

“Wow.” Monk took a sip of the caf. It was indeed some of the best he’d ever had. In all his decades of living in the Galaxy, Monk had never actually been to Zygerria before. Of course, he’d had their caf, but never from the source.

“So go on,” Takkor said, “What about you?”

“The sea-birds on the cliffs. I don’t know what off-worlders call them.”

“I know them well,” Takkor said, “Wow, you were really taking a big risk, doing it at home.”

Monk didn’t say anything and just drank.

“How long?”

“A couple of weeks.”

“You were lucky to get even that, frankly.”

“I know.”

“Well, this life isn’t for everyone. But if you know, you know.”

Finished with their first round, the slave poured another, and after putting in the spices, she left.

“Where’s she going?”

“To get a tray of food.”

“Weird that we don’t order.”

“Zygerria doesn’t work like that,” Takkor said, “They view it as a slave’s job to present their Master’s with all possibilities, not as something that is to decide and interpret based on communication.”

Monk learned so much about the Zygerrian view of slavery since being here, but every new datum seemed to provide a whole new thing to despair about in regards to the cruelty possible in the Galaxy.

“How do you think we get a message to… whoever we’re looking for?” Monk asked.

“That’s why I chose this place.” Takkor said.

This surprised Monk, “The Commander didn’t say anything.”

“Of course not.” Takkor said, “I’m the infiltrator, here.” When the slave returned, she carried an ornate, semicircular tray that covered most of the length of the table, and sat between Takkor and Monk, leaving the center to the stove of heated sand between them.

There were crackers of a generic hard bread with a pinch of salt and some kind of herb. There was also an assortment of fruits of as many colors as the Zygerrians could see: slices of what looked like peaches, apples, pears, and an assortment of berries topped on a golden cream. There were biscuits with a dark cream filling forming a tiny cookie sandwich, and at the ends of the tray there were six small bowls filled with meaty substances. One was some kind of tiny salted fish, sweating in the heat of the day. Another was some meat ground into a paste. A third was cubes of a very red, very pungent flesh that looked to Monk like cured nerf.

Takkor dug in, eating like a Master would, taking what he wanted as if it belonged to him (which, Monk had to remind himself, was strictly true: they were paying for this meal).

“Are you Horra?” Takkor said, speaking casually, as if commenting on the taste of the meat on his cracker.

The slave didn’t move her head, and kept staring at the ground. Not even her lekku twitched.

“The Cartographer sent me.” Takkor said, again, as casually as if he was describing the weather, “He wants to know how many live in your quarters.”

“Three hundred.” Horra answered, quickly and quietly.

“That’s a lot.” Takkor said, “Pour us some caf. You’re just our slave serving us properly.”

She obeyed, standing up and pouring more of the liquid into either of their cups. “We are located in the Slaughterhouse District.”

“Of course you are,” Takkor said, “It’s the part of town that smells the worst, and it’s close enough to where a lot of killing goes on. Thing is, he wants to know everything. How many of you work in the slaughterhouse?”

“Not many. They don’t want us so close to knives.”

“Well that may be the first step. You say not many?”

“Maybe twenty.” Horra said, returning to her submissive posture, speaking to the ground, “Cleaning staff. Serving the butchers their caf. That sort of thing.”

“But you know your ways in and out of the slaughterhouses.”

“Of course.”

There was a long pause. A few of the Zygerrian guests nearby had a problem with their server, and a manager came out from behind the house to physically reprimand the slave. He then offered the customers a dessert on the house, a better table, and a new slave to serve their table. Once the commotion had passed, Takkor went back to inspecting the tray of its savory contents.

“We may use it as the first staging ground. We don’t have nearly enough kit until we knock down a bigger target. So we may start there, get everybody who doesn’t have something that goes boom a knife, then move on.”

“What do you need from us?” she asked.

“Right now: just keep quiet about this. If there are leaders in other dormitories, let me know how to contact them.”

“Yes, Master.” Horra said, loudly enough so she sounded like an obsequious slave, and not a conspirator.

They enjoyed (relatively speaking) the Zygerrian refreshments, paid, and then left the cafe.

“I didn’t know we were meeting her,” Monk said.

“I know.” Takkor said, “We’re going to head to my safe house.”

“Safe house?” Monk said, following what appeared to be a Zygerrian local to an inn. It was one of the few institutions in the city not staffed by slaves. These al-ukhmar were a traditional Zygerrian institution. Some even said they pre-dated Zygerrian slavery, which was probably an overstatement. But they certainly predated the sheer explosion of slavery to the Zygerrian economy and way of life. They were mostly wooden, relatively small buildings staffed by the owners and their families. They worked not as slaves, but as artistans, whose produce was hospitality.

Inside, Takkor was welcomed in. He briefly introduced his “friend” and asked the owners for some privacy, and that they would alert them when they were prepared for their evening meal. The Zygerrians smiled cordially and said, “Of course.”

The room was spacious, and relatively spartan compared to the decadent ornateness that seemed typical of Zygerria. There was a large bed, a big tub not far from it, which Takkor filled with hot water as soon as the door closed. There was a pair of double doors that led to a balcony overlooking the central plaza, but Takkor approached it, closed them, and covered it with the curtains. As soon as he had, he removed his Zygerrian garb and threw it away onto a blank space on the floor. In a few moments, Takkor was nothing but a naked Zygerrian.

“Were you planning on something?” Monk asked, so far only comfortable removing his Mandalorian helmet.

“I just wanted to get out of this shape.” As he said it, Takkor’s Zygerrian body melted and he morphed back to his base form. It was only at that moment that Monk was able to see him for the first time as he truly was: not Gurlanin, unGurlanin.

Takkor crossed the room, coming up to Monk’s waist and crossing his path to head towards the tub, “Want to join me?” Takkor jumped up, his two front paws leaning against the tub, sticking his nose in to feel the temperature, “Oooh!” He turned back and looked at Monk, “It’s hot!”

“I’d suspected.” Monk said, putting the Mandalorian helmet down on a small table at the foot of the bed, and started to undo the rest of the armor, placing it respectfully on the table. He wasn’t sure if he was doing it because he had respect for Mandalorian culture, or if it was something else.

“You coming?”

In nothing but his jumpsuit, Monk finally started to unzip it. He turned and looked over at Takkor, who wasn’t looking at him.

He unzipped it and stepped out, in nothing but the naked, perfect body of a Jango Fett clone. It shimmered and melted and in less than a minute, Monk’s base morph form appeared, and walked over towards the tub. Monk was a bit smaller than Takkor, just barely, and his fur was a bit lighter, with flecks of gold fur here and there adding color.

Takkor sniffed the air and turned to face Monk. His eyes went wide, “Whoa.” He said, his mouth turning into a stunned smile, “You’re…”

“I don’t…” Monk tried to make himself small, as if embarrassed at his base form. Like it was something to be ashamed about. Something he didn’t feel when he showed Zam, but now in front of one of his own kind…

“You’re gorgeous.” Takkor said, moving over towards where Monk was sitting.

“You didn’t realize my base was femme, did you?”

“No,” Takkor said, “A bit of a surprise, but not like I don’t have a thousand femme morphs.”

“I’m just more comfortable being male, right now.”

“You want to pick a male morph?” Takkor said, “I don’t mind… being whomever or however you want me.”

Monk felt a bit on the spot. “No… no, it’s fine. I’m all right. It’s good to practice being in my base form, right?”

“Right.” Takkor said. “Can I… touch you?”

Monk caught Takkor’s eye, “You… want to?”

“Yes.” Takkor answered, stepping so close that Monk could taste the air around him.

“I thought you didn’t like me.” Monk said.

“Why did you think that?” Takkor was so close, he could whisper and Monk wouldn’t miss a thing.

“When we first arrived on Xo. You were always giving me this look,” Monk said, “Like… like you knew what I was.”

“I mean, I knew you were Gurlanin. Takkor lifted a paw and nudged the fur on Monk’s chest, “I didn’t know exactly how similar we were.”

“Being unGurlanin.”

“Exactly.”

That’s when Takkor gave in, moving his neck to Takkor’s, feeling his body next to his, breathing in his scent, “Hold me…” Monk said, half asking, half pleading.

Takkor’s body barreled over Monk’s. Their Gurlanin bodies, aggressively lithe and flexible, began twisting around each other, spiraling around one another until they were just a mass of flesh and fur. Takkor held his head above Monk’s, but it was Monk who pulled Takkor inside of him, gasping, having not had anyone or anything love his unGurlanin body - a femme body that he was so used to hating - and truly desire him.

He yipped, a mixture of the ecstasy and the pain of his body suddenly being penetrated for the first time he could remember this century.

Takkor bit his ear lovingly and growled, “I’ve got you.”

Monk wrapped his paws around Takkor’s body and they twisted around one more time, “Don’t let me go.” He said, “Don’t let me go.”

And as Takkor’s body tensed, and he lost himself in them, he didn’t feel the sense of wholeness and belonging that the Squad gave him.

But he felt a little bit of it.

And even more than that, he felt like Takkor didn’t just understand him, but actually accepted him.

All of him.

Chapter Text

Chapter 29: ARYA

We are encouraged to love, Master Ogel once told her, there is little in the Galaxy worth defending that is not love.

Arya liked the sound of that. It appealed to her nature.

Of course, she was one of the few Mirialans in Jedi history to not be trained by another Mirialan. This didn ’t mean she wasn’t influenced by her homeworld’s ideas of fate.

Naat moved closer to Zam ’s face, “Can I?” she asked.

Zam nodded and Naat moved as close as she could, pressing her lips to his. Arya felt blood rush through her body, and her hand began to move up Zam ’s inner thigh.

“Wait,” Zam said, separating from Naat’s lips. He turned towards Arya.

But Naat beat him to her.

Naat pressed her lips to Arya ’s face.

Arya knew that, to the Jedi, physical desire led to attachment. And giving into that physical desire, to actually mate with another, led even further down that path.

But she was also a Mirialan, and Mirialans had a deep appreciation for the fate inherent within the Force.

Fate put Zam and Naat in her life.

Fate put Zam ’s body at her fingertips, and Naat’s lips against hers.

A hand reached up, underneath her tunic, and she gasped as someone - for the first time other than her - gently grasped her breast.

She didn ’t know if it was a Zeltron or a Human hand.

She didn ’t care.

Arvala-7

1011 Days after Geonosis

They arrived in sight of the Separatist base. It was located at the top of a sheer cliff, with a landing pad at the very top. Had they a ship, they could try and drop in from above, like they did on the Hutt jail. But Tatooine was kind enough to give them a sandstorm for cover. The atmospheric report for Arvala-7 reported nothing but clear skies for weeks.

Krayt Squad tied their mounts in a salt canyon about a kilometer east of the base. Czerka scanned the area with his rifle scope while the others used binocs.

“Anything?”

“Place is locked up tight.” Czerka said, “Other than the turrets, which will pick us off if we get close enough, there doesn’t seem to be anything on the outside.”

“Must mean everything’s on the inside.” Allen said.

“Means we should probably wait until nightfall to get close.” Arya said.

“I doubt the autoturrets are programmed solely for visual stim.”

“Probably not,” Sandstorm offered, “But at night the planet will give off heat and we can hide in the infrared as we approach.”

They crept back into the canyon and rested in shifts. When night fell, they gathered, packed their gear on the blurrgs, and made their way toward the base while Czerka kept their cover.

About half way, they covered Czerka while he advanced toward their position. They arrived at the base of the plateau, holstered their weapons, and took out climbing spikes.

“Too bad you’re not Mandalorian enough to have a jetpack. You could secure the landing zone for us.” Tat said.

“I am Mandalorian enough for a jetpack.” Allen said, “I just don’t have one right now.”

Arya could hear Tat’s smile as he taunted the Mando. Czerka approached and secured his rifle over his shoulder. Arya waited for him to get his climbing spikes out, “Ready?”

He nodded. As one, the five of them dug climbing spikes into the cliff face and ascended. They were making a lot of noise, but Allen assured them that the sound, while not necessarily inaudible to the base above, wasn’t nearly as loud as it was with them right against the rock like this, that diagetic sound would dissipate into near inaudibility by the time they reached the top. And hopefully, if there was anyone right there by the cliffside, that it’d be too late by the time they got there to do much about it.

They were about a body’s length from the edge of the cliff, “I’ll go first,” Allen said.

“No,” Arya said, “We need you to get inside. Tat.”

“Copy, Commander.” Tat threw himself up over the cliff’s edge, his kukri flashing like starlight.

After a long, tense moment, Tat didn’t even say anything. He just winked a green acknowledgment light on their displays. Allen nodded towards Arya, “It’s clear.”

Sandstorm and Czerka went up next. Then Arya. And when she could confirm that there was no apparent danger, she gave Allen the all-clear.

He emerged over the edge of the cliff - as only one without a modified clone body nor Force ability could - and stood erect. He put away his climbing spikes and head over to the door’s controls. He immediately got to work hacking the doors open while Arya and the other Krayts fanned out to check for vulnerabilities.

Arya stayed by Allen. He was their living key. If they couldn’t get in, the job was going to be that much harder with the facility’s security coming down on their position like a hammer.

Allen had taken the panel open, disabling the manipulation sensors, first, and then pulled the panel out, hooking it up to his gauntlet where he could rewrite the code from the inside.

“How long?” Arya asked.

“Two minutes.”

The timing was a hard thing to estimate. If they were being actively attacked, Arya could estimate about how long they could hold out. But with nothing but silence and guesswork, that was much more difficult.

No news was good news, she guessed.

Whenever Arya turned and looked at him, though, it was difficult to even guess what he was doing. He seemed to be sitting nearly completely still. Every so often, his fingers would move over his wrist-mounted datapad, but other than that, Arya couldn’t see a thing.

“Are you actually getting us in?”

“What?” Allen asked, his hand stopped moving, and his helmet turned towards her, “What do you mean?”

“I mean you don’t look like you’re doing anything.”

“You want to wear my helmet and read out the code I’m typing? It’ll take about six times as long, but we could do it that way if you prefer?”

“No,” Arya said, sorry she asked.

“Commander,” Sandstorm called, coming over to the maintenance entrance where she stood guarding Allen, “We’re getting chatter on the Sep frequency.”

“What is it?”

“Increased static. The droids are aware that something is going on.”

“Something? Like what?”

“They’re sensing anomalies in the data stream.”

“It’s me.” Allen said, “Just get around me and I’ll have it open in 43 seconds.”

Impressed by the precision, Arya told the Krayts to get around him.

The seconds were like waiting for agony.

“Got it.” Allen said, nearly cheering in victory.

As the doors slid open, however, an entire squad of prepared Mandalorian warriors was waiting for them.

The Krayts opened fire, and while a couple of their shots hit home, they bounced harmlessly off their beskar’gam, and the Mandalorians closed the distance between them and the clones.

Czerka and Sandstorm both drew their gaderffii sticks, while Tat trusted his kukri. The issue was even drawing them in the first place. Soon, Arya had to trust that they could do their jobs as two Mandalorians came at her, one aiming for Allen, who was still crouched on the ground.

One of the Mandalorians - whose helmet was larger than the others, covering what Arya guessed to be non-Human appendages on their head - drew a pair of blades, both of which had scintillating energy cords firing from the hilt. The energy cords operated on the same principle as those in a lightsaber. Only, the energy was much less stable. Throwing enough power into the blade, one could use it to cut apart minerals for mining, or lowering it enough, it could be used as a scalpel.

Throw whatever energy you have on it and stick it next to a blade, and you got something that could cut flesh and bone in an indiscriminate way.

Arya wasn’t sure if those cords could be blocked by a lightsaber, but she had to assume that the blade itself wasn’t beskar or cortosis, as the Mandalorian avoided parrying her lightsaber with it.

Arya ignited the other end, and green energy flashed as she swung the weapon above her head and made to strike at her opponent’s center mass, hitting her in the breastplate, and sending her stumbling backwards.

When she regained her footing, her companion lunged forward, propelled by his jetpack, drawing a vibroblade that hummed with golden lightning coming from its hilt.

The Mandalorian swung her blade down, jumping with her jetpack just in time for Arya to block it.

The other in front of her drew a blaster and fired, aiming at Arya’s center mass.

But Allen leaped in front of her, taking the blasts on his helmet and breastplate. Still mid-air, Allen drew two blasters and fired at the enemy: two shots landing dead center in her helmet, nearly knocking her off her feet.

Arya rolled onto her back, holding her attacker just barely balanced against her lightsaber.

She kicked, forcing her up and over the cliff.

The Mandalorian righted herself, igniting her jetpack.

Arya stood, giving herself the needed relief, and pulling Czerka’s attacker with the Force over the cliff until she, too, ignited her jetpack and the two flying Mandalorians came at them, their weapons humming.

Arya stood, ready for a fight, but Czerka drew his rifle and shot one through her unarmored neck. The Mandalorian didn’t have a moment to scream. Her jetpack stopped firing and she fell, her body impacting the side of the cliff before falling lifelessly to the desert below.

Czerka took aim at the survivor, but she had already landed on the cliff, swinging, hitting nothing but air, as Arya ducked, disengaged her lightsaber, and pulled at the bottom of her jetpack, kicking her enemy in the rear until the whole thing released from her armor and fell harmlessly to the ground.

Off her balance, the Mandalorian swung her saber at Arya’s head, but Czerka’s gaderffii stick was back out, and he caught her blade, swung it in a tight arc, and sent the weapon flying off into the night. He finished it with a solid blow to the helmet, dropping her to the ground, unconscious.

They didn’t have the time to celebrate their victory. A burst of flame erupted and the Togruta Mandalorian came at them, her arm literally blazing. Czerka grabbed Arya, throwing her back behind him where he could take the infernal blow.

Tat came up with his kukri, but the Mandalorian was quick, and she caught his arm as he tried to slice it upwards, severing her arm and flamethrower from her body. She slammed her beskar buy’ce into Tat’s katarn helmet. The latter cracked and Tat fell, as if taking a fist to his face. But he had provided relief to his comrades.

The tiniest bit of flame came out of her vambrace, immediately extinguished as a whipcord reached out from behind her, wrapped around her body, and she fell to the ground with a thud, a grunt, and a curse.

The Krayts breathed a long sigh of relief.

Four Mandalorians, neutralized or dead.

“Kriff jetii b’stril.” She spat.

“What did she say?” Arya asked.

“She called me a ‘damned Jedi’s strill.’” Allen said.

“Strill?” Sandstorm asked.

“Mandalorian creature,” Allen said, “we had a bunch in the Covert growing up. They’re fierce, loyal beasts. Pets. Which is what she was talking about.” He crouched down next to his captive. “You want me to remove it? Or you want me to release you and you can do it?”

“Wait,” Tat said, coming to, “You’re going to let her go?”

“Just keep your rifle trained on her, Czerka,” Allen said. He looked down at the Separatist and said, “That’s our sniper. If you asked him to hit an Anzellan in the face from a parsec away, he’d ask which eye. Your friend down there he shot in the neck under her armor.”

She sat up, her whole demeanor becoming just ever so calmer.

Arya sensed a strange, synchronous vibration between Allen and their captive, and she was certain that they knew each other.

Her whole body leaned against the external wall of the compound, “Release me.” She said, her voice in Basic carrying just as much venom and anger as her Mando’a cursing.

Czerka trained his rifle on the soft spots between her armor. Allen hit a trigger on his vambrace that released the whipcord, rolling it back into his vambrace. Once free, the Mandalorian on the ground followed through with her silent agreement to not fight back. Her armor appeared similar to Allen’s. Except hers was green with gold highlights. She had the sigil of a barelia flower over her right breast, and on her left pauldron as well.

She lifted her hands, and Sandstorm said, “Make her take the vambraces off first.”

“Do it.” Allen said, “Put them at ease.”

She followed the command, putting the vambraces on the ground next to her, which Allen immediately picked up and hooked onto his belt.

Weapons-free, the Mandalorian lifted her hands to her helmet and slowly pulled it off. She set it gently, reverently down on her left side, and the Krayts got a good look at her face.

Arya acknowledged that she was gorgeous. Very gorgeous. Her features were soft, which only added to the harshness of the way she looked at them, with a deep scowl, and particular anger at Allen. Her skin was dark gray, with her lekku striped a much deeper black against the irregular white. She had only a few marks on her face, with her complexion lightening towards her nose, darker around where her lekku connected to her body.

Allen removed his helmet, revealing his tousled black hair, and his smirking Mirialan face, “Krayt Squad, I have the honor to introduce you to my wife, Larra Dizu.”

She scowled at him as he said her name.

“I love you, too, cyar’ika.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 30: NAAT

“I heard that others do this.” Arya said.

The three of them were lying on their pile of robes. Naat ’s were light blue, Arya’s black and gray, and Zam’s the more traditional brown and tan.

And then there was their bodies illuminated by the shimmering light of hyperspace: Zeltron pink, Human amber, Mirialan green, Zam ’s violet hair, Naat’s gold, Arya’s black.

“You have?” Zam asked.

“Yeah,” Naat said, “I’ve heard that, too.”

“But… isn’t it forbidden?” Even as Zam said it, he seemed to draw both girls even further towards him.

Arya shrugged, “I heard Master Mundi goes a lot farther than this.”

“Yeah,” Naat said, “Because his species nearly went extinct.”

“So, what?” Arya got up, leaning over Zam’s chest to look at Naat, “Because one’s species nearly goes extinct, that means they get to love?”

Naat picked up, “Well, it means that even one’s identity and attachment to the Jedi Order should be something they detach from, in order to help sentient beings as a whole. You know, that’s what Jedi do.”

“I don’t know.” Arya said.

“Well,” Naat said, “what would you want?”

“To love?”

It didn ’t sound very Jedi. But she did like it. In a few short days, they’d all be back at the Temple. They’d be with their Masters, back to classes, and surrounded by all those encouraging them to forego their attachment to this life.

“Well,” Zam said, “We’re here now…”

Naat smiled, “Yeah.”

Glavis Ringworld

1015 Days after Geonosis

Six words. Six words was all it took.

Want to grab something to eat?

No. That wasn’t right. It was seven words when Cal said yes.

Now, here she was. Dressed in her freshly washed robes.

Was that wrong? She wanted to look nice, and dressing in her most formal robes seemed like the most natural way to do so.

“You’ve been here before?” Cal asked, looking around the restaurant.

“Yes,” Naat said, her voice cracking. She cleared her throat, wondering if, for a second, that she only came here because Atiniir brought her here, and it was the only restaurant (in the Galaxy, no less) that she actually knew, “I was here once before.”

Truth be told, she felt a little bit guilty not asking Top-knot, Hammer, or Ujik if they wanted to come. Their success as a Squad was no less dependent on their abilities than it was on Naat’s or Cal’s leadership.

But if she was honest with herself, Naat would be forced to tell herself that this wasn’t just a celebration of a successful mission. Just… she had to avoid the word that would have been appropriate for it.

Inside the restaurant, they had the same Gibadan waitress, with the same Republic flag pin on her uniform, “Welcome,” she said, “just two?”

“Just two.” Naat said.

The waitress led them into the darkened space filled with a rather festive atmosphere, the alluring scents of spice, alcohol, and meat filling the air, while traditional Gibadan music played in the background. They were sat at a table that was very familiar to Naat, though Cal seemed to not pick up why.

“I’ve never had Gibadan food before,” Cal said, sitting to Naat’s left.

“I’ve had it once before,” Naat said.

“For us, it’s just been rations and the occasional Mandalorian treat.”

“I know,” Naat said, “I was with you for most of them.”

“What kind of food did you get at the Jedi Temple?”

“Well,” she said, not feeling great about being reminded that she was in the process of disobeying the rules of her Order, “strong flavors are thought to inflame the passions. So most of the food in the Temple is structurally bland.”

“That sounds a lot like GAR life. Except we get treats to boost morale.”

“We also get things like desserts. Natural foods, like fruits and vegetables, are usually considered exceptions to the rule because they’re provided by the bounty of the Galaxy itself. Some call them ‘gifts from the Force.’”

“But not cooked foods for desserts?”

“Those exist too, in the Jedi Temple. We do have quite a few specialties.”

“Do you know how to make any?”

Naat smiled, thinking of her Temple Siblings, enjoying jellyfruit mochi, and learning how to make them using simple telekinetic techniques in their early days at the Jedi Temple, “Yeah,” she said, “I know some.”

The waitress came over and asked, “Can I take your order?”

Cal looked immediately to Naat, as she was the only one between them who had tasted Gibadan food, and had been here before.

“Oh,” she said, “Um… maybe something to drink? Last time I was here, I had this… uh, green bottle?”

“Soju.” She said, “Gibadan liquor. Is there any particular flavor you have in mind?”

Cal interrupted Naat before she could say anything, “Does it come in fruity flavors?”

“Yes, we have a few non-fruit flavors, or just unflavored as well.”

“Do you have it in jellyfruit?”

“Of course, sir,” she said, “And for food?”

“We’ll… uh, get back to you.” Naat said.

“Sure thing. I’ll be back with your drinks.” She left and Naat felt her face blush and her breath quicken.

“I’m excited,” Cal said.

“Will you… uh, excuse me?”

Confused, Cal accepted her leave and Naat got out of the booth and walked towards the back of the restaurant where the freshers were.

She picked up her comm and hailed Atiniir.

“Commander?”

“Ati,” she said, “I… I need your help.”

She could tell that he sat up quickly and probably picked up a weapon, “Where are you?”

“I’m… no, it’s not like that. I’m at the restaurant.”

“The restaurant?” Atiniir asked, “You mean the Gibadan place we went to?”

“Yes,” she said, “That one.”

“Oh,” his whole vocal demeanor calmed down, “Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine,” Naat said, suddenly not sure why she called the Zeltron, “I… I don’t know what to order.”

Atiniir was silent for long enough that Naat thought he had left.

Then she heard him chuckle. A long, drawn-out laugh that seemed to build, “Wait,” he said, “Are you there by yourself?”

Naat didn’t answer, trying to think of anything to say that wasn’t Cal’s name.

“Is it Cal?”

Again, she froze.

“No worries,” he said, “Order zzazzang noodles.”

“What is that?”

“Noodles in a thick black bean sauce. You’ll love it.” She could tell by the tone of his voice that his lips were curved up into a smile.

“All right,” Naat said, feeling a bead of sweat against her forehead, “Thanks.” She didn’t wait for him to ask anything, or to offer any more advice, or taunt her, Naat just shut off the comm and put it away. She quickly washed her face and left the fresher.

At the table, Cal’s face lit up when he spotted her, “Commander!” he nearly shouted, “Everything all right?”

She nodded, “Yes,” sat down in her previous spot and said, “Just Naat when we’re out, Cal.”

“Sorry,” he said. Cal picked up his glass of soju and said, “Should we… toast?”

“What should we toast to?” Naat picked hers up.

“How about a successful mission, and hope for another one.”

Naat touched her glass to Cal’s, and couldn’t think of anything further to say. She tipped it up into her mouth.

Jellyfruit.

It occurred to her rather suddenly how Cal ordered jellyfruit specifically for her to enjoy. It went down so smoothly. The soju was already smooth, the jellyfruit flavor just made it something of a treat.

When the waitress came back, she asked if they were ready to order.

“Yes,” Naat said, trying her best to repeat what Atiniir told her, “Zammzal noodles.”

The waitress stared at her for a long moment, “You… want noodles?”

“Yes,” Naat said, “Zzanmixal noodles, I think it’s called.”

“I think you mean, zzazzang noodles?”

Naat felt her face flush, “Yes,” she said, “Sorry.”

She wrote it down on her datapad and said, “I’ll put those in for you.”

Once she left, Cal poured them another round of jellyfruit flavored soju, “Wow, how did you know what to order?” he asked, as if she didn’t butcher the name twice.

“I… uh, didn’t.”

“Oh,” Cal said, his head turning to the side, a bit confused, “just a lucky guess?”

“No,” she said, “I was here with Atiniir last time. And I called him to ask what I should order. For us.”

“Oh,” Cal said, taking another drink and looking briefly away, “So you and Atiniir are getting close?”

“I think so.” Naat said.

“That’s good.” Cal said, but his tone of voice betrayed him, “Atiniir’s a good soldier. And he’s fought with clones for years now. He’ll be a good asset to Epsilon Squad going forward.”

“I think so, too.” Naat said, trying to figure out how to shift the discussion well before she had even figured out what it meant for her, “I hope that doesn’t bother you. As, you know, Squad Leader.”

“No!” Cal said, a bit too quickly and loudly, “Of course not. You’re my commanding officer. If you think the team will function better with him, I defer to your judgment.”

“Yes, but,” Naat said, looking for words that were difficult to find, “you’re the expert. I mean, you know the Squad better than anyone. If you think Ujik or Top-knot or… or…”

“Hammer.”

“Or Hammer are going to, you know, have an issue with him on the Squad. Then you should let me know and we’ll figure out how to proceed.”

“No,” Cal said, perfectly cool, “I don’t think they’ll have any problem. We work pretty well already. He accepts us not just as clones, but as Mandos by blood and training.”

“Yeah,” Naat said, “I like that, too.”

“What do you think about him… Commander?”

Naat was silent for a long time. She didn’t even bring the soju to her lips to try to buy herself a few extra seconds. The waitress came over with two enormous bowls of noodles. They were slathered in a black, pungent, savory sauce, with enormous chunks of meat visible beneath the liquid glisten. The smell made Naat’s mouth water, and her mind ejected awkward thoughts of Cal and Atiniir both.

“Dank ferrik.” Cal gasped.

“Is everything all right?” the waitress asked.

“Oh, yes,” Cal said, “I just… this looks so good.”

She smiled, “Please enjoy.”

They ate in silence for about five minutes. It wasn’t particularly difficult. The food was incredibly good, and there was just so much of it. They’d have to keep about half of each bowl and bring it back for the other three Epsilons.

When they’d finally both taken a break in stuffing their faces, now less hungry and in a better mood, Cal said, “Have you ever thought about the War ending?”

Naat swallowed and wiped her face, “Sure.” She said, “Jedi are agents of peace. This whole… ordeal is an aberration in our history.” Supposedly, she wanted to add.

“I mean… Jedi practice sword fighting and combat.”

“Yes.” She said, and repeated what she’d learned at the Jedi Temple, “To keep the peace means to prepare for combat. To ensure that we are using our skills to defend the innocent, to uphold justice, and to prepare to defend what is right and good.”

“But why?” Cal asked.

“Why what?”

“Why do all of that? I mean, yes, you’re preparing to be defenders of justice and goodness and all that, but what’s on the other side of victory?”

“I mean, I’m still a Jedi.”

“I know you are,” Cal said, “but what do Jedi do when they’re not fighting clankers?”

“I guess we do what we normally do. We train. We meditate. We heal. We look for where we’re needed. We pass on our traditions.”

“So you’ll get an apprentice.”

“Probably. Yeah.”

“And pass on to them what your Masters passed on to you.”

“Yes, exactly.”

“And prepare for the next war.”

“Well, I hope there won’t be one.”

“There will always be another one.” Cal said, “They didn’t teach us real history on Kamino, but we learned about tactics from various wars around the Galaxy throughout history. The implication is pretty clear: war has been here for a long time.”

“Well,” Naat said, “Yes, I suppose it has. But, I don’t think it means Jedi will always be warriors.”

“So you’d sit out a war?”

“Jedi sit out wars all of the time. Just… this one was different.”

“Most clones never thought of the war ending.” Cal said, “It makes me worried for my brothers. We’ll all need to figure out what it means to be veterans and not soldiers. I think that’ll be tough when we were conceived, born, and bred to fight.”

Naat had to admit that that sounded like a difficult task. Truth be told, so little of her life happened before the Clone Wars. Experientially, that is. Before Geonosis, she was apprenticed to a different Master. She still had her twin brother she looked up to.

And now, sitting at this table, she had lost two Masters and a brother. She literally stared evil in its eyes.

“I’d like peace.” Naat said, “If I never have to fight another war again, I think it’ll be too soon.”

“And what does peace mean for you?” Cal asked.

“I already said…”

“No,” Cal said, turning towards her, “you said what peace means to the Jedi, to meditate and teach and pass on everything to your apprentice. I’m asking what it means to you. To Naat Reath.”

Naat turned and looked at him. He had this look in her eyes that just bored into her like an energy drill. Though he clearly didn’t intend it. It was a soft bore, as if Naat was looking into her own eyes in the mirror, suddenly forced to understand her own reflection.

“I don’t know,” she said, “like clones, I feel like the person I was before the war was a different person. And that if there was no war, the person I am simply wouldn’t exist.”

“Well,” Cal said, pushing the rest of his plate away, full to bursting, “I think I’d like to find somewhere to live. To make a home. I’ve had too many jungles in my life. Maybe an agricultural planet. Somewhere I could start a farm. Grow something. Like a jellyfruit orchard.”

Naat thanked her stars that Cal wasn’t Force sensitive.

If he was, he might be able to tell what she was really thinking about him and his dream of a jellyfruit orchard.

Naat’s comm buzzed, “Commander,” Ujik said, “The Wookiees just arrived.”

“We’ll be there shortly.” Naat said.

“I’ll get these wrapped up.” Cal said, looking to flag down the waitress.

Naat tried to calm herself by mentally repeating the Jedi Code:

There is no emotion, there is peace.

There is no passion, there is serenity.

There is no emotion, there is peace.

There is no passion, there is serenity.

It just never sounded as hollow to Naat before.

At least, not since Geonosis.

Chapter Text

Chapter 31: ZAM

Naat and Arya had already figured out their sabers. Naat wanted a classic look: a chrome cylinder with a single beam emitter. Arya wanted something a bit more elaborate: dual beam emitters from either side of a handle, one and a half times longer than one typically fit for Near-Human hands.

Zam was still figuring his out when Huyang came over to inspect his design, “Are you looking for a double-bladed design like Arya’s?” he asked.

Zam picked up his head and looked over towards Naat and Arya. They both gazed at their humming blades. Naat ’s was blue, Arya’s were green.

He showed Huyang the sketch of his design, “Ah, you’re going for a more classical Tao type hilt.” He said, “Longer, but with a hilt guard… is that a floral pattern?”

“I was just going for a geometric design.” Zam said.

“I have something for that.” He came back a few second later from his shelves with a small clover-like metal piece that Zam would eventually fit onto the top of his saber hilt. When Zam assembled the hilt, he attached the handle guard just below the beam emitter, a rather simple design, not unlike Naat’s.

Around the handle he wrapped red nerf leather in an alternating pattern until it reached the bottom of the hilt. There Huyang helped him affix a knot, on which Zam attached two Zeltron beads he ’d had around a thong on his neck for the past ten years.

When he ignited the blade, a pink, slightly curved blade of plasma burned into the air for the very first time.

Zam felt a connection to the pulsing Force from the kyber crystal in the hilt. He smiled.

He was on his way to being a Jedi Knight.

Zygerria, Erur, Capital City of the Zygerrian Empire

1024 Days after Geonosis

He tried not to get too close to Aliya. Master Zey told him that Jedi weren’t necessarily forbidden from physical love. But physical love usually led to emotional love, and emotional love was almost always directly linked to attachment.

Even for a Zeltron.

Though when it was his turn to return to the ship for the night, Zam told Aliya that she should sleep in his bed.

That wasn’t quite right. He ordered her to sleep in his bed.

The Zygerrians seemed to be uncomfortably… inconsistent with how they treated their slaves. In their time on Zygerria, Zam saw that most of them seemed to view slaves as little more than something between pack animals and droids. They had their training, their orders, and their “programming,” so to speak, but some were favored as - for lack of a better word - pets, while others were viewed as burdens. Still others as vermin.

Regardless, they all needed to learn their place.

So it wasn’t uncommon for a Zygerrian to order a slave into their bed, do what they wanted with them, and then order them to return to the floor to sleep the rest of the night.

Zam hoped Aliya could have a bit of the comfort of a master’s bed, without the dark obligation that came with it.

Of course, their mission dossier held that there were spies scattered throughout the slave ranks, so they needed to be wary. If Aliya was a spy for the Eyes, as their secret police were known, then he needed to make it sound like he preferred her as a literal bed warmer, and wasn’t being deceptively kind to a slave.

Zam also noticed that Zygerrians tended to treat all other non-slaves, more as not yet slaves. Sure, they were customers now, but at some future point, they could be slaves.

Tion and Zam were alone on the shuttle while the clones held down the fort in the suites, and the Gurlanins were scouting out the markets, keeping a low profile, working out of Takkor’s safe house.

“Using Mandalorian cover serves an additional purpose,” Tion said, “since the best defense against being enslaved by Zygerrians is being the kind of target that would be a bad idea to attempt to enslave.”

“And Mandalorians are a bad idea to enslave.”

“Imagine trying,” Tion said, “Worst case scenario, you’re dead. Best case scenario, you have a hostile slave just long enough for them to figure out how to kill you and escape.”

“I still get this feeling that we’re being watched.”

“Of course we are,” Tion said, “The Eyes are everywhere.”

“No, more than that,” Zam said, “Even more than that. Like we’re being gazed at… evaluated, as if being sized up.”

“Yeah,” Tion said, “that’s why I advised that we should keep our buy ’ce on as much as possible. A Mando’s helmet looks less vulnerable than the face below it.”

Zam had to admit that she had the right of it.

Before them on the holodeck was a map of the city. The Great Imperial Zigurrat sat at the very center of Erur, at the end of the Main Promenade. Several kilometers down the street was the Plaza of the Masters, a disturbingly ornate outdoor garden and fountain complex. A number of cafes and restaurants sat along the edge of the Plaza, where an army of Imperial slaves attended Masters out for a stroll. Further down the Promenade was the Temple of the Moon Spirits. And further, was the East Gate of the city. And all along it were markets and markets and markets. All where the primary good on offer were countless beings stolen from their homes all across the Galaxy.

In his short time there, Tion saw Ardennians, Bith, Caamasi, Devaronians, Gungans, Humans, Ithorians, Lorrdians, Mirialans, Pantorans, Poobas, Rodians, Sullustans, Togrutas, Twi’leks, Wookiees, Zabraks, Zeltrons, and others that he had trouble identifying.

There was an odd race of snub-snouted, mammalian, slick-furred beings. They seemed to hate the burn of the Zygerrian sun, and refused to look at each other almost as much as they refused to look at the marketers. Zam noticed that almost all of them, particularly the adult males, were missing at least one arm. Tion informed him that they were Tuskens.

Zam had never heard of Tuskens without their characteristic clothing that covered every square centimeter of their body.

“Of course,” Tion said, “these ones are stripped so they’re shamed. In Tusken culture, exposing any part of your body outside of the family hut is considered shameful. These Tuskens were captured in raids and sold into slavery. Some of them are men who’ve been maimed in battle. A Tusken male who loses an arm can no longer wield a gaderffii stick, and is considered no longer a ‘man,’ for lack of a better term. So, might as well be sold into slavery.”

Zam noticed there were a lot of children, too, though.

“Probably born to slave parents. In Tusken culture - the Zygerrians - they are slaves, too.”

Tatooine was so incredibly far from Zygerria - at least a week’s flight on the Republic navy’s fastest cruiser - that it spoke to the extent of Zygerria’s secret slave empire.

The Wookiee slaves made even less sense to him than the Tuskens. After all, if one was scared to enslave a Mandalorian out of fear of being murdered, wouldn’t a Wookiee be that much more frightening?

“Apparently not. The tricks that don’t work on Mandalorians, like certain kinds of collars and chains, work well on Wookiees. No offense to our Kashyyyk brethren,” Tion said, “but physiologically, they are much more… animalistic . Plus their eternal enemies, the Trandoshans, have it in for them, and have had centuries to perfect Wookiee capture techniques.”

Thing was that there were millions of more slaves than they had weapons to arm.

“We don’t need to arm each and every slave on the planet.” Tion said, “Not that we could even if we wanted to.”

Zam was getting closer and closer to that conclusion. The longer he spent on this rock, the more he found the practice beyond barbaric. Not just barbaric, downright hostile to the concept of life, and all that was good in the Galaxy.

“What do you think is a critical mass of armed slaves?” Zam asked.

“Ten percent of the city.” Tion said.

That was both higher and lower than Zam figured.

“Ten percent seems to be the point at which a riot turns into an insurgency. It’s around that point that others will flock to the insurgents.”

“What about the armories?” Zam asked.

Tion hit a button and the armories, barrackses, and other centers of security and war in the city lit up like Life Day decorations. They were evenly spread around the city.

“Commander,” Zam’s commlink buzzed.

“Go ahead, Butcher.”

“Permission to come aboard?”

“Granted.”

Less than a minute later Butcher and Bruiser walked into the makeshift command center, “We just got back from meeting with Takkor and Monk.” Butcher said, planting his buy ’ce on the table, “They have some ideas.”

“Let’s hear it.” Tion said.

“They’re suggesting we knock down the Temple of the Moon Spirits.”

“A Temple?” Zam said, trying not to be too offended at the suggestion of a war crime.

“It’s the holiest site in Erur.” Butcher said, “If slaves destroy it, and word gets out, the Zygerrians will start killing slaves more indiscriminately.”

“Is… that what we want?” Zam asked.

“Ideally, no slaves will be killed. But the Zygerrians will start by trying to re-capture and subdue as many as possible. If they’re angry and start shooting to kill, then when the revolt’s put down, Zygerria’s economy will be in shambles.”

Zam felt a cold shock through his body.

When the revolt ’s put down .

“We have another problem,” Butcher said, “our slave contacts report that the Eyes have agents scattered throughout the ranks. They say almost every dormitory building has has at least one. If we start distributing weaponry, not only might we be arming a saboteur, they’ll likely have a way to report the target and we’ll meet not just resistance at the location, but the Zygerrian army.”

“Or clankers.” Bruiser said.

“What does Takkor suggest?” Zam asked, his mind still racing around the paradox of a failed revolt being a successful mission, the words war crime, and indiscriminate killing.

“We take out the Eyes’ leadership. Takkor says they’re wound tight, and prone to backstabbing each other.” Butcher said, a smirk growing on his face as he shrugged as if to say, might as well .

“I’m not sure the Reds’ skillset is geared towards that kind of clandestine work.” Tion said.

“What do you mean?” Zam asked, “They did a lot of that on Xo.”

“They launched surprise attacks.” Tion said, “Completely different.”

“Agent Strill is right.” Butcher said, “Heavies start fighting, it gets loud real quick.”

Zam had noticed that, he had to admit.

“You, me, and Takkor.” Tion said, “We’ll keep the Reds on standby in case things get messy.”

“Let’s take Monk as our point back up.” Zam said, “He can watch closely with a sniper rifle, hold off the Zygerrians until the rest of the Reds can extract us.”

Tion nodded, “Good idea, Commander.”

He wondered if Takkor told her what Monk really was.

“Let’s start bumping off Eye leadership.” Zam said, uncertain if he liked the mouthfeel of those words, “We should make a target list.”

“Takkor already made one.” Butcher transferred the file to the table. It glowed there above the cityscape, and a few red blips showed up around the city.

“Three targets are already marked.” Zam observed.

“Takkor does good work.” Butcher said, “He marked a few of the officers.”

“Are they disguised as slaves?”

“These ones, I believe so.”

“Let’s confirm.” Zam said, “I’ll go meet with the Gurlanin, myself.” He almost said Gurlanins, plural, “Takkor.” He slipped the Mandalorian helmet on, which he had painted gray, not for any particular reason, just to make it look more nondescript for when the hostilities broke out.

“Want us to come, Commander?” Butcher said, rising from his seat, his helmet tucked under his arm.

“No,” Zam said, “I need you three to start planning where to store the weaponry.”

“Copy.”

Zam left the spaceport and walked with purpose towards Takkor’s safe house. He noticed that very few people in the city looked at him. He imagined that the Mandalorian armor made him seem a little more intimidating than the Zygerrians were used to. Some Zygerrian guards looked at him, staring at him right where his eyes would be, and Zam gave them the slightest of head tilts as they tried to hold his gaze.

At the ukhmar, Zam was met by a Zygerrian he was already familiar with: Takkor. The apparent Zygerrian ’s presence helped prevent any conversation between the apparent Mandalorian and the actual Zygerrian ukhmar- keepers.

Takkor took Zam to the dormitory, the Jedi’s first time here in what would otherwise have been Takkor’s private quarters. Monk was sitting on the ground, legs crossed, touching up the Mandalorian armor that Tion had given them. He’d chosen to paint his armor blue and gray with red highlights. Zam didn’t know enough about Mandalorian culture, so he had to ask.

“Any significance to the color choices?”

“Gray for lost love.” Monk said, not looking up from his painting, “Blue for reliability.”

“What about the red?” Zam asked, getting a bit closer and sitting across from Monk.

“Red’s for honoring a parent.” Takkor said, having completed his morph back to his base unGurlanin form before sitting on his haunches beside the Jedi, “In Mandalorian culture, at least.”

“But in this case,” Monk said, “I don’t care about the Nest. It’s for the Squad.”

Takkor gave Zam a knowing look. While Zam was certain that Monk would never seek to return to his Nest on Qiilura, he got a deep sense of longing, like a hole in the Force when Monk tried to deny his feelings regarding his family back there.

“Tion and I spoke with Butcher and Bruiser about the Eyes.”

“Any thoughts?” Takkor said, already pretty aware about what needed to be done.

“A few. Tion has more.”

Zam looked a little closer and saw that he was painting some kind of sigil onto the shoulder armor, what Mandalorians referred to as an aliik. Though from this angle, he couldn’t tell exactly what it was.

“Did you check out the list I made?” Takkor asked.

“I did. How many do you think we need to take out before we trigger the rebellion?”

“As many as possible. Basically,” Takkor said, “we should all take one, try and take them out at the exact same time, and then go for the secondary targets. If we can take out the top eight, or better yet, the middle eight, it could trigger a cascade of killing from both above and below on the Eyes’ org chart.”

“How do you figure?”

“Well, the Lord Commander of the Eyes will think there’s a coup being staged from below. The lower officers are going to figure that the Lord Commander is trying to get rid of his immediate competition and that they’re next. A civil war among the Eyes will serve us very well. Hell, we might not even need to trigger the slave rebellion.”

“Oh,” Zam said, “if we can give the slaves a chance, I want to.”

Takkor nodded his head to the side as if to say, of course.

“What I mean is, the only thing that will get the Eyes to unite is a slave rebellion or order from the Crown.” Takkor said, “B uuuu t … if there’s a lot of shooting and stabbing going on, the Eyes will be less likely to help each other. They’ll see one of their rivals about to get stabbed in the throat, or shot in the back and think, hey, if they ’re out of the way… ”

“I see what you’re saying.” Zam said.

“Did you see the number one target?” Takkor said, switching from discussion of strategy to something a little more direct.

“No.”

Takkor tapped Zam’s comm with a paw, pulling up the list, “Right there.”

“It just says Chiss .” Zam observed.

Takkor tapped the link again with his paw and it pulled up a whole dossier. There was a series of photos attached, including one of of a robed Chiss warrior, a black hood over her face, glowing red eyes, a devilish smirk, and a commanding stance surrounded by Zygerrian warriors of a very different type than Zam had seen in the city of Erur, “I listened as much as I could, but I never heard the Zygerrians mention their name. This Chiss warrior appears to be in some kind of authoritative position among the Eyes. They have a direct link to Count Dooku, and have been in charge of overseeing slave acquisitions and their shipment off-world.”

Chiss were pretty rare in the Galaxy. Zam had encountered maybe one or two in his travels with Master Zey. Though, of all the Chiss he’d met, they were all Force sensitive. It stood to reason that this one was, too.

If he remembered correctly, there was already a Chiss Dark Acolyte known to be in command of a Separatist force. Zam took his link and searched through known files, finding one that included a ton of redacted information.

There.

General Sev’rance Tann [Sev’rance’tann]

Known Dark Acolyte, recruited by Count Dooku prior to the Battle of Geonosis.

Known Force sensitive.

Killed in the Battle of Krant by General Echuu Shen’jon.

Wait. Master Echuu Shen’jon? That was Naat ’s Master. Well, her new Master after her first one was killed on Geonosis.

“Most of the Chiss I’ve known are Force sensitive. And this one, General Tann,” Zam explained, “was a Dark Acolye. An Apprentice of Count Dooku.”

“So it stands to reason that this Chiss also has Force powers and lightsaber training.”

“Yes,” Zam said. He wondered if he’d be able to contact Naat and pick her brain about the Chiss.

“So, if we’re picking targets…” Takkor said, leaving the statement open in the air.

“You think I should be the one to take this Chiss.”

Takkor nodded once, “Maybe we’ll have the Reds nearby with their rifles ready to back you up. Even for a trained warrior, blocking both a Jedi and sniper bolts must be difficult.”

It was. Zam could attest to that.

“What about you, Monk, and Tion?” Zam asked.

“For Monk and I, we’ll see about picking the more in-door targets. Tion will take a field commander, and we should give the rebels the signal a couple of hours between the confirmations and the Eyes to figure out what to do next.”

“Why not just trigger it immediately upon confirmation?” Zam asked.

Monk fit the pauldron onto his shoulder, and Zam could see that the aliik was in a rather odd shape. He knew that most Mandalorian sigils were either animals or plants. This one appeared to be an animal, but he wasn’t sure exactly what species it was supposed to represent. It seemed like the body of a quadruped, with a pointed snout, a fluffy tail, and wings.

It almost seemed like a Gurlanin… with wings.

“Ah,” Takkor said, “Well, the Eyes know what to do when the slaves revolt. That’s their whole thing. But if there’s a collapse of their command structure and they’re confused… then there’s a slave revolt while they’re tripping over themselves and killing each other, then we’re nova.”

Zam had to admit there was wisdom in Takkor’s thinking, “All right, then.” He said. He sent out a quick request to Master Zey to forward him to Naat Reath so he could talk to her.

It wouldn’t reach Naat for weeks. And by then, Zam could no longer use the information, nor would want to be reminded of why he wanted it in the first place.

Chapter Text

Chapter 32: CZERKA

Lord A ’Urok’urrt convinced the Kaminoans that the only way for the desert specialist squads to train properly was in the desert.

Unfortunately, deserts were hard to come by in Tipoca City, so The Lord said he would take the desert specialist trainees to Tatooine to train.

Non-starter, the Kaminoans told him. When he ’d put forward a number of other desert planets - Jakku, Geonosis, and Mandalore were all put forward as potential options - they were summarily rejected. No clones would leave Kamino until their client deemed it worth the risk of the project being revealed.

So they had to train in the simulation chambers, modified with the desert heat, wind, humidity, and simulated particulate.

This was the hardest part for the Kaminoans to provide. They could dredge up sand from the ocean floor, dry it out, and put it in blasters to simulate sandstorms in the simulation chambers …

But they weren ’t going to.

At least, not until Jango Fett intervened on The Lord ’s behalf.

Czerka remembered being there with the other members of Krayt, Sarlacc, and Bantha Squads when one of his brothers asked, <Lord, why must we practice in the desert? Why isn ’t the simulator enough?>

<When you are out there, all on your own,> he signed, <with the sand blasting your face, the wind hitting your armor, and the enemy bearing down on your position, you need to be ready.>

<For wind, sand, and the enemy?> It was Krayt who signed that.

<Yes,> he signed back, <that and more. Ghorfa children undergo a rite of passage where they bring a creature they ’ve captured to the brink of death, without killing it. This is because it is what the desert will do to you. Again and again. It will twist your soul until only the bones remain.>

Czerka never forgot that.

<You must be ready.>

Arvala-7. [Redacted] Confederate Facility

1011 Days after Geonosis

They weren ’t going to kill Larra. That much was clear.

But there was this moment where they considered what the possibilities were.

Should they kill her?

“Did you bring a gag?” she asked, looking up at her husband.

Allen chuckled, almost as if to say, as if I can ’t improvise.

Still, it hung there in the space between them. While none of the Krayts knew anything about dealing with femmes, and even less about wives, they kind of knew that one wasn ’t exactly supposed to be binding and gagging one’s wife.

If they were proper Ghorfa, they would have stabbed her through the calf muscles, or slit her ankles, or hit her in the head with the end of one of their gaffi sticks. But they weren ’t. The Lord would never have said such a thing, he always told them that they were Tusken through and through, but they were soldiers of the Republic. Clones before anything else. Until they dropped in the middle of a sandstorm, they had never even been to the home world.

Before anyone could say anything more. Sandstorm drew his sidearm, switched it to stun, and put it against the back of Larra ’s neck. He pulled the trigger and she was out. Her whole body slumped, the beskar of her pauldron clink ’ed to the ground like a fat, dropped credit.

“Bind her.” Sandstorm said. Tat and Czerka pulled out binds and put them around her wrists and ankles.

“Won’t she wake up?” Arya asked, a bit uncertain.

“At that range?” Allen said, “Practically against her spinal cord? She might be out for a whole day. ” He didn’t seem bothered by it.

Czerka didn ’t actually know that was a thing. Once the Togruta was bound (they didn’t bother with a gag) Allen went back to the panel and pulled a map of the facility sending it to their HUDs and links.

A lot of the facility was blacked out, “That must be where they’re developing the project,” Arya said.

“There’s six locations.” Sandstorm pointed out, “And all in very different directions.”

Arya looked over at the boys, taking a moment as she crossed each of their periphery.

“Something up, Commander?”

Arya looked away from them and back at Allen, “Do you have personnel information?”

The Mando stared at the screen for twenty seconds, “It’s mostly Ugnaughts down there.”

“Huh.” Arya put down her link, “Nothing even about the Mandalorians?”

“Yeah,” he said, “but there’s no more. We got them all.”

So much for being some of the most fearsome warriors in the Galaxy. Czerka reminded himself not to get too cocky. They got the jump on them, and had been preparing for this encounter for a while now. Had the tables been turned and the Krayts been the defenders and the Mandalorians preparing all this time to attack them, they might have ended up just as defeated or dead.

“Other than that, just Ugnaughts?” Arya asked, as if there was something missing on the personnel manifest.

“I’m not seeing anything else. Barely any combat-ready droids here, even.” Allen said.

This was getting weird. The last thing any of them wanted was to get rolled on by a squad of droidekas. Even one sneaking up on them was enough to send a chill up a clone ’s spine. Sure, they’d perfected the ol’ slow roll a grenade underneath the shields, but that also required one not to get shot while the kriffing clanker was blasting away at you.

“We’ll have to split up.” Sandstorm said, intending to push Arya towards some sort of decision.

“The hallways are tight , ” Allen said, “barely enough for one person to fit.”

“Should we each take one?” Tat asked. Among the Krayts, he worked best alone.

Well, they all were pretty solitary. Commando Squads usually trained to function as a whole organism. Not just a team, not just a family, a single unit. They were supposed to move as one, fire as one, operate as one.

And if Eights, Gaffi, and Krayt were here, Czerka knew they could.

If there was anything he truly hated about this iteration of Krayt Squad, it was that they couldn ’t.

“I’m not sure how I feel about us atomizing like that,” Arya said.

“We could try the Dark Ravine strategy.” Allen said.

“I’m not familiar with that one.” The Commander said, hooking her lightsaber to her belt.

“Basically, you and I will stay back here, the clones will be the forward units, probing and clearing out locations. As the territory is cleared, we advanced only as far as we can go safely to the next common point. If trouble occurs at points one, two, or three,” he pointed to each of the clones, “we can immediately be deployed to either one, quickly, to help.”

“A Mandalorian strategy?” Sandstorm asked.

“Yep. What do you say, Commander?”

Arya nodded, “I don’t love it,” she said, “but given the situation. I think it’s the best we can do right now.” Once she made the decision, Arya immediately selected hte paths for tech of the Krayts to take. Allen picked out the points where the paths intersected and reintersected the deeper into the mountain and the closer they got to the blacked out facilities.

“So we advance to these locations?” Tat said.

“No,” Allen explained, “you head down these paths. Commander Wooy and I will head to these adjoining locations once the paths are clear. If you run into trouble, retreat, and we’ll head to your location to back you up.”

Czerka nodded. Once again, he was being put into a situation where his sniper rifle wouldn ’t do much good. He slung the rifle onto his back, and instead of drawing his sidearm, Czerka took out his gaderffii stick and took point, stalking his way through teh Separatist base, point out as he kept one eye on his motion tracker.

In a minute, Tat and Sandstorm disappeared down alternate corridors, and Czerka was truly alone.

When he ’d reached the first checkpoint, Arya asked them to check in with acknowledgment lights. Czerka flashed green and continued on his way.

A pair of B1s passed by, alerting Czerka to their presence with metallic footsteps.

Talking amongst each other, battle droids didn ’t speak in Basic or Huttese or any other language spoken by wets. Rather, they used clipped clicks and whistles, electronic sounds interpretable as Binary, similar to how astromechs hooted and whistled, but much more martial and mechanical to the outside observer.

He flattened his body, hunkering into a side closet while his HUD translated the droids ’ conversation for him:

 

00. The Mandalorians were sent to the main entrance.

 

01. Should we head that way?

 

00. If they needed us, they would have called for us. We might just get in the way and be destroyed in the process.

 

01. Good point. We should remain on our patrol route until otherwise notified.

 

00. Acknowledged.

When the droids passed his position, Czerka briefly considered taking them out with his stick. He could very easily have dispatched both with a double strike before they were even capable of turning around and spotting him.

Though if they were on patrol, then their failure to check in could produce an issue. Czerka set a marker on the two B1s and sent a quick message to the Commander that they were here.

Once they rounded the corner, Czerka slipped out from his hiding spot and made his way through the next corridor.

This one was empty, though there were adjoining rooms. He marked down each one: offices, laboratories, supply closets, and two dormitories. Though as far as he could tell, they were empty of both life-forms and droids.

His motion sensor blipped just ahead of him.

Czerka moved forward carefully, stalking the ground, flexing his fingers around the stick as he prepared to strike like The Lord had taught him.

Taught them.

When he rounded the corner, he found nothing. A light above flickered weakly, clearly needing replacing, though whatever maintenance droid was on duty seemed to have been crosswired.

Czerka lowered the stick.

Something impacted the back of his helmet.

He pitched forward, rolling until he was crouched, spinning in place, gaderffii flashing at the ready.

His attacker charged forward, stick flying point-first at Czerka ’s helmet: right between where his eyes would be. The stick - a solid rod of durasteel - impacted Czerka’s helmet, but was parried, glancing off to the side.

The attacker immediately had his sidearm drawn and fired two stun blasts at Czerka.

Czerka ’s katarn took the blasts though he felt a slight immobilization in his body, as if his joints were threatening to lock up.

His adrenaline pumping, Czerka thanked his Tusken training and his Kaminoan alterations, and he launched forward, the gaffi stick ’s flanged, pointed end striking at the attacker’s armor.

Czerka ’s attacker wasn’t a droid. Once the gap opened between them, Czerka half-expected to see a commando droid, like the one that nearly killed him on Tatooine.

But it was nothing of the sort. This person had two arms, two legs, and a head that was very much Human or Near. The helmet was in the rough shape of a Phase II design, but had those half-circle divets of a battle droid ’s head in place of eyes, and the CIS hexagonal sigil on his pauldrons and over his chest.

They stood there, crouched and ready to kill each other.

As the Separatist stopped and stared at Czerka, however, his body seemed to loosen. He held up the blaster, showing it to Czerka in the intergalactic symbol of, I ’m putting this down , and slowly holstered it.

The stick was just a rod about 80% the length of a gaderffii stick, which he lowered from his attacking position, holding it harmlessly at his side.

Then, whoever they were, straightened, and backed away slowly.

There was a way he walked, a way he carried himself, that seemed so familiar to Czerka.

Was he a Tusken? Did the CIS recruit Ghorfa? His mind swirled for a long minute.

It was certainly possible. Ghorfa could be exiled for any number of reasons. The constant desert warfare produced any number of (literally) disarmed Tuskens, who were then expelled from their tribes and left to die in the Dune Sea.

Maybe the Separatists scooped them up, gave them armor and jobs, and …

The soldier in front of him backed away until he was completely underneath the blinking, flickering light. He hit a button on his wrist comm and opened a door. They ducked inside and locked the door.

Czerka wanted to say something to the Commander about the encounter, but wasn ’t exactly sure what.

Just encountered a wet . He wrote, be advised, wet soldiers guarding the base.

Mandalorians? Arya wrote back.

He answered with a red acknowledgment light.

Eliminated?

Again a red light. But he felt the need to explain, they just left. After attacking, stopped fighting, looked at me, and went inside a room.

Retreated. Allen said, as if Czerka had never heard the word before.

I wouldn ’t call it that . Czerka wrote back, just looked at me and left.

There was a long pause. He didn ’t ask to be advised on his next course of action, though it was probably the polite thing to do.

Will advance. Arya wrote back, continue mission.

He winked a green light. Czerka wanted to walk backwards, all of his training telling him to be wary of leaving the enemy behind you.

Aside from his training, his instincts were telling him not to worry about this one.

Chapter Text

Chapter 33: CAL

It was happening.

This was not a drill.

All units, report.

The entire ship shook, dropping out of hyperspace. The Epsilons were dressed in identical, chrome-colored katarn armor.

They were the jungle specialists, but they were being dropped into a location that had nary a tree, nevermind a jungle.

So they were given a special assignment: take out the Federation ship before it can dock with its core, eliminate a fraction of the Separatist army.

Good thing they hadn ’t painted their armor. It was an option they didn’t know they had, yet. Either way, mottled green would make them stick out like a sore thumb on a Sep ship. Not that they’d be easily hidden looking like they did, but it was better than dressing for foliage.

“Ready?” Ujik said, “I’m ready. I’m kriff ready.”

“We can hear you.” Hammer said.

“I know, I know,” Ujik said, “I’m just saying, I’m ready.”

They all were.

But all units, this was not a drill.

Cal ’s hands were shaking. He knew that the others weren’t looking at him. But he could feel them: his hands were shaking.

He was ready for this.

He ’d literally been training his whole life for this moment.

He was bred for this moment.

Still, his hands were shaking.

This was not a drill.

Hyperspace, modified Kettrifee shuttle Yorrurro

1018 Days after Geonosis

The Wookiees wanted to take a day to rest and get their bearings. They also ran a pair of full diagnostics checks on the Yorrurro along with a trio of droids.

Apparently the journey to Kenari was complicated enough even for Wookiees to be alarmed.

Qurrokka was their navigator, and explained to the Epsilons (through their protocol droid, CT-94), including their Jedi Commander and Mandalorian adviser, essentially everything about hyperspace travel. And why this journey was particularly perilous.

Hyperspace was a “smushed” version of “regular” space. “Regular” space being the space that they inhabited: sentient beings, planets, stars, empty space.

Hyperspace wasn’t a dimension where there existed no distance. Such dimensions existed in theory, but were as yet inaccessible.

“Well,” CT-94 translated as Qurrokka corrected themselves, “Not so much inaccessible as impossible to access safely. Hyperspace exists in a dimension parallel to regular space, and being able to slip inside of it allows long-distance travel through the Galaxy.”

This was all pretty standard knowledge for anyone in the Grand Army. Including the Epsilons.

“Gravity is the main issue when calculating astrogation.” CT-94 translated, “objects in space cast gravitational shadows on hyperspace. These shadows, as their name implies, are fractions of the mass of their space equivalents, however, enormous, significant objects such as stars, nebulae, black holes can cause tremendous danger to ships traveling through hyperspace.

“This is the issue with Kenari,” CT-94 explained, after a long pause and a few pages of Qurrokka explaining in Shryiiwook, “it is surrounded by a knot of gravitational anomalies, making travel to-and-from the Kenari system exceedingly difficult. This is also why the Wookiee pirate king Kohbacca the Red used Kenari as the location for hiding his treasure hoard.”

“Wait,” Ujik said, “That was real? I thought Kohbacca was just a legend.”

Qurrokka tried putting Ujik’s assumption in his place.

“Qurrokka says that he was indeed very real. His name and pre-pirate deeds are inscribed in the halls of the Claatuvac Guild in Kachirho: the guild of Wookiee navigators who maintain the routes.”

“Qurrokka is a member of the Guild,” Naat said, “hence why the Republic asked for their help on this mission.”

“So,” Atiniir asked, “what’s the over/under on our chances of even making it to Kenari alive?”

Qurrokka hooted something, turning to the droid.

CT-94 translated to the Wookiee what “over/under” meant, and then the answer in Basic to Atiniir and the Epsilons, “Qurrokka says you can expect a one-third chance of total system failure en route to Kenari.”

“One third‽” Cal nearly shouted.

His surprise was right. A one-third chance of being blown to nothing in hyperspace was unheard of without aiming directly for a star.

“That’s… high.” Atiniir said, exaggerating just a tiny bit.

“It is.” CT-94 said, seemingly speaking on not one’s behalf but their own, “However, Qurrokka assures me that this is much reduced. As many who have discovered the location of Kohbacca’s treasure hoard have not been trained Guild astrogators and very few have returned to report on their findings.”

“Is there any way I can help?” Naat asked.

Qurrokka spoke at length and CT-94 explained, a dose of skepticism coming through the droid’s voice box, “Qurrokka says that if you were able to focus your Force energy on keeping the ship together, and possibly away from any stray shadows in the hyperspace path, that might help keep the ship out of danger.”

Qurrokka hollered something.

“Emphasis on might help.” CT-94 said.

“I will do my best.” Naat said.

“Anything the rest of us can do.”

Qurrokka said something more, “Stay out of the cockpit unless there is an immediate and unimpeachable emergency.” CT-94 translated, “The flight to Kenari will take all of their concentration and focus.”

“All right,” Cal said, sighing deeply as he looked up and down the row at his men, “We can do that.”

That was a day ago.

Astrogator Qurrokka and their pilot, a sandy-colored Wookiee by the name of Oroorrosh kept the cockpit of the Kettrifee shuttle closed. A green light above the door told anyone whether it was all right to enter, or to leave the Wookiees to their concentration.

The green light told Cal that they were not yet at the danger point, closing in on Kohbacca the Red’s secret planetary hoard.

He was doing the rounds. The Epsilons had been on Kettrifees before. They were typically modified for everything: from open floor plans to carry crates of cargo, to being affixed with harnesses for carrying livestock, or shelves for carbonite slabs, or tanks, or walkers.

This one was fitted with rooms. Unlike most military transports, the Wookiees outfit it so that they could each have their own.

Clones weren’t used to privacy. Too much of it and they started to be affected by loneliness at an obnoxiously deep level. If the Epsilons were forced to make the Yorrurro their new home, they’d probably enjoy the novelty of stretching out in their individual rooms, and then after three days or so, they’d drift together, doubling up with each other until they were essentially all sleeping in the same room again.

He knocked on everyone’s door. Top-knot was reading something on his datapad, dressed nearly in his full armor, with his helmet sitting on his bunk next to the weak pillow.

Hammer wore only his armor below the waist, the breast plate, arm pieces, and helmet sitting in an organized pile by the door. He was checking and cleaning his weaponry, and didn’t even look up when Cal opened the door.

Ujik was lying on his bunk in the same amount of armor as Hammer. He appeared to be resting, his eyes gently closed, almost asleep, but when Cal asked how he was doing, he said, “Fine. Just waiting to either arrive on the planet or… you know, die.”

He moved on to Naat’s, hesitating before he knocked on the door.

“Come in,” she said, before his hand even made contact with the metal.

Cal stepped inside. She was sitting Jedi-style on the floor, her legs crossed, hands resting on her knees. Her hair was tied back in a bun on the back of her head. She looked up at him and smiled gently, “Cal.” She said, her smile only growing wider as she looked at him.

“Sorry to disturb you, Commander.”

“Not disturbed at all.”

“I’m just checking on everyone. I know this trip is a bit more nerve-wracking than most.”

“I imagine not being able to do anything while the ship rattles around in hyperspace probably does Commandos a great deal of stress.”

“I just want to make sure everyone’s all right.”

“And you?”

“Me?”

She almost laughed, “You’re checking on everyone because you’re nervous, too. You know that?”

“Oh.” Cal reached a hand and rubbed the back of his neck, “I didn’t think about it like that.”

“Of course,” Naat said, “That’s my job.”

“Did I interrupt your meditating?”

“No,” Naat said, “I’m just preparing. I know we haven’t begun the approach quite yet.”

“I’ll leave you to it.” Cal tapped the door frame and gave her one last look.

“Cal,” Naat said. He stopped and turned back, “I’m glad you’re here with us.”

He gave her a smile, and the door shut behind him.

Last person to check on was the one that was, arguably, the one Cal was least responsible for.

Atiniir was sitting in his bunk sharpening his beskad slowly and carefully. His helmet was sitting reverently on the pillow their hosts provided, and he seemed to be in a kind of calm, meditative state as the shining sound of the sword against the metal sung through the air.

“Su’cuy.” Atiniir said, seeing Cal’s reflection in the beskar.

“Su’cuy gar.” Cal responded, a bit more formally, for reasons he didn’t know.

“How you doing?” Atiniir asked.

“All right. Just checking on everyone.”

“Worried we might blink out of existence at any moment?” Atiniir asked, his lips curved into a Dark Side-may-care smirk.

“Kind of,” Cal said, “Yeah.”

“Come on in,” he said, “Sit with me.”

Cal did as the Mandalorian said, “How’s your Mando’a?”

“Not very good.” Cal said.

“When you get discharged, we should practice.”

“Why when we get discharged?”

“So that we could spend days or weeks speaking it. Here we need operational readiness. Basic will have to suffice.”

They sat there for a long moment with nothing but the sound of the wet stone against the blade. Then their comms rang and a Shryiiwook voice came over to announce that they were entering the delicate hyper lanes on their approach to Kenari.

The Wookiees were much more succinct than that. But Cal understood the gist.

“So…” Atiniir said, once the Wookiee forms disappeared from their links, “How was your date with Naat?”

“My… my what?” Cal said, his brain refusing to acknowledge the word.

“You. Naat. At the Gibadan place. A date, no?”

Cal knew this word. Most clones knew this word. But to hear it said aloud, to consider the word in reference to his relationship with a femme - with his commanding officer - stunned Cal into questioning every phoneme involved.

“Uh…”

“You do understand the concept?”

Cal wasn’t sure.

“All right,” Atiniir said, “You, Cal, were a single individual, at a romantic location with another single individual. And both of you single individuals, have distinct, rather physical interest in one another. You both want to be closer.”

“All right.” Cal said, “I… I guess I get what you mean.”

“You guess?”

“I don’t know.” Cal confessed, “It’s not like the Kaminoans gave us any more information about femmes and reproduction than we required to understand anatomy.”

“So you do understand how mascs and femmes fit together.”

“Hominids, yes.” Cal and most other clones had grown used to the Galaxy’s more normalized terms Human and Near-Human, but the Kaminoans were nothing if not a proud people. The terminology used more in the rest of the Galaxy, even among non-Humans and Near-Humans, obviously reflected a Human centrism that the Republic tried hard to deny, but the Outer Rim saw too often in its dealings with the Core. The Kaminoans chose to preference the more neutral and non-Humano-centric term Hominid, that lowered Humanity down to merely a member of a club rather than the center in which the Galaxy had to explain its relation to, near and far.

“Well, you’re a clone, she’s a Jedi. Doesn’t change the fact that you’re two people, in the prime of your physical and reproductive lives, and you want to be inside each other.”

“Wh…” Cal felt his head spinning and he silently wished that some black hole’s gravitational shadow would impact the Kettrifee and end his embarrassment. “I… I just want… uh…”

Karabast. What the kriff did he want?

“Let me ask,” Atiniir said, putting the wetstone down to one side, and the saber on the other, “Do you want to be close to Naat? Physically?”

Cal sat there staring into space, imagining Naat smiling as the waitress brought a green bottle filled with jellyfruit-flavored soju. The way her face lit up as she turned her gaze to him.

“Don’t think.” Atiniir said, “Just answer the question: do you want to be as physically close as possible to Naat?”

Cal paused, again.

“Don’t think, just answer: yes or no. Do you want to be close to Naat Reath?”

“Yes.” Cal said, almost surprised at the sounds that came out of his mouth.

“Good.” Atiniir said, “Now, you know how mascs and femmes fit together, right?”

“Oh…”

“As in, you know what sex is?”

Cal’s silence sat between them. He knew what sex was. It was a part of their anatomical lessons (and he had seen plenty of those contraband videos…).

“Good. So, next question: do you want to have sex with Naat?”

Cal felt all of the blood in his body rush into his face.

And other places.

“Don’t think. Just answer: you want to have sex. You’re in the physical prime of your life, you want to be closer to Naat, so, make the leap: do you want to have sex with Naat?”

“I… uh…”

“Don’t think. Yes or no?”

“Yes!”

Atiniir picked up the wet stone and put it in his pocket. He took the saber and sheathed it, “Well, there you go.”

Cal was at a complete loss for words, “But… but I… she’s my commanding officer!”

“Yep.”

“And she’s a Jedi!”

“Yep.”

“I… I don’t understand.”

“What’s there to understand?”

“And… didn’t you go on a date with her?”

Atiniir shrugged, “I guess.”

“So… what is this?”

“Between you and me,” the Zeltron said, “the only part I have more experience with is getting inside my partners. I don’t pretend to understand it any more than that.”

“But you have had partners… Have you had… the Commander as a partner?”

“No.” Atiniir said, “I haven’t. Though I don’t particularly have hang ups about her being technically my commanding officer.”

“Oh… because you’re Mandalorian?”

“No, because I’m from Zeltros.”

“Oh.” Cal said. He knew mostly rumors and only the absolute basics of what Zeltrosian culture and society was like. Though, that mostly ended up getting oversimplified into their heads as ‘Zeltrons will shag anything and anyone at any time.’

“I’m guessing you don’t know so much about Zeltrons as a people?”

Cal chose silence so as not to insult the Mandalorian.

“Fair enough. Zeltrons emit pheremones. Just naturally. It’s always a part of our anatomy. It also changes based on fertility, attraction, hormonal balance, ovulation, etc. We’re also just… well as a result, Zeltron society doesn’t have the hang-ups that other societies do. Zeltrons will use sex to solve disputes, as an extended hello, as a party favor, for therapy.”

“For therapy?”

“Sure. Someone is anxious, depressed, feeling overwhelmed. They go see a therapist who will diagnose them and give them a good romp based on what they need. On Zeltros there are specialists who will see what kind of anxiety you have and what you need to get over it. They sleep with you a certain way, bam, you feel better.”

“They really do that?”

“Oh yeah.” Atiniir said, “Frankly, you all should take a vacation to Zeltros the moment the war is over. Probably every clone should.”

“For the… sex therapists?”

Atiniir chuckled to himself, “I mean, sure? You should just try everything.”

“But… aren’t people who are together, like if I was with… Naat, shouldn’t we just be doing… stuff with each other?”

“Oya,” Atiniir half-swore, “you’re going to have to grow a bit more comfortable with the language if you’re ever going to get to where you want to be. Or need to be.”

“I’ve never… done anything like this before.”

“I know, Cal,” Atiniir said, “you’re a kid in a grown man’s body like every other clone in the Grand Army. So, maybe the next time you look at Naat, or are just in your bunk and have some quiet time, just ask yourself, specifically: what do you want from her? What part of her body do you want to see? What part of your body do you want her to see? How do you want to touch her? How do you want to be touched?”

“And then?”

“One step at a time, vod.”

“What if I don’t know?”

“If you don’t know, you don’t know. But you start by asking yourself these questions. Frankly, you and Naat are in sort of the same boat here, as far as I can tell. I imagine there’s probably a bit more naughty nighttime play in the Jedi Temple than they’d ever let on, but I doubt they have the experience or knowledge to explain what it is, same as you. I mean, come on, a bunch of hormonal teenagers in the GAR barracks, don’t tell me it’s all chaste brotherhood and good natured, wholesome fun.”

Cal wasn’t a hundred percent sure what he meant, but his tone brought up pictures of brothers in intimate moments figuring things out back on Tipoca City.

He’d heard rumors, that the Kaminoans decommissioned troopers who were a bit too aggressive in the freshers, or who’d grown too attached to one another.

Sibling syndrome was a term thrown around, but no one was certain exactly what it meant.

Just that, if you had it, you didn’t have it for long.

It was weird. Considering the clones were all brothers. But that the army saw a rather fine line between them seeing each other as brothers and a diagnosable disorder that needed to be treated.

“All right… so what do I do? I mean, now?”

“Regarding Naat.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, Mandalorians are prone to confess their feelings sooner rather than later. The next mission could be your last, or you might not even get there. So, I’d suggest if we arrive in Kenari space unharmed… say something.”

Cal felt a shock through his body, and he had the sudden feeling of being back on the dropship headed for his first firefight over Geonosis. And given the choice between that or telling Naat that he wanted her hands on his body and his on hers…

… he’d take the B2 ten times out of ten.

He swallowed hard, “And… what about you?”

“What about me?” Atiniir asked.

“You went on a… a date with the Commander, too. You have feelings for her.”

“Oh, yeah,” Atiniir said, “I like her. I like her a lot. Naat Reath is one hell of a warrior, and she’s,” he exhaled as if he couldn’t even believe the air inside of him was real, “something to behold.”

“But…”

“But I’ve got other issues going on inside of me. Like, is what I feel for her what you feel for her, or is it just me being a Zeltron?”

“Oh.”

“It’s a big Galaxy, vod. Inside and out.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 34: TION

She knew this planet. Tao. It was close to home. Home being Manda ’yaim. At night she could look up into the sky and identify the home sun.

One day, she ’d tell her how blessed she was to be born in the light of the sun of Mandalore. It was a tiny fraction of the light of their sun, but still, it was light and it was their sun.

“Ti!” she heard him call outside.

Tion pulled up her tunic to cover herself. Her breasts were huge. Way larger than she remembered them.

Of course. Their baby was still young. Still needed to be fed.

She left the ‘yaim, the little pink-faced Zel-zab in her arms. She had blue hair like her papa, and two little horns like her mama. She was so small, Tion was almost afraid to hold her, worried that one wrong move would send her flying through the air.

Atiniir and Zam stood outside. She knew immediately who was who: her love was a head shorter than her brother.

But he looked good in beskar ’gam.

And the hilt of his blade went well with the armor, too.

“Cyar’ika!” He took off his helmet and set it down on the ground next to the fire.

“You talking to me? Or Zel-zab?”

He was just tall enough to come up to her chest. When he stepped on his toes he kissed her and she felt a warm shiver on the nape of her neck. He took their little Zel-zab and bounced her, kissing her between the horns and tickling her nose.

“Baby girl,” he said, “Papa loves you.”

Tion stepped back and just looked at them. It was just a dream.

She knew it was just a dream.

So she ’d savor it as long as she could.

Zygerria, Erur, Capital City of the Zygerrian Empire

1030 Days after Geonosis

They’d already been delayed for days, but this was it. Everything and everyone was in place.

They’d all gotten extra rest. The clones took their red pills: a different set of supplements for active combat usage. And Tion slept most of the day. When her alarm went off, she rose, dressed, and donned her armor.

She stared at her face in reflection for a long moment. She had a long scar on the left side of her neck. Her eyes were a pale blue, contrasting with the pink-red of her skin.

If we did have a little Zab-zel, they ’d probably be pinker than the both of us.

Tion donned her helmet. It was custom among the Covert to say the names of those who’d passed before for at least a year after they’d marched on. Those who couldn’t get over their grief would often end up repeating the names long after the customary period.

Tion, whose name meant what in Mando’a, always did things a bit different.

Ever since she had that dream, she made sure to keep her helmet on around Zam. Didn’t need the little pheremone-pushing Jedi know how she felt. Or she at least had to make it a bit harder by not having him look directly at her flushed face.

But she started to think of names.

Zab-zel was cute. And probably what they’d end up calling their little ad’ika, but she started repeating to herself, “Tion’ad? Tion’jor? Tion’meh? Tion’solet? Tion’tuur…?” over and over again like a mantra.

Who? Why? What if? How many? When?

Uncle Beskad would probably hit her if he ever heard of such a thing. What Mandalorian repeats a mantra to the future like some lovesick Twi’lek? But she was strong enough, and old enough, that if he did so, she’d draw her bes’bev and tell him to back off.

She donned her helmet and finished the prayer.

Tion holstered her side-arm. She sheathed her bes’bev. From her weapons locker, she took out a modified LJ-50 concussion rifle. The beast of a weapon Tion had modified with a longer barrel, giving it an added range - about fifty meters of accuracy. And added a stock for better aiming.

She tied a bandoleer of grenades around her shoulder, added energy packs and ammunition, a vibroblade, and finally: her jetpack.

“This is Commander Reykal, all units report.”

Tion triggered her green acknowledgment light. It was followed by Takkor, Butcher, Bruiser, Monk, Psycho, Thread, and Rancor.

Takkor and Monk were given two targets together, with Butcher to cover. Bruiser and Rancor were to cover Tion with long-range weapons while she closed in on three targets. Psycho and Thread were to do the same with Zam.

“All right,” Zam reported, “Let’s do this.”

Tion emerged from her quarters and met the squad’s third-in-command and its least hinged member in the common area.

They were dressed in a combination of their Red Squad Phase II heavy clone armor, and the Mandalorian pieces Tion had purchased for them. The parts that moved the most were mainly the katarn, while the others were beskar’gam. Tion didn’t blame them. She was a warrior, in a case like this, one wanted to be as comfortable in their fighting skin as possible.

Though she insisted they wear the Mandalorian helmets. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out the Republic was involved, but having an extra layer of plausible deniability - that this was a slave revolt encouraged by some rogue Mandalorians - certainly helped add to the fog of war rather than take it away.

Bruiser and Rancor each carried DC-17m interchangeable weapons systems, with the sniper rifle attachment currently armed. On their belts, they carried the rifle and grenade launcher attachments, along with an assortment of thermal detonators, and a pair of sidearms.

The trio climbed to the roof of the frigate and through a trap door in the roof. They sealed it shut and put the ship on lockdown. Bruiser signaled to Tion that the ship wouldn’t be trespassed upon (at least not without a very dedicated slicer), and they jet off into the air towards their first target.

Erur from the air in the middle of the night was little less than a pretty sight. The city’s ancient sandstone coloration glowed at certain spots where low lighting impacted lapis lazuli and emerald stone settings. The Temple of the Moon Spirits, covered entirely in white stone with silver inlay, seemed to shine like a beacon. Other tree-shaped spires stood throughout the city as landing pillars for brezaks, the gliding lizards that the slavers were so fond of.

They’d considered using brezaks instead of jetpacks for traveling through the city’s sky lanes, but it was decided that this would just add another element of uncertainty and possible point of failure for them.

What did the Zygerrians know from a lifetime of flying brezaks that Red Squad wouldn’t be able to learn in a few days?

What could the Zygerrians do to the brezaks that might immobilize them when they needed them the most?

Tion was a Mandalorian, and most of the team was descended of Mandalorians. So they would use the art of the rising phoenix.

Tion’s team had three targets. The first was Lieutenant of the East Quarter. The Eyes had no official command centers outside of the Imperial Zigurrat. Takkor had managed to track this charming fellow to a relatively small slave market not far from the Gate of the Rising Sun.

The market was closed. Or more specifically, bidding was closed. But the staff was still showing off their wares to interested buyers. It was good business, the Zygerrians found, to make their customers think overnight about the product. Especially if you can have multiple buyers stress about the same slaves, and then force them into a bidding war after a night’s worth of anxiety.

The three landed on a rooftop that gave them a wide view of the interior of the space.

From here they could see not only the target’s zone of operation, but also the nearby slave quarters: a set of buildings without windows, appearing like bricks laid by a giant in the middle of the city.

A smallish Hutt entered the market on a palanquin carried by six individuals, guarded by a Trandoshan and an Aqualish carrying heavy blasters.

They watched as a Zygerrian team emerged from a doorway to greet the Hutt, arms wide, and they exchanged pleasantries. The Zygerrian in the middle wore what appeared to be a gold-plated hat, signaling that he was the market master.

“Is that him?” Bruiser asked. Tion could practically hear his trigger finger twitch.

“No.” Tion said.

Then a third Zygerrian emerged from the same doorway, putting his helmet on in a belated fashion as he stepped into the square behind the other three while the market master and the Hutt discussed.

A small team of Zygerrians came into view, parading two dozen Twi’lek, Togruta, Zeltron, and Mirialan slaves in front of the client, forcing them onto their knees, and stripping them half-naked for their perusal.

The fourth Zygerrian - dressed as a guard, but barely interested in his guarding duties - seemed more taken in by the Hutt himself, as if he was sizing up the rising cartel leader for vulnerabilities.

“That’s him.” Tion said.

“That one?” Rancor said, painting the target, “It’s just a guard.”

“Exactly.” Tion said, “I’m going to enter from the other side, I’ll emerge out the door they came in. Cover my exit.”

“Copy.” Bruiser and Rancor both answered, readying their weapons.

Tion flew into the Zygerrian night, round the market place, just below the line of sight that the Hutt or the Zygerrians in the marketplace might have seen, and lowered herself down a silent alleyway across from the outer wall of the market square.

Of course, the office she was looking for had no outer windows, so she climbed in through a side door, breaking the lock with a vambrace shot when no one was looking. She pulled open the door and closed it, making sure no ambient light came through.

The space led to a hall, which had a few windows that led to the outside of the market place. She could see the square where the Hutt was analyzing the potential slaves for bidding tomorrow.

Tion slipped into the office. If she leaned out far enough, she could see the rooftop in the distance where she knew Bruiser and Rancor were stationed with their sniper rifles.

It was dark and empty. There was little here except for a few amenities the marketplace’s slaves had put down and hadn’t yet cleaned.

Tion noticed the target outside the doorway. She grabbed a ceramic plate and tossed it casually just inside the doorway. It shattered and half the eyes in the marketplace turned to them. The slaves because they knew someone was about to be punished. The masters because they knew someone needed to be punished.

Their luck held. The target turned back from the slave analysis and came towards Tion, who waited in the shadows. She dipped further into the room, to be certain that the target couldn’t see her.

When he had slipped into the office to inspect the broken ceramic, Tion shot her whipcord forward, pulling the Zygerrian back towards her, slitting his throat with her vibroblade before he even knew what hit him. She dropped the alien’s body to the ground, jumped out into the light of the market square and jet off into the air before everyone else could figure out what the kriff just happened.

A few stray blasts went off into the air, but she saw blast lines from the roof of the nearby building that told her Rancor and Bruiser were on it. She winked a green light to indicate the target was taken out and once she landed, setting her blade back into its sheath, “Next target.” She snapped off a quick message to the rest of Red Squad that they were one target down, and they jet off to another part of the city.

Tion’s team landed outside of the smaller Northwest Gate. Their target was an Eye who was supposedly the main guy who watched smugglers entering through this minor point of entry into Erur.

He was a larger fellow, using a grav chair to get around, or just to lounge in. He was attended by a pair of Twi’lek slaves, a femme Human one, and an Ithorian. As they watched the Eye from a nearby rooftop, they saw that he was watching a series of camera feeds from datapads held by the Twi’leks. The Human held a jug that she occasionally topped off his goblet with. And the Ithorian was victim of a particular further injustice: kneeling on the ground while the Zygerrian picked at things to nibble on from a bowl that rested on the flat of their head.

“Savage.” Rancor said.

“We have a clean shot,” Bruiser said, “Want us to just… make quick work of this?”

“No.” Tion said, “No, I don’t think these people deserve that.”

She stepped to the edge of the roof and dropped a story before igniting her pack and flying across the way to the Eye’s position. She landed behind him with a quiet drop. The Twi’leks both looked up. The Human turned, and even the Ithorian’s eyes turned to the Mandalorian.

The Zygerrian took an extra second to rotate his grav chair around. Before he could lay eyes on Tion, she shot her whipcord forward, wrapping around his throat and pulling him out.

The Eye reached to his belt as he fell and lifted a commlink out, but a solid shot from one of the clones’ rifles took it out of the Eye’s hand, and shattered it into atoms.

Tion looked up at the Ithorian as the bowl fell from his head, “Do you want to take this?” She held out her vibroblade handle first.

The Ithorian held their hands up and shook their head in the Galactic symbol of oh no.

Tion could have shot him, or slit his throat, or thrown him off the roof…

But something about the way he sat on a chair, getting fat, eating food from a bowl on another being’s head just rubbed her the wrong kriffing way.

She released the whipcord. Before it was even rolled up into her vambrace, Tion reached forward with her other wrist and ignited her flamethrower.

The Eye died screaming.

“You’re free.” Was all she said before jetting off to find Rancor and Bruiser again.

The plan was going smoothly right up until she landed next to them.

There was a massive explosion somewhere in the city. Alarms started blaring, screeching through the air like banshees. Another set of explosions erupted far to the north, where Zam’s team was supposed to be.

“What’s happening?” Bruiser asked.

“I’m not sure.” Tion pulled up her wrist comm, “Strill to command, come in command.”

She waited a second… and there was nothing.

“Tion? This is Takkor.”

His voice sounded odd. He must have morphed something with a different voice box, “Takkor, what’s going on?”

“The revolt got triggered early.”

“How?”

“No clue. The Commander isn’t coming in. Maybe something happened and he gave the signal?”

Tion swore before she hit the comm again, “I don’t know, I can’t get to him.”

“Do we continue the mission?”

Something tugged at the back of Tion’s mind. Like… maybe the answer should be no.

That’d be ridiculous though, wouldn’t it?

“No,” she said, “Our team’s got one target left. Yours?”

“We were en route to our third when we saw the explosion.”

“Same. Let’s rendezvous immediately afterwards.”

“Copy.”

She signaled to Bruiser and Rancor and they took off, headed towards their last target.

The marked location was the Shrine of Lost Souls. The shrine was once just a spring where Zygerrians bathed to restore their status as free members of society if they had been enslaved. The spot, however, had long lost its original meaning, as modern Zygerrian law forbid Zygerrians from enslaving other Zygerrians except in circumstances of punishment (and always off-world), and the spring never applied to non-Zygerrians.

Yet it retained a spiritual significance, and was still hailed by both slaves and non-slaves as a place of healing and redemption.

For a lot of slaves - non-Zygerrians every one of them - it was more the fact that it was some of the cleanest, purest water in the city.

The complex that grew around the shrine was almost as large as the Temple of the Moon Spirits, and it shined just as brightly into the night air of the city.

Tion and the clones scouted out the site from a nearby rooftop, though given the Shrine’s size, it was difficult to assess much.

“I’m going in,” Tion said, a bit more recklessly than she would have liked.

“We should go with you.” Bruiser said.

“If this goes as smoothly as the last two, I’ll be back in less than a minute. If I give you a red signal, jump to the walls and cover me from above.”

“Copy.” Bruiser said.

Explosions rippled through the city. She could tell that the clones were getting anxious, and if they were left to their own devices long enough, they’d start shooting, regardless.

Normally a good instinct for what Clone Heavies were meant to be.

Tion jumped over to the Shrine’s top wall, gave it a quick scan, and looked through each of the windows. The building was dark. There was no indication that anyone was even here.

Granted, if there was a slave revolt in the city, chances were whatever security personnel were here might have already left to go do something about it.

She jumped down, lowering herself to the Shrine’s main square, weapon at the ready.

Tion stepped towards the shimmering pool. The water was, indeed, crystal clear. She could practically smell the purity of it through her buy’ce’s filters.

Then there was a flash on her motion sensors.

She spun.

Too late.

Something wrapped around her throat and sent a shock through her body. She dropped the weapon, but for some reason couldn’t reach down to her vibroblade.

Tion tried to extend her arm to fire a shot at the direction of her attacker, but she couldn’t even do that.

She couldn’t even find the red acknowledgment light to bring Bruiser and Rancor to her aid.

The armor’s auto-defenses triggered, and while it wasn’t enough to counter the electro-whip’s charge, it was enough to free up some strength for Tion to get her footing, turn her head to her attacker, and aim her vambrace, unleashing a torrent of flame in the Zygerrian’s general direction.

He dodged, releasing the elctro-whip, and rolling out of range of Tion’s flamethrower.

Tion stood, and looked around for her blaster, but it was nowhere near her feet, and she couldn’t stop to look for it without giving her enemy a clearer shot.

Red Squad. Red light.

But before she could trigger the light, the Zygerrian took out a blaster and started firing at her.

He had solid aim, hitting her right between the eyes.

Tion’s buy’ce took the hit like only beskar could, but the blaster was high-powered, and it still sent her face jolting back, nearly knocking her off of her feet.

She drew her vibroblade, and then the Zygerrian’s foot came flying at her chest, knocking her down, just before he kicked her at the base of her spine.

No, not her spine.

Her jetpack.

The pack disconnected from her armor and skiddered across the shrine’s square.

The Zygerrian picked her up by the back of her neck, just under her helmet. He reached just below the back of the buy’ce and Tion instinctively grabbed it.

But he wasn’t having it. He released her, and immediately wrapped the electro-whip around her neck again, giving her a total shock.

And in the space where she tried to breathe, he grabbed the buy’ce and ripped it off of her head, throwing it away where it chipped against the fountain wall and fell into the water.

“Mandalorian bitch.” He said, “How does it feel to have your face shown to all of Zygerria?” He sent another shock through Tion’s body, and then shoved her face into the Shrine’s pool.

Tion’s entire body gasped for air, and found only water.

He pulled her out and her lungs felt ready to burst from her body.

“You know,” he said, his hand digging into her scalp, nearly ripping the hair from her head, “I was raised by Mandalorians. That’s how I know how to fight your kind. Give a Mandalorian any opening, and that’s how you die.”

He shoved her back into the water. Tion’s arms flailed, trying to push her back out, but the fountain was too smooth. Her gloves slipped off of everything too easily. And her brain was gasping for oxygen, unable to figure out any thought that wasn’t air air air.

“Stupid osik-holes,” he said, pulling her out, “they taught me every way to kill them. So that’s what I did. They thought they were freeing me. They killed my family and took me as a poor little foundling. Well, see, their Mandalorian fondness for children killed them. I slaughtered them like the rabid strills they were, and then I stripped the beskar from their bodies.”

He shoved her back under.

Tion stopped. Stopped trying to breathe. Just like Uncle Beskar taught her:

Ninety-percent of the time, in battle, you ’re too in your head, you need to be in your enemy’s head. Don’t think. Just act. The other ten percent of the time, your body is responding to its base survival instincts. And that will get you killed. Stop. Take a moment. Think. Then act.

She calmed herself. She stopped moving. The target probably thought she was losing consciousness.

She had never felt more aware of her surroundings in her life.

He pulled her back out.

She reached for her vibroblade.

“I came back here. Made a beskar electro-whip. And when I strip the beskar from your body, I’m going to make something else. Maybe a platter. After all, I served up my competitors to you on one. It’s only fair I return the favor.”

Gone. It must have been lost in the first part of the struggle.

He shoved her back into the water.

She didn’t have a vibroblade.

She had a bes’bev.

He pulled her out of the water. She drew the flute, and stabbed back into his armpit, twisting the sharp end of the Mandalorian instrument as deeply into the Zygerrian’s body as she could.

He screamed and released her, dropping to the ground, dropping his whip, and falling as the blood began to drain from his body when Tion pulled out the blade.

She reached down and grabbed the handle of the electro-whip.

He was right. She could tell by the reflection of the light and the color of the metal: beskar.

“You may have been trained by Mandalorians,” she said, igniting the whip, “but you are not one of us.”

She reached the whip forward, and wrapped it around the Zygerrian’s neck. She drew it in, bringing his neck right to the end of the handle, and then hurled his whole body, the whip extending, past the fountain wall, and into the pool. He fell into the water, still tugging and pulling at the cord around his neck.

Tion hit the trigger.

Tens of thousands of volts surged through the whip, and grounded themselves through the Zygerrian’s body. The lights surrounding the fountain burst, and the Zygerrian’s body fell into the water.

She hoped it hurt.

Tion released the whip and clipped it to her belt.

Beskar belonged to the Mandalorians.

She found her helmet in the fountain.

Like a proper Mando, she killed the aru’e who’d removed her helmet. This was the way. The only way.

She emptied her bucket of water and then put it on her head, “Ibic Manda.”

She hit the green button, “Target neutralized.”

“Let’s get out of here, boss.” Bruiser said, “Things are getting hairy.”

The sound of starcraft above their heads told Tion exactly that. That the Zygerrians didn’t see this as just another even of the slaves getting antsy, but as a threat.

“Any word from Zam?”

“No, ma’am.”

She lifted off into the sky, grabbing her weapon along the way.

“I’m not landing,” she said, “follow me.” The two clones lifted off the roof and followed Tion as they flew to the rendezvous point, “Takkor,” she called, “this is Strill. We’ve neutralized our third target and are heading to Point Delta.”

“Copy, Strill,” Takkor said, “we’ll meet you there.”

“Any word from Commander Reykal?”

“None.”

Kriff. Something went wrong.

Chapter Text

Chapter 35: ARYA

It had been twenty hours since they put Czerka in that bacta tank. Arya tried sleeping, as Allen, Tat, and Sandstorm all seemed to succeed at, but she couldn ’t.

She wandered through the floating city in the gas giant ’s atmosphere, until she found herself back at the hospital and on the other side of the glass from his suite where he was fully immersed in bacta.

It was almost a year ago when Arya asked Master Ogel what would happen to the clones after the war was over.

He was honest. He once told Arya that he would never lie to her. And he didn ’t that time either.

“I don’t know,” he said, “I’m not sure anyone knows.”

As she stood there, looking at Czerka floating in the liquid, covered in hoses and sensors, her mind kept wandering over and over her Master ’s words.

Only, back then, they were involved in strictly Jedi business. This was her first time where she knew the clones by something other than numbers.

She knew that had names. Even back then. But something about knowing them by their names first then their designations.

Arya didn ’t need to reach out in the Force any longer. She felt her whole self tied to him. To all of them, really.

She knew they weren ’t just Human in the biological sense.

They were people.

And that being a revelation in itself disturbed her.

Arvala-7

1011 Days after Geonosis

When she got back to the Jedi Temple, Arya told herself to study up on Mandalorians. This whole “dark ravine” strategy worked pretty well for them. They had each taken out a few battle droids, but otherwise, they were free and clear.

They weren’t discovered, though the failure of the Mandalorian security, and the sudden disappearance of the droid patrols set the base’s doors into an automatic lockdown. Arya wondered if perhaps that missing soldier Czerka warned them about might have had something to do with it.

The Krayts came upon a door to the primary work station. It was the doorway that led to the facility where all of the Ugnaughts were. More importantly: it was where the asset was located.

Arya stood by the door, lightsaber in hand. Czerka stood back with his rifle at the ready. Tat and Sandstorm stood on the opposite side of the hall. Allen crouched down to the door panel and sliced it open. Sure, they could have just tried the door panel first, but Arya was almost certain that the Ugnaughts locked their workshop, and if they didn’t, then this just gave them an extra surprise.

“Ready?” Allen asked.

Arya nodded.

He tapped two wires and the doors slid open quickly and cleanly.

Arya jumped into the room, one of her blades cutting a swath of green light through the room.

Tat and Sandstorm charged inside, and then Czerka behind them with his rifle flashing, and finally Allen, who stepped in with his side arm out and ready.

“In the name of the Republic!” Arya announced, not sure if that was what to say in this moment. But as she scanned the room, there was only a single Ugnaught there. The room was lined with workbenches, tools, scattered components, and broken droids, “Uh… surrender?”

The Ugnaught seemed undeterred, and continued to do what he was doing, “Do not disturb my work,” he said, not even bothering to glance up at them, “I have spoken.”

Arya turned off her saber as Krayt Squad advanced into the room. Czerka kept his rifle trained on the Ugnaught, even as he moved closer, while the Mandalorian and the other two clones went looking around the room.

It was poorly lit, with only the spotlights shining directly onto the work benches.

“Ah,” Allen said, “Found it.”

He nodded not towards a bench, but a chair. The Ugnaught continued to work under the watchful eye of Czerka’s crosshairs.

Arya followed his line of sight to the far end of the room. There was a battle droid sitting in a chair, like a person, its hands against the armrests as if it was holding onto the seat.

“It’s just a B1.” Arya said.

Allen approached the droid as the Ugnaught walked over beside it and tinkered with the joints in its head and neck, connecting it back to the console to its left.

“Look at the coloration.” He said.

“It’s not painted.” Sandstorm said.

Allen approached the droid and tapped it with his hand. He seemed to be listening to the tone of his hand on the metal, before he moved up his gauntlet and tapped the beskar against the droid’s face. He listened to the ring…

“Beskar?” Arya asked.

“No.” The Ugnaught answered.

“Let me see your lightsaber.” Allen said, holding his arm back. Feeling apprehensive, Arya relented, taking her lightsaber from her hilt and putting it in Allen’s outstretched hand. He ignited one of the blades and leaned it towards the droid. Arya noticed that the Ugnaught seemed unperturbed by the approach of the blade to the droid’s face.

Allen tapped it and the blade shattered and evaporated. When he tried to trigger the ignition again, green sparks flew from the beam emitter.

“Cortosis.” Arya said, “They’re making cortosis battle droids.”

“I am designing a cortosis B1 prototype chassis.” The Ugnaught corrected.

“For the Separatists to mass produce.” Sandstorm said.

“I am a humble droidsmith,” the Ugnaught said, “what the droids do when they leave my charge isn’t my business.”

“No, of course not,” Sandstorm said, “especially if you program them to kill clones.”

“Let’s take out this droid.” Tat growled, “And we can set the facility to blow. No more cortosis droids.”

It was just cortosis, Arya thought, not like they’re beskar droids. Dank ferrik, there’s probably not enough nova crystals in the Galaxy to pay for an army of beskar battle droids. Cortosis did a great job at disrupting a Jedi’s plasma blade, but for the plasma energy bolt of a blaster, they were no real defense for the shot’s explosive blast.

“We’ll have to take the prototype.” Arya said, “Analysts on Coruscant will want to see what the GAR is dealing with.”

“The prototype is not yours to take.” The Ugnaught said, “I have spoken.”

Allen walked up behind the droidsmith and bound his hands behind his back.

“How about now?”

“I guess there is little I can do to stop you.” But then the Ugnaught turned around and hit a button on the keyboard with his nose.

The droid hummed to life, stood up, and pulled the wires that connected its head to the computer.

The clones, including Czerka, turned their weapons to the asset, Arya lifted her lightsaber and ignited one of the blades… though it was purely a reaction, she realized as soon as the blade shined onto her face that it was less than useless. This was a droid designed specifically with her arsenal in mind.

The droid turned towards Krayt Squad, seeing all of the weaponry pointed at it, and held up its hands, “Whoa!” its droid voice seemed to slice the air. Every finger in the room twitched hearing the familiar voice of the enemy, “Don’t shoot! Please don’t shoot!”

None of them had ever seen a battle droid exhibit this level of fear before.

And certainly not one that was specifically designed for the opposite.

The Krayts turned their eyes towards Arya. All except for Czerka who kept his weapon trained on the droid’s neck.

Arya put her lightsaber away, “Battle droid… do you know who we are?”

“You’re a Jedi. And you’re Clone Troopers. You’re all with the Grand Army of the Republic.”

“Correct. And you’re now in our captivity.” Arya turned towards Tat, “You’re taking point getting us out of here. Sandstorm, you next. Allen, keep your blaster trained on the droid. Czerka, you’re keeping watch of things behind us. I’ll be in front with you, Tat.”

“And do you plan on leaving me bound here?” the Ugnaught asked.

“Not quite.”

They took both of their prisoners with them back to the front of the base. The trip was uneventful.

At the front of the base, Allen took his wife’s jetpack and carried her limp body down the mountain. Arya and Czerka went next, and he made the trip with the assets after, and then Sandstorm and Tat. They made their way to camp, tied the prisoners - two Mandalorians, one B1, and one Ugnaught - on top of the blurrgs. They set out as soon as possible.

Arya was genuinely worried that they had left their rear flank open. They hadn’t seen any of the clone deserters that Yakoh had warned her about.

There was that odd sighting from Czerka, but if it signaled anything… then whatever it was didn’t make itself known. She kept watch over the sky, having her sensors scan for starcraft or dropships, finding nothing in the sky above them.

In a day and a half - with Arya worried that they were leaving themselves open to sniper fire in the salt flats - they arrived back at the Republic Outpost. Sergeant Unocca was the first to sight them, giving them what sounded to Arya like a welcoming roar while they were still off in the distance.

Getting closer, they dismounted and Yakoh and Unocca led the blurrgs into the pen. The Ugnaught was led to a room and the door lock switched to “prison” mode. The B1 was stared at for a long time and then moved to his own “cell.”

“No casualties.” Lieutenant Harro said, “Very nice.”

“Thanks,” Arya said, not sure what else to say. Especially considering Harro’s record, “Is the room you gave me still set up?”

“All yours,” Harro said, his arm extending towards it.

“I’ll show you there.” Yakoh said, leading past Harro’s arm and towards the back of the outpost.

Allen had given Larra her own room. She was still groggy from being stunned so directly. The other Mandalorian - they didn’t know anything about her except her sex, based entirely on the shape of her armor and visor, as Allen refused to dis-helm her - they put in a separate cell. In her quarters, Yakoh closed the door.

“We didn’t see a single one of these clone deserters you reported.” Arya said.

“No?” Yakoh’s Twi’lek face looked genuinely surprised, “Odd.”

“We took out the Mandalorians, and except for a few B1 patrols, we found no other resistance. No more Mandalorians, no clones, no wet troops. Even the Ugnaught staff was reduced to a single droidsmith.”

“Huh…” Yakoh reached a hand up and stroked her chin, “I’m not sure what to tell you. We’ve been tracking anything entering or leaving the surface, and haven’t detected anything.”

“Any possibility their ships are cloaked?”

“Of course.” Yakoh said, “Or that we just missed them. Arvala-7 is a big planet, and hasn’t been deemed important enough to watch as closely as other targets.”

“Great.”

“I mean, we’ve had our sensors laser focused on the Sep base. So unless they’ve got landing platforms hidden in caves where we don’t have sensors pointed… it’s unlikely we would have missed anything.”

Arya sighed, “I’d hate to leave hostiles here and there’s just… you three. With Lieutenant Harro in charge.”

“Don’t worry about us, Jedi.” Yakoh said, “You have a mission to complete.”

Yakoh bowed and left the room.

Arya accessed the long-range holo terminal and tried to hail Master Ogel. Her request was forwarded through the Jedi Temple on Coruscant to the office of the Special Operations Brigade. General Arligan Zey appeared in hologram form and said, “Commander Wooy, good to hear from you.”

“Thank you, Master Zey.” She bowed, “Krayt Squad has acquired the Separatist asset. We’ve taken no casualties, but have four prisoners: the droid, the Ugnaught droidsmith, and two Mandalorian mercenaries.”

“Excellent work, Arya.” General Zey said, “Leave the Ugnaught. The outpost could probably make use of him to maintain the base machinery.”

Arya didn’t feel great about that… but he was a prisoner of war. And Ugnaughts liked nothing less than to fix and improve machinery. They seemed to take to it with a certain pride of worksmanship that defied common sense.

“The droid and the Mandalorians, take with you back to Coruscant. We’ll need to analyze the asset. And the Mandalorians we’ll hold until the end of the war.”

“Is that… standard procedure?”

“Yes.” General Zey said, “We can attempt to match their contract. But given how Mandalorians seem to hold to them, we’ll probably end up holding them in cells until the war ends and their contract is void.”

“I see.” She said, “We’ll set out first thing in the morning. I think my men deserve some rest. They’ve been running hard for a week now.”

“Fair enough,” General Zey said, “send me a ping when you leave.”

“Certainly. Is Master Ogel all right?”

“Master Ogel is on a secret assignment. He’s been out of communication since you left the Pirdia System. I will leave him a message that your mission was a success and that you’re on your way back to Coruscant. He’ll probably meet you here.”

“Thank you, Master Zey.”

“May the Force be with you, Padawan Wooy.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 36: NAAT

She tried imagining it was just like those meditation exercises when she was a Youngling. Back when they were supposed to be piling boxes with just their minds, or putting balls on cones, or putting objects through rings in mid air.

Only, this time it was holding an entire spacecraft together while it rattled at light speed through a hyperspace tunnel.

She felt her whole mind and heart taut, tense like she was lifting weights. Every neuron was stretched to its limit, holding together through what felt like her sheer force of will.

Inside of a hyperspace tunnel like this, Naat felt her entire world reduced to the Ketriffee transport, like a tooka cat stuck in a glass box. She sensed the two Wookiees, hard at work maintaining the ship as it hurtled through the blue void. She felt Ujik and Top-knot, both relaxed in their own ways in their bunks. She felt Atiniir checking his weapons once more, polishing his armor, and saying names of the fallen like a prayer. She felt Hammer as he laid out his equipment, checked its readiness, and ran numbers after numbers in his head.

Then she felt Cal.

He wasn ’t doing anything.

Just lying back.

He wasn ’t asleep. His mind had wandered in only one direction.

Hers.

Kenari

1019 Days after Geonosis

Kenari sat below them. On the mid-sized planet, roughly 80% of the mass of Coruscant, a rotation took some thirty-six hours, and if they were lucky, they might be back off world before the sun set.

Over ninety-five percent of the planet’s surface was covered in water. Yet the enormous, globe-spanning oceans of Kenari weren’t very deep. For continent-sized ranges, the seas could be waded across. Then a pair of large archipelagos, rose like verdant swords over the azure expanse.

The Yorruro locked onto the distress signal. Qurokka hooted something and CT-94 translated, “Master Qurokka reports that the diplomatic shuttle is on the second largest of the isles in the western archipelago.”

The map on the hologram zoomed into the western island chain and to the “second largest” island directly to the south of the largest of the islands. It was roughly tear drop shaped, if one squinted.

“Any guesses about Kohbacca’s treasure hoard?” Atiniir asked.

One of the Wookiees gave a more spirited roar.

“Guess not,” Atiniir said.

The Wookiees took the Yorruro into the atmosphere. Atiniir and Naat went back to the rooms and found the clones in full katarn. Their camouflage patterns were all slightly different, but Naat didn’t need to check their armor’s coloration to tell them apart. They carried different gear. More than that, they stood in ways that just hit her as identifying.

She didn’t even need to reach into the Force.

“So we going to swing by Kohbacca’s hoard first?”

Ujik. Of course it was, “Apparently, the Wookiees have something to say about that.”

“I mean, Kobacca was a pirate. Anything he had by definition he stole from others.” Ujik said.

“Yeah, Commander,” Top-knot said, “I’m with cakes on this one. We find the hoard, we can just… you know, go. We don’t even need to complete the mission. Let’s just kriff off with a shebs-load of nova crystals, set ourselves up somewhere and live like kings.”

“Where are you going to go to live like a King?” Hammer.

“I’ll find a place.” Ujik said, “Zeltros, maybe.”

“Pff…” Top-knot laughed, “Of course.”

“What,” Ujik said, “You got a better place in mind to fly to with a Wookiee pirate’s stolen treasure?”

“You three do realize that first, we’d need to cut in or kill the Wookiees flying this crate, and that we’d be deserters the rest of our lives?”

“If the treasure’s as big as I’m imagining,” Ujik said, “desertion is like… nothing.”

“Except it’s not,” Naat said. She knew it was just talk. Nervous talk from soldiers about to dip into the unknown. Clone Troopers were funny that way. They were created for combat. Literally bred for it like fighting massiffs. They lived and trained their whole lives for combat. Some clones just existed in a haze of calm as they deployed. Others needed to fill the silence so they weren’t just thinking we’re dropping into a black zone, where we know literally nothing except that we know nothing. “We’re soldiers of the Republic. And we have a mission to do.”

“Yes, ma’am.” All four of them said.

“Priority 1: secure the LZ. They’re going to try and get the Kettrifee as close as possible, but we don’t know what that looks like, yet. Two: enter the ship and search for survivors. Three: recovery.”

She didn’t want to say bodies, cargo, or information. If the Epsilons didn’t know those were all the possibilities and unfortunately equal in the context of a mission like this, then they wouldn’t ever know.

“Find the pirate treasure is four, Commander?”

“Your call whether ‘everyone stay alive’ is four or five.” Naat said.

“Me personally,” Atiniir interrupted, “I prefer that as priority zero.”

The Mandalorian certainly has a way with words, Naat thought. “Let’s just stick together as much as possible,” she said, “something about this place is unsettling.”

CT-94 came over their links, “We are approaching the crash site.”

“Patch us through.” Naat said.

A moment later, they all received a floating window on their HUDs showing the crashed ship. It was a consular-class light-cruiser, with a blue-and-white color scheme and a large Galactic Republic sigil painted over the central section.

“Definitely one of ours,” Top-knot said, “Doesn’t look like anything… no scoring or blaster marks.”

“Must have been a malfunction.” Hammer said.

“Something severe enough to make it drop out of hyperspace, though?”

Top-knot was right. A ship that was in one of the most dangerous sections of the Galaxy just happened to experience a hyperspace drive malfunction and crash landed here?

“What if it hit something’s shadow in hyperspace?” Cal asked.

“I suppose it’s possible it could’ve been en route, hit something, been knocked out and ended up here. But…” Hammer slowed down and did the calculations, “the odds are… beyond astronomical.”

“Only one way we’re going to find answers,” Naat said, “CT, any good places to land?”

“The Wookiees believe that the best option would be to hover above the ship rather than risk the Yorruro by getting too low.”

“All right,” Naat said, “Bring us in.” The clones all stood and secured their weapons, “Atiniir and I are taking point. Top and Hamm next. Cal and Uj last.”

“You want me last?” Cal asked. He made it sound like a normal tactical question, but katarn was defenseless against reading his emotions in the Force.

“You’re the anchor.” Naat said, “it’s time someone stepped in front of the clones instead of throwing you into battle all of the time.” If she could have, she would have touched the side of his face. Armor or no.

The Yorruro hovered into place over the light-cruiser. The bay doors opened, and a wave of jungle humidity smacked Naat in the face.

She stood at the edge of the bay, feeling like she was standing on the edge of the world, “Need a lift?” Atiniir asked.

“I got this,” she said. She stepped down. The fifty meter drop onto the starship’s roof might have shattered a Human femur, but Naat let the Force flow through her, and directed it down towards the ship, wrapping around her like a cocoon. She landed, crouching as the concentration of Force energy dissipated outward, and picked up a lightsaber in each hand.

A jetpack-wearing Mandalorian slowed to a stop just behind her. His rifle scanned the perimeter before he clicked a green light. “Sitch normal.”

Top-knot and Hammer dropped down next. They took cables that lowered themselves and their equipment to the ship, and forming a four-man perimeter, Naat gave the signal for Cal and Ujik to come down.

Once the team was down, the Yorruro’s bay closed and the ship ascended, heading east toward the coast beyond the mountains.

“There’s an access panel up here, Commander.” Hammer said. He pulled it open and began fiddling with it. First he tried the most basic access codes. But after five tries, he didn’t want to get locked out so he pulled out a GAR command-access code, only to get rejected again.

“Well, that was weird.” Ujik said.

“If a ship’s not got its GAR command access codes…” Hammer said, “then either the Captain has quarantined the ship…”

“Or it’s a Separatist ship.” Naat said.

“Your call, Commander,” Hammer said, “What should I do?”

Naat hated this part. The part where decisions were entirely up to her, and the lives of her boys were hanging in on her correct choice, “Try the quarantine code.”

The hatch door slid open.

Naat felt her whole body tense. She clipped a lightsaber and pulled out a rebreather.

“All right,” she said, “Top, Ujik, you first. Everyone make sure your armor is sealed. I’m still popping all sorts of pills after Drongar.” Naat wasn’t kidding. She’d been on three anti-fungals, two anti-virals, and an all purpose anti-bacterial, and then an immuno-reinforcement just to balance out the immense pressure she was putting on her system.

“Yes ma’am.” Ujik said. He climbed down the hatch, followed by Top-knot. They scanned the deck while Hammer used his atmospheric sensor to test the air. The machine beeped, and Hammer checked the readout.

“Anything?” Naat asked.

“High doses of an airborne fungoid cell.”

“Spores?”

“No. Flakes. Like they’re decaying and drying and getting kicked up in the air.”

“I shoulda’ put in with the desert specs.” Ujik said.

“They’ve got their own challenges,” Cal said.

“Better sand up your shebs than shrooms in your lungs.” Ujik responded.

Naat didn’t think he was wrong.

“Ready?” Cal asked Hammer, “We’re next.” Naat sensed a certain withholding from him. A kind of protective desire, that ran much, much deeper.

“Sergeant,” she said, “you’re taking anchor with me.”

His buy’ce turned towards her, but even reaching out with the Force, she couldn’t understand what she was feeling… what he was feeling, she corrected herself.

“Guess that means it’s you and me, Hamm.” Atiniir said. He double-checked the pressure seal on his helmet and climbed into the light cruiser. Hammer followed almost immediately, and Cal made to go next, gesturing towards the hole as if to say, You’re up.

“Everything good, Commander?”

Naat switched to a private frequency, “I… uh, just wanted to ask, since, you know, we’re about to head into a kind of unknown, deadly situation…”

There was a long pause that Naat stared into the glowing blue commando visor of his green helmet, “Ask me… what?”

“Just… to ask.” She stopped, “if… maybe you had anything you… you know, you wanted to say.”

The wind howled. The trees shook. And something chittered in the distance, “Naa… Commander… I…”

Then a crackle from someone who couldn’t know they were interrupting, “Commander, you’re going to need to see this.”

“Be right there.” Naat said. She looked at Cal one more time, but the glowing blue visor just seemed to stare at her.

She climbed into the hatch and walked down the deck.

Cal followed several long paces behind and closed them in: standard protocol for quarantined ships.

“We’re in the cockpit,” Ujik said. Naat followed the digital trail, taking note of the strange brownish piles of… something on the gangway leading bow-wards.

In the cockpit, she wished they’d stayed on the Yorruro.

A Human skeleton with some kind of red, white, and black growths, still in its Republic Diplomatic Corps uniform, sat strapped into the pilot’s seat, a blaster clutched in its still, fungus-grown hand.

Ujik activated the central console and a holo-recording of a man, presumably the pilot, came up. It was preceded by a blaring, high-pitched noise: a warning signal. The pilot - a dark-skinned Human with short-cropped hair - was panting, “To any Republic personnel who find this, I need to keep this brief. We were transporting a Separatist defector to a secure facility. He was intentionally infected by some… Geonosian thing, but it,” a roar from somewhere or something drowned out the pilot’s voice, “dropped out of a random jump. I’m setting down. Quarantine procedures have been initiated. If anyone finds this, procure inert samples for research, if this gets into a populated cen…” again static and roaring, then the hologram cut out. When it came back, the pilot was still, and bleeding from his forehead, “… managed to touch down on… wherever this is. Reminder to whomever finds this: take back inert samples… can’t afford to risk outbreak to a population center. I was going to try and escape… but, well, I think that time has passed. If anyone finds this, tell the Republic Diplomatic Corps that Lieutenant Starkey Freemantle stood his post. To the end.”

And then he put the blaster to his chest and pulled the trigger.

Naat turned to the skeleton. She carefully moved it, jut to see that he very much did have a hole burned through his ribs, and it extended through the chair behind him.

“Geonosian brain worms?” Ujik asked.

“Never seen anything like this.” Atiniir said, “Certainly nothing that would leave these… growths.”

“This is some gruesome shabla osik,” Ujik said.

“Hammer,” Naat ordered, “pull everything from the databanks. Ujik, grab some samples of this crap. Whatever top-secure container you have. Top, watch Ujik. Cal, Atiniir, head aft and check for survivors. Everyone give me a green light every minute. Meet back in this cockpit in thirty standards. No exceptions.”

Everyone winked an acknowledgement light and broke.

“You’re here with me, Commander?” Hammer asked.

“If you find something,” she said, “I want to see it right away.”

Naat received a steady stream of data onto her wristpad. She skimmed it, using the Spec Ops Brigade’s codes to give her access to some of its most sensitive data.

The Illuminant IV, as the ship they were on was called, picked up its cargo - a Separatist defector - up at Lothal. From there, they traveled Core-ward, heading for a secure facility on Sarapin.

Naat had been to Sarapin with Master Echuu, and decided that she should be thankful she didn’t have to go back there and relive those memories.

But then whatever happened, happened, and Lt. Freemantle scuttled his ship, randomly, in the most extreme coincidence, crashing it on one of the most difficult-to-get-to-on-purpose planets in the Galaxy.

Still, the word Geonosian in his message unnerved them all. If it wasn’t brain worms… what could it possibly be?

“I’ve got their astrogation data.” Hammer said.

“Anything on this Sep defector?”

But as he scanned the databanks, something stirred behind them. Naat whirled, blue blades igniting, slicing through the air.

They hit nothing.

“Load everything on a datastick,” Naat ordered, “We’re getting out of here while we still can.”

It was their fifth check-in.

All lights winked green.

Chapter Text

Chapter 37: MONK

The training facility was flooded with droids and hot light.

It had been less than a month since 1616 was transferred to the Heavies. He had barely had his mind wrapped around the concept when they threw him in with a bunch of brothers he ’d never met, and they were sent into The Box with a bunch of training droids and a lot of chaos.

“Monk!” their Squad Leader shouted at him, “Get the kriff onto that ledge!”

He looked up to the ledge SL was pointing at. With a high-powered rifle, 1616 could, indeed, get up there and provide invaluable support.

Heavies were made to be the shock troops of the front line, but they were still men made of meat covered in metal.

Enough blaster fire could tear through them like any other sap in the Galaxy.

“Monk!” it was another of the Reds, “Get over there! I’ll cover you!”

They called him that because he was quiet.

He felt bad. He didn ’t know any of their names.

Sure as their word, the Reds covered his shebs. When he got to the ledge, he fired down in a rain of fire, knocking heads of droid bodies like shooting womp rats in a bucket.

The Reds advanced as he opened gaps in the droid lines.

They cheered for him, “Yeah, Monk!”

They blasted apart metal chassis, cheering his name over and over again.

Why wouldn ’t they? He was a part of their Squad. It wasn’t Calc, or Czerka, and he was no longer Sixer.

He was in Red Squad. He was Monk.

Zygerria, Erur, Capital City of the Zygerrian Empire

1031 Days after Geonosis

It would be remembered in Erur as the worst night in generations. The greatest, largest slave revolt since the Zygerrian Empire was young.

The masters would remember it with horror, and fear would silence their throats from speaking of those memories. The slaves - from the capital’s streets to the mines of Kadavo - would speak of it as a day “when we learned what it was to be Free.”

But few would recall the Republic’s role, and feven fewer would remember that it was Red Squad that had anything to do with it.

Monk, at least at first, would remember that this was where he acquired his brezak morph.

Morphing other creatures, especially non-sapients, brought with it a whole host of challenges. The creature wanted to emerge, to push aside the conscious unGurlanin in the physical brain that it thought was theirs. This made Gurlanins different from other species of shapeshifters in the Galaxy. Clawdites, for example, shaped their dermic levels like clay. Pluripleqs used light-sensitive cells to change appearance. Gurlanins and unGurlanins used DNA acquired from other carbon-based lifeforms to literally become them.

Almost every Gurlanin in the Galaxy knew how to fly. It was one of the first morphs one acquired: something with wings.

After all, who wouldn’t want to soar the Qiiluran skies?

Brezaks, however, were… weird fliers to say the least. Their “wings” were more suited to gliding than true flying. But the air composition of Zygerria, combined with the heat, allowed them to sort of “surf” the waves of air that bubbled up. The city itself had a variety of structures that made these tasks easier, allowing for brezak riders (slave masters, primarily) to traverse the city whenever they wished: a thing they were unable to do at night in the wild.

After taking down a slave master and his beast, Monk quickly swept in - no one noticed a black-furred creature clambering over the city chaos in the middle of a riot to acquire the DNA of a dead mount.

Actually, the only one who noticed was the surviving slave master. He must have thought the unGurlanin was a vermin come to take a bite of his dead friend. He raised his whip, instinctively, but by then it was too late. Monk morphed into one of the scaly beasts, rising up and stepping over the dead charge, taking the shocked Zygerrian in his toothed mouth and throwing him across the city.

Monk climbed up onto one of the sandstone buildings for a better view of the Erur skyline. The rest of the squad was out there… but he had no way of knowing. He didn’t even have his armor or commlink to ask where they might be.

The challenges of being a shapeshifter who needed to be naked to use his most important arsenal.

He followed the chaos. Red Squad could aid the rioters the best from the rooftops: from there they could take out high-value targets with sniper rifles, play counter-sniper roles, or drop bombs on the enemy, clearing the way for the revolutionaries.

On the other hand, their temperament made them just as likely to be down there in the fighting, with an electro-hammer, baton, or just a vibroblade and whatever blaster they had on hand.

Takkor would have kept a level head.

Zam and Tion, too.

Looking for his Squad would have to take a back seat. They had their rendezvous points. Monk would head there and take out targets along the way.

A riderless brezak was apparently a tempting target for a lot of Zygerrians. He flew to a rooftop with a number of Zygerrian soldiers shooting down into the rioting crowd. His first instinct was to start attacking, but one approached as if to ride him. The brezak in Monk’s brain took over and accepted the Zygerrian as its charge. Monk decided to go with it for just a second. Then they ascended into the sky.

Monk took over, throwing the Zygerrian from his back, grabbing him with a claw, and swinging him, screaming, back onto the roof, where he barreled into his comrades, snapping at least one neck, and throwing a few more over the side.

There were a number of small arms on the roof. Monk grabbed them and dropped them into the riot below. Another was a repeating blaster on a tripod. Monk grabbed the whole thing in two claws and lowered it to the ground.

A male Zeltron in a tunic, with pieces of armor, ran up to him.

“Monk!” he shouted.

Takkor. Monk lowered his head, and the Zeltron touched him affectionately on the snout.

“Good boy,” Takkor said, “Let’s take out some Zyggies, shall we?”

Monk nodded. A few of the rioters, however, had started to question whether or not they should attack the brezak - the beast most associated with the slave masters. Takkor shouted them away, pointing the way towards the Imperial Ziggurat, before mounting Monk, and drawing his weapon.

Monk hadn’t planned on having an actual rider. He “asked” the brezak in his brain to take over and show him how to ride with such a weight on his back. They took to the air, climbing up the nearby buildings, and searching over the skyline.

“Most of the targets are out,” Takkor said, “thing is, we’ve lost contact with Commander Reykal. We received confirmation that he and his team took out at least one target. Though we’re not sure about the others.”

Zam’s target list included the Chiss.

This might be bad.

“Let’s head right to the rendezvous point.”

Monk wanted to ask what about the Reds, but figured Takkor must have already been aware that they would either meet them there, or that they were in the middle of battle formation and probably shouldn’t be bothered.

They reached the rendezvous point: a rooftop restaurant, long abandoned. Chosen for its isolation, and a distinct remote possibility that either the ukhmar keepers or the folks at the space port would be punished for their participation, or lack of informing on the “Mandalorian” insurgents.

They landed there, meeting a Mandalorian in full red and black beskar’gam, and two Clone Heavies dressed in patch work armor.

“Monk?” Bruiser asked.

Takkor slid off his back and onto the ground, “He’s picking off slave master heads from the roofs.”

“Where’s Butcher?” Tion asked, not bothering to double check whether the Zeltron that rode in on Monk’s back was a freed slave, or an unGurlanin in morph.

“Not sure.” He said, putting the blaster over his shoulder, “We lost him once the Temple went up.”

Tion turned back to Rancor, “Check the unit locators for Butcher.”

Rancor nodded and turned away, commlink open.

“What about Zam?” Takkor the Zeltron asked.

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.” Tion said, “Dank ferrik.” She handed her blaster off to Bruiser who took it in hand as Tion opened her datapad and searched for their Jedi Commander’s signal. Monk could see over her shoulder as she widened the search area from quarter to quarter, until all of Erur was covered.

Zam wasn’t in the city.

She hacked into the Zygerrian Imperial commnet and widened the search to the hemisphere… and then the planet.

“Found him, Ti.” Rancor said, “He’s… oh, shebs, he’s having a grand ol’ time smashing Zyggie heads in over at the market.”

“Grab him.” Tion ordered, “Knock him out and take him back to the ship.”

“Shoot my commanding officer?” Rancor said, way too excited about that possibility, “Yes, ma’am!” He flew off in his jetpack towards one of the main slave markets, sniper rifle in hand, and disappeared to a dot and a trail of smoke.

Meanwhile, Tion’s datapad gave her a red X and a signal that nothing was found.

“He’s not here.” She said, almost so quiet they couldn’t hear her.

“What do you mean? He’s not in the city?”

“No.” Tion said, “He’s not on Zygerria.”

She looked up into the night sky.

“Get back to the ship.”

Tion grabbed her blaster and launched into the night sky. Bruiser followed. Takkor gave Monk a look, who lowered his shoulder, and took him for a ride, again.

“Rancor,” Tion called over the comm, “meet us at the ship.”

A green light winked on their HUDs.

The space ports were completely locked down. The Zygerrians were probably freaked out that the slaves might try to escape off-world.

Wouldn’t want that now would we?

They landed on the top of the ship and one-by-one, climbed through the access portal. Takkor and Monk were left on the rooftop of the ship, while the clones gathered inside. Takkor gave Monk a quick kiss on the forehead, “Find somewhere to morph,” he whispered, slipping a commlink into the brezak’s mouth, “Hit me up if you need help.”

Monk flew to the rooftop where he’d stashed his armor and weaponry.

From the air, he saw that the city was no longer a battlefield, but was descending into something worse. Something that was straight butchery.

Slaves fought Masters for freedom. Masters fought slaves for bondage. But between those struggles of righteousness and decadence, there was a great deal of greed: slaves and freedmen looted storefronts and residences. A great deal of folks wanted only to watch this city burn.

And Monk could hardly blame them.

Then there was the score-settling. Masters and freedmen killed freedmen and Masters for some petty disagreement or honor crime. Slaves killed slaves for the same reasons. Entire slave units killed entire slave units, all for some stupidity or another, or perhaps just because now that the fires of rage were burning, they couldn’t be doused.

The smart thing would have been to morph something big and winged and fly the armor and weaponry close to the space port.

Monk morphed, dressed, and ran out into the street. The fighting had mostly moved on to different quarters of the city.

He could, theoretically, make a beeline for the space port without too much of an issue. He could morph the brezak easy enough because he had just acquired it. Morphing things one hadn’t morphed in a while took some time simply because it required calling up DNA sequences that one might not have used in a while.

Monk put on his Mandalorian helmet and started making his way through the streets.

Then he was hit.

The blaster fire came from down the street, away from where the majority of the fighting was.

His attackers drew closer.

Zygerrians.

Zygerrian Assault Forces. Imperial Military.

These weren’t just low-life slave enforcers. These were commandos, made for battle against other trained soldiers. Not just desperate slaves.

Monk tried to pull out his blaster, but it was shot out of his hand. Three Zygerrian soldiers in full armor surrounded him, holding high-powered rifles at him.

“Beskar?” one of them said.

But they didn’t have the moment to analyze it and strip it from his body.

Another Mandalorian warrior in patchwork armor flew off of a nearby rooftop with his electro-hammer, smashing a Zygerrian’s ribcage in, and nearly taking another’s head off.

It gave Monk the extra moment to get up, grab a blaster, and fire under the armor of the nearest attacker, drawn towards trying to take out Bruiser.

Bruiser reached out to try and take Monk’s hand, but two of the soldiers fired at Bruiser. One of the blasts hit his helmet, scoring the durasteel buy’ce, while the other one got lucky, hitting just below the helmet’s rim, and firing through the soft tissue of Bruiser’s neck.

Bruiser fell to the ground. Dead in seconds.

Monk grabbed the hammer and smashed one of them in the head, using the momentum, twirling around, and slicing the other one’s off before he could realize what even happened.

He’d bought the slaves a bit more time on this route towards the center of the city.

But that didn’t matter.

One of his Squad was dead trying to rescue him.

Karabast.

Monk took his jetpack and attached it to his own armor. He hauled Bruiser onto his shoulder and took off, back towards the space port.

He landed on the ship, and took Bruiser’s body inside, laying him out on a slab in the medbay.

An unGurlanin met him in the doorway, “No…”

“He went out to find me?”

“He was worried. I undid the grav-locks and Tion is still trying to pinpoint Commander Reykal.”

“So once we find him, we can leave?” Monk asked. They left the med bay and met Tion in the cockpit, “Any luck?”

Tion didn’t answer. They had expanded the search radius, pinging search signals off of local Republic transponders in deep space, “He’s not on Zygerria,” Tion said, “That’s all I’ve figured out so far.”

Which wasn’t any more information than they had back at the rendezvous point.

Still. There was something Tion seemed to refuse to acknowledge: that Zam wasn’t just dead, but destroyed. He could have been killed and incinerated, his entire body, and the transponder inside, completely atomized.

But he could see the determination on Tion’s face. Or maybe that was just the Mandalorian helmet.

He could certainly feel the vibration of her heart in the Force.

She was going to find him.

And she was going to make anyone who hurt him suffer.

“Call Rancor.” Tion said, “See if he has Butcher.”

“Copy,” Monk said, sitting down in the comms officer’s chair.

“If he has him,” Tion said, “Tell him to meet us in the air. We’re taking off.”

The ship rose into the air, landing gear stowed, and comms from Zygerrian space command tried figuring out who was aboard, and if they were slaves trying to escape. Monk set the cannons to auto-target and their requests for identification were cut short.

Anti-air turrets started firing, and Monk targeted the missiles.

A metallic thump was heard on deck as a jetpack wearing Clone Heavy carrying his comrade landed by the loading dock.

“We still have that explosive ordnance crate?” Tion asked.

Takkor nodded, “Uh… yeah?”

She opened the cargo bay doors and let it fall onto the cursed city.

Monk watched it fall until it was just another blooming explosion below them. By then, they were too far up to tell what it was it hit. He quietly hoped it was something Imperially important.

The Zygerrians deserved it.

Chapter Text

Chapter 38: ALLEN

Yesterday was a good day. One of the best days in his life.

He ’d never forget it.

He was no longer an Apprentice. No longer just Kurta's son. He was a Mandalorian warrior. Like the crusaders of old, he adhered to the six principles of what it meant to walk the way of the Manda.

Allen proved that a day later, too. He had gone out hunting after a night of celebration. He returned now, a brace of wild corets draped over his shoulder.

When he approached the covert, however, there was a strange sensation in the air.

No one would make eye contact with him, even with his helmet off.

Did he miss something? Was there some kind of unspoken necessity to wear his helmet for some … length of time now that he was an officially consecrated Mandalorian warrior?

Atiniir found him, “Uncle is looking for you.”

Allen handed him the corets and made a beeline for the alor ’s vheh’yaim. Inside, he found the old bub’strilli working on an old kad.

“Allen.” He said, “Shut the door.”

Doors only closed in the vheh ’yaim when they didn’t want people to enter: primarily when they needed to shut out the enemy.

“What is it?” he asked. He noticed that his mother wasn’t there in the covert when he arrived. But that wasn’t unusual. Individuals came and went, but the Covert moved as one.

“Your mother.” He said.

Beskar was old. Aged not just from the hard life of a Mandalorian nomad, but from hate. Hate for the Jedi who took his child. Hate for Allen ’s biological grandfather who stole his wife. Hate for the Galaxy which had done him wrong: giving him everything, just to rip it away from him.

“What about her?”

The old man ’s bionic eye turned to him, reflecting crimson light towards Allen.

“She’s gone.”

The word hung there in the air between them, “What, like… she’s dead?”

“No.” He said, “She’s gone. I’ve not spoken to the rest of the Covert yet. But from now on: Kurta Ambros doesn’t exist.”

The word he used carried such a bizarre collection of sounds to it, as if the phonemes in Mando ’a weren’t meant to be put together.

“I don’t understand.”

“She’s cuy’val dar.” He repeated, “Until further notice,” he held up the saber, “she doesn’t exist.”

Hyperspace, AA-9 military transport

1014 Days after Geonosis

The mission was almost over for Krayt Squad. It would be easy for them, Allen thought, they don’t have wives.

They left Arvala-7 as early as possible. Allen didn’t particularly mind. He found Lieutenant Harro to be no less than a scum bag. A guy who saw warrior-hood as a job, not a calling, or a tradition, or a way of life. He was a soldier in the same way that some were mechanics or smugglers.

The ship Harro requested for them was complete with brigs so they could transport the Mandalorians back to Coruscant.

The Mandalorians: i.e. his wife and her comrades.

The brig had individual cells. So they put one Mandalorian each in their own, and then the cortosis battle droid in its own.

Everyone, clones included, wondered why they didn’t just blast the droid and take the parts back for analysis. But the Jedi refused to let them. It wasn’t armed. And it was just a B1 model with a shiny new chassis. So maybe it wouldn’t be that big of a deal.

In the cockpit, Sandstorm and Arya sat in the pilot and copilot’s seats as they took off, passed Tatooine and Geonosis, and took a hard right onto the Corellian Run, taking them past Christophsis and headed straight for Coruscant.

Assuming nothing happened between now and then, they’d be at the capital in a week. Less if the lanes were clear.

Arya set them in shifts in the cockpit, even though Sandstorm offered to take them all.

True, clones could operate with near combat-level capability for days, even weeks, at a time, but it distorted available resources. So Allen wasn’t surprised when Arya told him absolutely not, and that they would stick to her schedule.

Tat took over Allen’s watch. He went down to the brig, opening the door with a simple code. He remembered thinking how that alone felt like overkill. Sure, these were Mandalorian warriors. But they had a handle on the situation.

There were eight cells. They staggered the occupants so that none of them could look directly across the cells and coordinate with someone else, or just reach over past the old-fashioned bars to either side.

Allen left each of them with their helmets. They were defeated and neutralized. No need to insult their honor. That would turn a job lasting the duration of the Clone Wars into something much longer and much more personal.

Both of the Mandalorians his wife worked with, that they had managed to capture, wore white armor. One had an orange trim around her T-visor. The other had a purely white helmet, but her breastplate was a dark forest green. They both had aliik that Allen didn’t recognize.

Then there was Larra. She sat cross-legged in the center of the floor of her cell. Her hands on her knees.

Allen sat down in front of her, removing his helmet, and setting it down next to him.

“Su’cuy, cyar’ika.” He said.

“Su’cuy, yourself.” She nearly growled, “That’s not your helmet.”

“It is, now.” He said, “Long story.”

She exhaled, removing her own helmet, letting her lekku breathe as she shook them free of constriction in the bucket, “So… you were serious?” she took the flask through the bars, and took a deep swig, “You did decide to be a strill for the Jedi.”

“It’s a job,” Allen said, “Don’t pretend like you’re doing anything different.”

She shrugged. Allen wasn’t sure if that was avoiding the issue or acceptance that he had a point.

“Lar,” he said, finding it difficult to take his eyes from her lekku. Kriff, she’s gorgeous. She shook her head, looking off to the side. Allen got a look at her and the way she half-closed her eyes as she thought, “Come on, it’s just a job. You know that.”

“You know Atiniir and Tion both left the Covert after the thing with your mother.”

He sort of knew, “I hadn’t heard details.”

“Beskar was upset.”

“He’s always upset about somthing.” Uncle Beskar was a grouchy, curmudgeonly old shebs b’strili. It had partly to do with the Jedi taking his son years and years ago. This only fed into the Mandalorian’s already potent distaste for the Jedi. Though it was an open secret in the Covert that Beskar’s son, wanted to leave. He wanted to join the Jedi.

And Uncle Beskar had been smarting ever since.

“But why did Tion and Atiniir leave?”

“Well, Beskar supported me. And your mother.”

“That’s not surprising.”

“Of course it’s not.” Larra said, “But Atiniir and Tion thought you might have had a point. And they said so. Beskar almost killed them. So they left.”

“What?”

“What part do you not understand?” She twirled her head towards him, her lekku flying. She was gorgeous when she was angry. Like a valkyrie of ancient legend, she was a warrior goddess. Even though Allen thought she was wrong in this, there was no doubting the righteousness she felt for the cause.

“I mean, Uncle Besk actually attacked Tion and Ati?”

“No, not with anything that could kill them, but he did get upset.”

“And that’s why they left?” Honestly, that was far more understandable. Mandalorians could deal with blaster fire, knife-fights, fist-scraps, and all sorts of physical altercations. Managing conflict without use of arms, well that wasn’t really any Mandalorian’s specialty.

“They decided to find work. And when they returned, they’d hopefully have enough money and experience to take charge of the Covert itself, and keep Beskar off their backs.”

Money was never the Way. It was a tool, like a blaster or a starship, like one’s armor. But it was never the Way. Being battle-tested warriors who could provide for the Covert on their own, however, now that was the Way of Mandalore.

“Huh… I wonder why they never reached out to me.”

“Because they weren’t on your side, they could just see your point.”

“So why didn’t we find them here among your crew?”

“Because they weren’t on my side, either. They could just see my point.”

Allen chuckled. He pulled out his flask and took a drink. He passed it through the bars, holding it out to Larra. She looked up and took it from him.

“To Atiniir and Tion. They were always the most reasonable in the entire Covert.”

“Surprising,” Larra said, “it’s the Foundlings who usually grow up the most passionate. The least capable of seeing reason.”

“Nah,” Allen said, “that’s us. You, me, we’re classic Mandos. Always thinking with our beskar before our heads.”

Larra laughed. It was like the sound of a hammer on beskar: sweet, clear, beautiful.

“I missed you,” Allen said, “cyar’ika, I… I don’t know what to say.”

“Shut up,” Larra said, nearly barking at him, “Look at your armor. White. Cin vhetin. How many tailheads have you been with since you left the Covert?”

He laughed and turned away. When he looked back, she was nearly scowling at him. Her lekku twitched, and she looked kriffing mad.

“Just one.”

“Liar.”

“All right, two.”

“More lies.”

“Fine.” He sighed, “One after every battle.”

“A little reward for yourself?”

“Just physical. Nothing more.”

“Who do you like better you kriffing strill? Togrutas or Twi’leks?”

“Oh, you know me, you’re the only Togruta for me. Besides, Twi’lek’s give better—”

She spat the liquor in his face. Allen surged to the bars, onto his feet. Larra responded in kind - it was an instinctive reaction for both of them - and he reached out and grabbed the collar of her armor, pulling her to the bars. He could taste the alcohol on her breath and smell the sandalwood lotion on her skin. He could practically see the beat of her heart through her lekku, and the ways her eyes dilated as he held her as close as the bars would allow him.

“You kriffing liar.” She said, “You haven’t been with any one, have you?”

“No,” Allen said, as quietly as he could manage, “You have no idea how I feel about you. And you never have.”

“I like thinking of you with other women. Other Twi’lek. Other Togruta.”

“You do?”

“It makes me angry. It makes me want you.”

“Good,” he said. She reached through the bars and put her warm hands on the back of his neck. He reached through the metal and pet her lekku. He could nearly taste her lips.

And then they did.

They kissed, the metal bars of the brig between them, courtesy of the Galactic Republic.

Then his face met the one of the bars more intimately than he wanted.

He felt his belt ripped from his body, and the whole thing fall to the deck as if dropped.

Before he could even bring his hands to his forehead, his vision still spinning with stars and colors, he felt his entire bulk picked up and thrown against a wall.

The door slammed and the key fob locked it shut with a clank.

He managed to finally figure out which way was down and he planted his hands against the floor. A few drops of blood fell down his nose and landed below him. He managed to stand and reached the bars. They were shut tight.

“What are you doing?” he half-shouted.

Larra was already busy unlocking her comrades from their cells, and had thrown one of them the key fob to break out the droid before she returned to her cell, now Allen’s cell, and put a hand on his cheek, “Just a job,” she said.

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her to the bars. She swung her arm around and bashed his forearm with her helmet, “Find me when the War’s over.” She said as he recoiled back.

Then they were gone before he could get back to his feet.

He didn’t bother. There wasn’t any way he could break out of this cell.

But they couldn’t exactly get out of the ship. So… were they going to take it over? Their options were limited.

Especially with a Jedi on board.

They left him his commlink. An oversight.

“Tat, Sandstorm, Czerka, Arya, anybody, they’re free! They escaped!”

“What?” Tat asked. He didn’t sound pleased, and Allen comforted himself with the simple concept that that was how he always sounded.

“They’re free. The Mandalorians have the asset.”

“Dank ferrik.” He wasn’t sure who that was. There was a long moment of silence on the comms… and Allen decided that, well, they broke him out of jail once, what was a second time?

“Also, if anyone wants to let me out of this brig… I’m sort of locked in.”

The door rushed open and Commander Wooy rushed in. She placed her fob against the door’s lock and let Allen out, “What the kriff happened?”

“Are there cameras in here?”

“No.” Arya said.

“Then I have no idea.”

They ran to the other side of the brig and went to open the door, only to find it was locked.

“They locked it from the other side.” Arya said. She reached for her comm and hailed the clones, “Sandstorm, take the helm. Tat and Czerka, I think they’re heading for the engines.”

“Are… are they trying to blow us up?”

“Force dammit.” Arya swore, “No… this isn’t a Mandalorian fight, right? So, Allen, you’re our Mandalorian. What would you do in this situation?”

Excellent question. Not only was he a Mandalorian, but his opponent was his wife. Surely he could figure out her next move in this limited amount of options.

“They’re going to take out the hyperdrive.” He backtracked them bow-ward. We’ll be pulled out of the stream towards whatever gravity shadow is closest, a planet or a star, and once the ship is crippled, they’ll come for us.” On the mid-deck, he opened a weapons’ locker and pulled out a DC-15S. He didn’t mind using the clones’ standard carbines, but what he wouldn’t give for something a little extra.

Arya took her lightsaber in hand. She didn’t ignite either of the blades, but was clearly ready, “We’re pretty tight in here.” She said, “You sure you want to go with that?”

“Trust me.” Allen said.

Arya took her comm, “Tat, Czerka, close quarters. Knife and stick only.”

Green lights.

“Let’s go. We’ll take the upper deck.” Allen led the way belowdecks towards the engine rooms. Before they even made it to the next gangway blaster fire erupted in their direction. It was pretty low-powered by the sound of it. Sidearm fire, mostly.

“Great,” Arya said, “They found weapons.”

“They’re Mandalorians,” Allen reminded her, “They knew exactly where they would be.”

Suddenly the ship shook violently and the blasterfire stopped.

Sandstorm’s panicked, voice reaching over all channels, “Our hyperdrive is offline! No response!”

“How long til we drop out?” Arya asked, holding tightly to the bulkhead.

“Whenever we pass something big enough to pull us out!”

Allen charged the gangway in a quiet moment, firing bursts of fire until he reached a point where he could hunker down and cover Arya’s advance. He took three shots to the face, absorbed by the beskar, and answered in kind.

Where the kriff are those clones?

A vent in the ceiling opened and a clone in dark sandy armor dropped down. Kukhri flashing, had the Mandalorians not been wearing beskar, they’d be lying in pieces on the floor of the increasingly shaking starship.

Arya launched forward, but by the time she had ignited her saber and swung, she was hitting only air.

“Where are they?” She reached up to contact Sandstorm, “Sergeant! Where are they?”

But then the entire ship shook so violently, Allen thought it was about to shatter and they’d be stuck spinning in vacuum and debris.

A starship didn’t decelerate from hyperspace into “regular” space. But it was moving the entire time. Ships decelerated from hyperspace as they approached their destination to better pinpoint the coordinates, and as they did so, their speed transferred to the ship’s momentum as it moved through regular space.

And when those shifts were unplanned, the entire ship shook like a bucking nerf.

Allen fell to the ground, hitting his beskar-covered face. He tasted blood as his teeth clamped down on the edge of his tongue, “Dank ferrik.” He got up and lowered his center of gravity.

“Mando,” Arya shouted, “Now what?”

“The cockpit!” The three of them ran back up the gangway. No way they were going to get the hyperdrive back online given the way things were going at this moment. They’d need to land, which was going to be difficult even if they didn’t have four saboteurs actively trying to kill them.

The entire squad reached the cockpit. Tat closed and locked the door.

No Mandos. No one was shooting at them.

“The kriff?” Allen asked himself, “This isn’t right…”

“Where the shebs are we?” Arya asked, strapping herself into the co-pilot’s seat. The vessel continued shaking, but it was a smoother shake, as the vessel pointed down towards a big, glowing, green-blue ball.

“So there’s good news.” Sandstorm said.

“The planet?”

He nodded, “The bad news is…” Noises reached them through the hull as auxiliary engine systems started shutting down, and not exactly smoothly, these ones.

“We’re going down.”

“Dank ferrik!” Allen reached the door and tried to open it, “They’re not commandeering the ship,” he said, “they’re going to abandon it!”

“How did they know they were crashing us over a planet and not a star or an asteroid?” Arya asked.

“Easy: they didn’t.” Czerka opened the door since Allen kept struggling with his command controls, and Allen led the path down the gangway.

A shiny round ball landed and rolled at his feet.

A hand grabbed Allen and pulled them both to the ground just before they were engulfed by fire and force.

Czerka took the lead, chasing their grenade-launching attackers down the gangway towards the cargo bay.

“So they’re just going to drop the droid out the cargo bay?” Arya unstrapped herself and headed aft.

“Yes!”

“So they might have recovered their jetpacks?”

“Maybe? Who kriffing cares?” Tat and Czerka went through the lower access to reach the cargo bay, while Arya and Allen stayed top-side. Allen at least made some sense with his carbine. The kriff was Arya planning on doing? Throwing her lightsaber?

From the scaffolding that overlooked the cargo bay, Allen took aim. The Mandalorians managed to trash the cargo in the bay to set up plenty of cover. Allen took aim, but the enemy wasn’t even bothering with him.

Figures. He was wearing beskar. And so were they. Unless one of them got lucky, they weren’t going to be hitting much.

He saw Larra reach back to the controls by the door. She opened the panel and started splicing the wires.

“She’s going to open the door!” Arya stood up on the scaffolding and reached out with both hands. The enormous crates they were using for cover started moving. One of them began sliding right for Arya…

… just as she got the bay doors open. All of the air in the room began escaping. They had only hit upper atmo, and the pressure difference might as well have been opening a pressurized seal in vacuum.

Allen was nearly knocked off the scaffold. Arya fell, landing onto the deck, rolling, and planting her feet as she grabbed Tat and Czerka, giving them enough time to find their footing.

Noone could hear anything as the air roared around them like a torrent. Arya pointed to the asset, the cortosis-covered battle droid, which crouched behind one of the crates. Larra followed Arya’s arm.

The Krayts’ job was to secure the asset. The Mandalorians’ was the same.

Larra shot the droid with her whipcord, sending it out around the B1’s chest, and she whipped it over the edge of the loading bay.

Arya shot forward, reaching out one hand as the whipcord released, and the droid fell out of this planet’s troposphere and into the lower atmosphere. Allen jumped down onto the shaking deck, trying to cover Arya from the Mandalorians who all turned to her.

Tat and Czerka got to her first.

The one with the dark green breastplate managed to kick Tat’s leg out from under him and went to strike him in the face with her vambrace.

The other one Allen shot in the unarmored back of her leg, causing her to fall, and hang onto a hinge as she started to slide out of the starship.

Allen could see that Arya was holding onto the droid with her Force abilities. It followed like a puppet being pulled on an invisible string as the ship crashed planet-ward.

Larra reached Arya, and pulled out a small electro-shock device.

Before she could hit Arya with it, Czerka’s gaderffii stick smashed it from her hand and it fell into oblivion. Larra blocked another blow, took one on the arm, and then hit Czerka in the face, sweeping his leg, making him crash to the bay floor.

His body slid down the loading bay, and he fell.

Arya reached out her other hand. The wind whipped at her hair, her robes, her entire body struggled to stay aboard, and her mind focused solely on the two charges at the end of her invisible ropes.

Allen tried to help. He reached forward to shoot Larra with the whipcord, drag her back aboard, and maybe Arya could save both the asset and Czerka.

But he was two seconds too late. Larra’s foot impacted Arya’s back.

Then the Jedi - and the droid and the clone - were gone.

The whipcord made contact. Allen pulled her aboard.

“Brace for impact!” Sandstorm’s voice called over all channels.

The ship crushed a dozen things beneath it - tree tops or stone structures or houses or bodies - it didn’t matter. The ship lost speed but kept flying like an oversized bullet into whatever destination lay at the end of this route.

Larra said something, but he couldn’t hear.

There was a crashing explosion. Then the ship stopped very suddenly.

Eerything went dark.

Chapter Text

Chapter 39: ATINIIR

Mesa gonna go straight to da hells before mesa sit here and watch this Galaxy be turnin' over to dees’n savages! Mesa done. Mesa mui mui bombad angry. And mesa not puttin’ up with it no more! Let mesa tell yousa something, yousa filthy back-stabbers in da Senate, you Bantha-pudu. Yousa the most crazy, karabast, Sith-spit people, mesa see’n in da whole Galaxy. Yousa wanna grabben dis’n Republic, and dis’n Galaxy, and all dees’n pieces a’ civilization, da whole jewel in da crown of freedom, and peace, and security that has eva’ been! Yousa people wanna sacrifice da Galaxy! Yousa wanna kill da beautiful lady that is our Republic of liberty! Yousa da enemies. And wesa, and unsa boys in da white, dey’sa gonna bombad blast you! Wesa know what yousa up to. And wesa comin’!

- The Jar Jar Binks Experience, Holonet Transmission, 27.10.3633

Kenari, downed Republic diplomatic light cruiser Illuminant IV

1019 Days after Geonosis

They’d opened practically every door between the cockpit and the engines, and so far encountered nothing but empty rooms, the odd bone, and occasionally weaponry.

And all over the place there were these weird piles of brown, fungal muck.

“This is grotesque.” Cal said.

“Don’t need to tell me,” Atiniir said, “Ask me, I think we’ve learned everything we can about this place. Mission accomplished.”

“I don’t think it works like that.”

“I’m not asking you to be insubordinate,” Atiniir said, “I’m just saying, you’ve got all the information you need as the Squad Leader, no?”

“No.” Cal said, “I’d check all the rooms for possible survivors. So, exactly what the Commander told us to do.”

“I saw you two hang back there.” Atiniir said.

“I was ordered to.”

“All right,” Atiniir said, “I’ll lay off.”

He didn’t know what else to say at that moment. He wasn’t even all that certain about how he felt about Naat and Cal either.

“I just…” Cal double-checked his link to make sure they were on a private channel, “There’s something I don’t get.”

“Tell me.”

“I’m a clone. So I don’t know osik about femmes. Or relationships in general. But aren’t they supposed to be one masc and one femme? I mean… you like the Commander. So if you’re going to be with her… you get to be with her, and that means I can’t be with her. Right? Or if I… then you… can’t?”

Atiniir lowered his weapon and turned towards Cal, “Vod,” he said, reaching out a hand to his pauldron, “I promise you, no matter what, I will never impede whatever weird, awkward, not a relationship that you and Naat have.”

Cal looked back at him and then moved on to the next room.

“Besides,” Atiniir said, “That’s not really how relationships work.”

“It’s not?”

“No. It’s a big Galaxy. Relationships come in all different shapes and sizes. In our Covert, sure, monogamy was the norm. But on Zeltros, monogamy is so rare it’s like a myth.” Atiniir picked his weapon back up and went to clear the next room.

“Mo-no-go-my.” Cal said, rolling the word around in his mouth, “What… ah, what is that, exactly?”

“That’s the practice of two partners who only ever see each other. Who’ve decided to exclusively be in a relationship with each other.”

“So that’s where if you and Naat were together, that I wouldn’t have the opportunity to be with her.”

“Exactly. Otherwise, she’d be breaking my trust, and our relationship would have to change.”

“So there are relationships that are not mo-no-gamee?”

“That’s right. On Zeltros, non-monogamy is basically how all relationships function, but there is an enormous variety of them, each with their own term in the language.”

“What would you call a relationship with three people? Tri-gomee?”

Atiniir laughed, “Probably not. I’d just refer to that as a triad, though. And it could be open or closed. On Zeltros, they’re almost all open.”

“What does that mean?”

“Closed means all three involved are only involved with each other. Open means they can see people outside of the triad.”

“Oh. What about four? A Qua-…ad?”

“I think at four that’s just a Group Relationship. And different connections inside of it can be open or closed.”

“So you could have four or five people in a ‘Group Relationship,’ and their individual connections could be different?”

“Absolutely. So take our situation here. Say you and I both ask Naat out. Well, I asked her out. And then she asked you out. Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Say we’re now in a relationship. The three of us.”

“A triad.”

“Exactly. Say that’s what we are now. Just hypothetically. Naat would be our pivot point, like a hinge, and you and I would both be in relationships with her. Now, you and I don’t necessarily have to have anything more than a friendship. Now, if you and Naat want to be exclusive-ish, as in, you only see each other, and Naat only sees me as her other partner, you can do that. But if Naat and I want to be open, as in, we both agree to see other people but maintain our relationship, we’re still a triad, but our individual connections are distinct.”

“But if you and Naat agree to be open, but Naat and I agree to be closed…”

“Then the relationship is closed. Though you’d be making an exception for me. That said, if you and Naat decided to open things up again, maybe you catch someone’s eye and want to explore, or she does, then her relationship with me wouldn’t require additional negotiation, that’s just between you two.”

Cal was silent for a long while, and took the opportunity to open a door and scan the room.

“You getting it?”

“It’s like how you’re in our Squad, but not in our Squad… but not not in our Squad.”

“Uh… sure. If that helps you understand it.”

“You say on Zeltros, no-mo-no-gamee is considered normal?”

Atiniir tried not to laugh about how he said it, “Non-monogamy, yes.”

“Is that because Zeltrons are all kind of sluts?”

If Atiniir had a drink in his mouth, he would have spit it out. Clones, given their extremely limited social interactions, could be quite blunt at times. But Atiniir had never thought the phrase ‘from the mouths of younglings’ ever applied so aptly, “All right, for future reference, that word is kind of… frowned upon. And other people could take it the wrong way.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“No, no worries. Some people kind of like it, but always ask first.”

“Gotcha.”

“Also, yes, that’s… that’s kind of exactly why. If you designed a species for non-monogamy, you’d get pretty close to Zeltron biology. I mean, basically all Humanoid species are biologically non-monogamous if left to their own devices, but Zeltrons are particularly so.”

“Like how?”

“Well,” Atiniir said, reaching for a door that refused to open for the quarantine code, “Hold on.” He opened the panel and plugged in a slicing data stick Hammer had given him.

The door opened, with Cal’s weapon trained on the room’s interior.

“Zeltron eggs have a ‘composite sperm’ function, which allows multiple sperms to penetrate the egg, mix, and contribute to the DNA of the fetus. Studies have shown that Zeltrons with multiple biological fathers are statistically healthier, stronger, live longer lives, and are less susceptible to diseases, including genetic conditions.”

“Wow.” Cal said, genuinely surprised, “I had no idea.”

“I’m guessing that information wasn’t terribly relevant in your xenobiology classes.”

“Probably not.”

“And that doesn’t even get to the whole pheremones thing.” Atiniir said. He and Cal stepped into the room and swept it with their blasters, “Zeltron society solves a lot of its problems with sex. This is why it’s a tourist destination for so much of the Galaxy.”

“Everything we hear about it makes it sound like paradise.” Cal said.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Atiniir said, “Zeltros has plenty of problems. And while they use sex for basically everything, that doesn’t mean that Zeltros is perfect where it comes to sex, relationships, or any of that. Those pheremones have a real dark side, too. That’s why there was a Great War I, II, and III.”

As Atiniir said three, his blaster scanned to the right on a small pile of bones covered with that brown, thick, muck. There was something that appeared like a hand. Perhaps from the pile of bones left behind? But it looked far less decayed than the others. In fact, if anything, it looked overgrown.

Then it moved: turning towards Atiniir and Cal like some kind of ghostly arachnid. Moving, tentacle-like fronds seemed to sniff the air for the new-comers. And the open, fleshy wound, oozing a white-black pus turned towards them.

In a flash, the… thing, leaped into the air right for Atiniir’s face.

And just as quickly, Cal pulled out his vibroblade and threw it at the creature.

The knife tore through the hostile, slamming its “body” with such force that it sunk to the hilt and nailed it into the wall of the ship.

“Dank ferrik.” Atiniir said, “Thanks, vod.”

“Don’t mention it.”

The blade didn’t seem to bother the moving hand as much as it seemed like it should. It would have absolutely killed an arachnid leaving it in a panicked, twitching state against the wall. But this thing, this… hand, while it did seem panicked, with the object nailing it to the wall, it didn’t seem to be losing any of its liveliness.

Cal and Atiniir both got close.

It was definitely a hand. Something Near-Human, clearly. Five fingers. Opposable thumb. Overgrown with some kind of fungus. It moved like an insect, however. The growths seemed to be sensory, moving in the directions of stimuli - in this case, the two armored helmets and their lights that were getting closer to it.

“What is that?” Atiniir said.

“It’s definitely not inert.” Cal answered.

“Fair enough.” Atiniir stepped back, “Remove the vibro blade on three and I’ll hit it with my flamethrower.”

“Copy.”

Atiniir counted to three. Cal removed the blade and the hostile sunk to the floor. Before it could hit the ground running, Atiniir burned it until he heard pops.

“For the record,” Atiniir said, “I hate this mission.”

The clone barely seemed fazed by it, “Are there any Zeltrons that are mo-no-gamus?”

“A few.” Atiniir said, “They tend to live in isolated communities. And Zeltrosian psychologists will say that there is a high tendency of Zeltrosian monogamists with a kind of narcissistic psychopathy. That the desire to control and own is highly correlated with monogamy. Among Zeltrons. Our culture as a whole promotes non-monogamy. Mascs and femmes are taught about sexual agency from a young age, and our society promotes a lot of functions that would encourage that. There are some subcultures and isolated communities that prefer otherwise, though.”

They left the room, after making sure there was nothing left of the hostile hand but ash, and closed the door.

“How does this all fit with you being a Mandalorian?”

“Well Mandalorians have just as many relationship styles as Zeltrons. We just favor different ones.”

“And you said your Covert is mostly monogamy.”

“Because it is. But that doesn’t mean everyone is monogamous. Just that it’s the norm.”

“So some people break their relationships?”

“Unfortunately, all the time, yes.”

“Have you?”

“When I was younger. Back when I was having trouble reconciling being both Zeltron and Mandalorian. I mean… having more trouble.”

Truth be told, Atiniir still felt bad about that. Back when he was fourteen, breaking his first girlfriend’s heart because he couldn’t keep his hands off of that Lorrdian boy’s body.

… and then breaking that Lorrdian boy’s heart because Iorna Klattov “accidentally” removed her beskar’gam in the “wrong” yaim after “too much” tihaar.

After that, he vowed never to let anyone get that close to him without knowing that this was very much a possibility. That he was still a Zeltron. Still a wild animal. And that if he couldn’t tame himself, then no one else ever truly could.

Good thing he had Tion. She was the best sister a guy could ask for to help him get out of jams.

Cal was silent for a long time as they descended the gangway towards the ship’s rear, “Do you think us clones will ever reconcile being both clones and…”

Atiniir sensed he was going to say Mandalorian. But free every clone today, and not all of them would choose to walk the Way. Sure, the Epsilons probably would, as would most if not all of the Nulls, Alphas, and Commandos, but there were quite a few who were trained by Tuskens in desert warfare, and Mon Cala in ocean warfare, and even Corellian engineers, to say nothing of all those who just felt Mandalorian in the academic sense: their genetic “father” Jango Fett was one, but they received barely anything from him other than a DNA base model.

But as the saying went, family was more than blood.

“Commander,” Cal said, “We’ve reached the engines.”

Naat winked them a green acknowledgment light.

“Being both clones and whatever you choose to be afterwards?” Atiniir finished for him.

Cal turned his helmeted head towards Atiniir’s. Sure, katarn Commando armor wasn’t exactly like beskar’gam. Maybe if one squinted, it looked a lot like a Mandalorian Heavy’s, but that glowing blue T-shaped visor was made very much to feel Mando through-and-through.

The Epsilons were trained by Kurta Ambros. Atiniir’s aunt, sort of. Assuming they got out of this War alive and found her, she’d no doubt welcome them into the Covert.

Then Atiniir wouldn’t just be calling him vod as a term of affection.

“I do.” Atiniir said.

Cal opened the door to the engine room.

The doors slid apart and they weren’t prepared for what was on the other side.

Inside the room holding all of the ship’s engine access points, where energy from the beating heart of the ship leaked slowly out of the cracked core casings, a throbbing, heaving, pulsing mass of organic matter huddled around any opening they could find. Their orifices, from top to bottom, entirely open to the openings of the engine core, consuming the crumbs of energy that slipped out of the slowly dissipating source.

But when Atiniir and Cal opened the door, the mass of organic matter wasn’t a single organism: more than a dozen heads - Twi’lek ones, Human ones, Sullustans, Ithorians, and others - turned toward the source of the sudden change in air pressure.

Every single one of them was wounded, and overgrown with those bizarre, black, green, and white overgrowths.

Their dead, empty eyes looked at the Mandalorian and the clone with a hunger living organisms could never imagine.

The ship core was not enough to sustain them.

In due time, they’d finally die. Again.

Unless they had fresh meat.

The horde turned to them, and unleashed towards the opening like a torrent.

Cal unleashed with his deece, nearly emptying his blaster into the opening just as Atiniir pulled back and slammed his fist on the door’s closing mechanism.

The horde slammed against the blast door, and Atiniir could swear he felt the whole ship shake.

“Commander!” Atiniir called on the comm, “We have a huge problem. Multiple hostiles. Possibly hundreds of them back here against the engine access points.”

“Come again?” Naat responded almost immediately.

“Commander,” Atiniir said, “we need to get the kriff off this ship. Find some way to burn it before someone or something else stumbles on it and figure out how to bring this osik off world.”

“Where are you?”

But by then, there were scraping, clawing, and other noises all around them. Whatever they were, they were crawling through the ventilation shafts, and whatever other systems they could find that led them out of their quarantine-within-a-quarantine.

“We’re by the engine room, but we’re about to be overrun.”

“Get out of there!” Naat shouted at both of them, “That’s an order. Abort mission and get out, now. All units!”

Atiniir didn’t have to be told twice. He and Cal started running bow-wards just as the walls opened and the enemy - whatever they were - emerged. A demented, diseased, very dead Twi’lek lunged after him, followed by the rest.

Atiniir and Cal both removed thermal detonators from their belts and tossed them behind. When they reached the secondary deck, Cal slammed his fist against the controls, closing the blast doors behind them, slicing one of the… the things in two.

Atiniir emptied an entire energy pack into the still-moving half-body of whatever it was.

Chapter Text

Chapter 40: CAL

Mesa need ’n to say to all da’ scum and all the da’ Separatists: yousa gonna lose aaaallll yousa jobs soon. Da’ whole mainstream media’sa dyin’. Wesa gonna be in a huge-o depression. Yousa gonna be livin’ in yousa momma’s basements. And mesa hope yousa little fake, Galactist cult yousa has das’ total Sith-spit, mesa hope it keeps yousa warm at night, cause’n das aaalll yousa gonna have. Oki-day? I jus’ hope yousa understandin’ dat’.

- The Jar Jar Binks Experience, Holonet Transmission, 03.01.3634

Kenari, downed Republic diplomatic light cruiser Illuminant IV

1019 Days after Geonosis

Few clones decided their own manner of death. Cal remembered hearing about Hardcase, how he disobeyed orders on Umbara to steal one of those weird shadow-people crafts, then triggered a weapons system to blow up their base.

But he was the lonely exception to the rule.

Clone Troopers didn’t decide how they died. They performed a mission, and if they were smart, skilled, and at least a bit lucky, they got to go on the next one. Or get discharged to a desk somewhere like Lucky, to perform the duties that could easily be done by a protocol droid for a fraction of the cost.

So if the clones had a philosophy about death, something which might come about in the near future if there were enough clones left for a philosopher to develop out of one of them, then it might be built upon the randomness of chance, and how with training, experience, and a great deal of providence, death could be staved off for a time.

All that on his mind, Cal was very adamant that today was not the day he kriffing died.

And not at the hands of these hutuunla things.

Something was slamming its fists against the gangway blast doors.

“Hamm,” he called on his comm, “Reseal the bulkheads. Close out ventilation, QPS2.”

The various Quarantine Procedure Stages were for different levels of quarantine problems. Stage 2 meant to increasingly secure parts of the ship that might be problematic to bring back online. Apparently, Lieutenant Freemantle had only initiated QPS1, sealing the ship from the outside world. QPS2 meant that the ship was going to be increasingly hazardous inside of itself.

Which made sense.

Those things were now spreading.

He tried not to judge Freemantle. The man had enough problems: a blaster through his heart as he tried to stop an outbreak of some kind of fungal infection from spreading across the Galaxy being one of them.

“Hamm?” But there was no response from the endpoint. Not even a light.

Then Naat came on the comm. He could hear at least one of her lightsabers humming in the background. She sounded out of breath. Her voice was pitched and she was audibly tense, “Hamm’s gone.” She said. And then repeated it, as if she wanted to make sure they understood, “He’s gone.”

Cal didn’t say anything. He just stood there for a long moment.

“Vod,” Atiniir said, “We need to move.”

Cal winked a green light and followed Atiniir.

Hammer was his brother.

But he was a professional. A soldier. They had to move.

“The original access hatch,” Naat said, “all units make it back there. We’ll seal it from the outside again.”

They were less than five minutes from making it to that point, but the walls were literally closing in. Those things kept trying to break out of the vent openings, but they were too small to let any but the smallest pieces of them through: severed hands, feet, even jaws that grew tendril-like legs, and hair-like feelers came out and crawled towards them with blinding speed. Cal and Atiniir both shot them apart as they came at them.

They were fragile, whatever they were, but they were also incredibly fast. A great deal of energy blasts were wasted missing them.

Other than that, it was just hands and arms coming out of the vents to try and grab them while the other parts of the horde looked for bigger openings.

Or tried to make them.

“Uj, Top, report.” Cal called, as he followed Atiniir up into the top deck.

Two red light lit up Cal’s HUD.

“Karabast.” Cal swore.

Once his foot cleared the top deck, Atiniir tossed two more thermal detonators down below and sealed the door.

They waited just a second for the boom. Then there was a sudden silence, as if they had all decided that this lunch wasn’t worth it.

Atiniir switched to a private channel, “Look, vod, we’re one man down. Honestly, it could be me, you, or both of us before we get off this shabla rock. So I’m going to promise you this: I make it off, I’m making a move.”

Cal stared at the T-shaped visor, “What?”

“I’m saying something.” He said, “To Naat.”

All of a sudden, the infected whatevers down there didn’t seem so scary to Cal, “Oh.”

“Promise me,” he said, “you make it out of here alive… you’re going to say something, too.”

Cal didn’t know what to do or say… so he just nodded his head. His blue visor bounced a little, the glow moving on Atiniir’s face.

“Good.” Atiniir said, “Now we need to come up with a kriffing plan.”

“The plan’s to get everyone out of here alive.” Suddenly, Naat Reath, two lit, blue lightsabers in her hands, ran towards them, dropped to a crouch, and doused her sabers, “Uj and Top. We need to get them. I’m not leaving without them.”

“What about these… things?”

“Kenari’s hard to get to, right?” Atiniir said, “We get everyone out, we tell the Republic what happened, they quarantine the planet. Anyone whose ship logs say they came near here gets impounded, their HS license revoked.”

“You seriously think that would work?” Naat asked, in a tone that suggested Atiniir knew it wouldn’t, “It’s a fungus. It only takes one spore to get off planet. And as long as treasure hunters keep looking for this place, it still has a chance of getting off-world.”

“Then what?” Atiniir said, “We tag it, quarantine the ship, come back with a bigger team?”

“No,” Cal said, “I know what I have to do.”

“What you have to do?” Atiniir asked.

“We need fire. A lot of fire.”

“The Ketriffee’s just a shuttle,” Naat said, “It’s got no weaponry. No firepower at all.”

“I wasn’t supposed to be a Republic Commando,” he said, “I was originally designated as a Demolitions Expert. I can blow up anything.”

“So what’s your plan, here?” Atiniir asked.

“I’m going to go back to the engine room. I’ll rig it to explode.”

“You think there’s enough energy in that core?”

“It’s leaking,” Cal said, “damage from the crash. But I can rig it to blow all at once. It’ll be like an old-fashioned nuclear weapon.”

Those kinds of weapons had been banned for centuries. But they weren’t making an atomic bomb, they were merely replicating one for the sake of burning through an infectious disease before it could spread across the Galaxy.

“What do you need from us?” Naat asked.

“Call the Wookiees. Get everyone out of here.” Cal said.

“But… you…” Naat looked at him - at his glowing blue visor - as if he wasn’t coming back.

“I have to have access to the engines.” Cal said, “I can’t do something like this remotely. Not with the ship in this state.”

They both struggled to say anything. Finally, Atiniir said, “What tools do you need?”

“None.” Cal said, “Everything I need will be down there.”

“Give me your pack, then.”

Cal didn’t question the Mandalorian, just took off his equipment pack and handed it to him. Atiniir removed his jetpack and handed it to the clone.

“An explosion like that, we’ll need to get the shuttle as far away as possible. But if it’s that tight, you’ll need to use this to get away if we can’t extract you. Promise me you’ll put that on a timer?”

Cal affixed the pack to the back of his armor, “I’ll do my best.”

Atiniir grabbed Cal’s wrist. Cal grabbed his back, “Oya, vod.”

Cal nodded.

He couldn’t look at Naat.

If this was goodbye, then he couldn’t say it.

“Commander.” He stood and turned to the ship’s stern.

“Sergeant,” Naat said, “Come back alive. That’s an order.”

He nodded and started running.

Cal shut off his outgoing comms and turns the volume on the incoming down. They were off extracting their brothers from belowdecks, calling the Yorruro back, and getting out of there.

The things seemed to find the larger concentration of lifeforms more of an appealing target. Cal understood it to be both the biomass potential as well as the propensity to feed off of them.

They came for him as singles.

He fired single, charged shots through their center masses first, and when the body kept coming for them, through their heads… if they still had them.

As he approached the engine’s upper decks, the top two-thirds of a Twi’lek head with seven jointed legs coming out of its upper jaw, crawled towards Cal.

He shot it, succeeding in only breaking the lekku off, and then slammed his katarn boot on it, breaking the softened, fungoid-infected skull, before removing his boot and firing on the pieces.

He reached the upper deck and saw a few small infected things scattered around the room.

Worried at first about how he was going to get down there and rig this things to blow without getting overrun by the things, he realized he had a Mandalorian’s jetpack.

Cal ignited the thrusters and hovered over the port engine’s output channel. The things were clearly drawn towards the energy output, but weren’t clear about how to get up there. This section wasn’t meant for sentients to climb up on except with specialized maintenance equipment.

Cal spliced into it with his comm and closed the shaft. His indicator on the engine’s output bumped a little. Energy was piling up. If the engine stopped idling and turned on, the other two thrusters were going to have to pick up the output.

He jetpacked over to the central shaft and did the same. Only this time, he had to tear through an Ithorian’s severed hand crawling up the shaft like an insect, and then try to jump from the shaft to Cal’s face. He stabbed it through with his vibroblade and shook the thing off of his wrist and down towards the core.

Splicing through this one took only half the time. When he closed it, the output spiked again as the remaining thruster took the rest of the idling output.

Cal took the jetpack to the remaining thruster shaft, but was intercepted by a body, leaping from the scaffolding to slam against Cal and bring him down.

Cal drew his sidearm and fired a half-dozen rounds through the infected’s body. He went to aim for the head, finding that the thing had none, and only sensory, frilly tendrils crept out of the opening, aiming for Cal’s face as if they could remove his helmet and go down his throat.

If Cal could think of anything scarier than confessing to Naat Reath how he felt about her, it was becoming one of these things.

Still falling, Cal drew his vibroblade and started punching the thing’s body. He’d got in four or five cutting blows just before they both impacted the bulkhead. Cal took a more precise swipe at where the thing’s arm connected to its body, cutting it off entirely and freeing him at least partly from the monster’s grasp.

He fired his deece into the thing’s center mass, lost his grip on the thrusters, and they both fell to the deck.

Cal didn’t wait to see if the thing would get back up. He leaped into the air, fired his thrusters, and jumped back onto the top maintenance terminal. He closed the shaft, and the energy spiked exponentially. On a long enough timeline - say in a few days if not weeks - the idling core would build up enough energy and the ship would start exploding. Piece-meal, in bits an drabs.

But those things would have time to escape as the ship’s parts breached Freemantle’s quarantine.

Cal picked a landing zone by the primary engineering terminal, cleared it of the infected from a safe spot in the air, and quickly spliced into it.

He turned the engine from idling to on. The energy rose and a klaxon blared about a dangerous build-up of energy with nowhere to go.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Cal said, to the machine, if it was possible that she was listening, “but that’s kind of the point.”

The only issue with all of this, other than the simple fact that Cal was now sitting on top of the engines of a ship that would soon develop into a nuclear weapon in the next…

He checked the build up and did a quick calculation: few minutes.

… was that pretty much every infected in the downed light cruiser now sensed the build up.

Might as well hang a serve yourself sign around his neck.

The engine would go. He didn’t need to do anything else. Cal had to trust that Atiniir got Naat, Uj, and Top out of there.

Now, he had to get the kriff out of there.

Cal jet off towards the engines again. There was a way off this ship that wasn’t affected by the Quarantine Procedures like the escape pods and maintenance shafts were: the very engines he had closed off.

He landed on top of the central output shaft once more. As he broke into the maintenance access panel, a half-dozen of the things leaped towards him. Cal leveled his blaster… but they weren’t interested in him. The core’s energy was overloading far faster than he’d expected in real time, and why bother with Cal, whose energy they’d need to drain out of him and process, when they could simply absorb the raw stuff from the nice warm source of it all below.

Good.

But.

Bad.

Real bad.

Cal blasted the panel open. He thought about shutting it to prevent them from following his escape. But they weren’t following him.

The exhaust shaft quickly opened into the bell-shaped cone of the light-cruiser’s exhaust. He started running and as soon as he got his footing, ignited the jetpack again.

He wasn’t watching the timer. Couldn’t imagine watching the timer. Cal scanned the sky for the Yorruro. Had they gotten away? Did they make it out?

It was a lot of sky. And his search was suddenly interrupted. The sky suddenly grew dark like twilight.

Cal’s body was thrown forward. He cut the thrusters. He was over the neighboring mountains, but he was soon just over a flattened landscape. He could still see. That was good. He could still breathe. That meant he wasn’t on fire.

He had only just managed see that he was right there by the coastline, just above the beach, when his whole body - katarn armor and beskar jetpack included - hit the seas of Kenari. And at that mass, that speed, that altitude, and that density, hitting water like that was like landing on solid concrete.

The gel layer of Cal’s armor took most of the impact.

But the electronics fried and blacked out.

The last thing Cal remembered was the light of the Kenari sun shimmering above the water.

No cables. No gurney. Nothing.

But he rose.

Perhaps it was the armor, deploying some kind of floating device that Cal forgot about.

Rivulets ran over his visor as the tension broke.

A blocky, asymmetrical Wookiee-built ship hovered over him, eclipsing the sun.

The deck bays were open and someone was reaching out to him.

Chapter Text

Chapter 41: NAAT

A sharp spike through the neck.

No one could survive that.

There wouldn’t even be enough time to get him to a bacta tank.

Hammer was gone.

His only hope was the thing would release him, and he would fall directly into one. A bacta tank, that is.

But this ship had nothing of the sort.

Naat blamed herself.

She missed it.

These things, they didn’t feel like anything in the Force she’d felt before. There was no consciousness, no living, breathing, entity. That wasn’t entirely true. They were alive.

But all they felt was hunger. Drive. Impulse. A need to feed feed feed.

Something that she had just interpreted as her own fear. A creepy feeling that just felt like she was being watched, overwhelmed by the strange, mysterious nature, in a world where death could come at quite literally any moment.

But then it happened.

It stabbed through Hammer ’s throat. The thing lifted him up by the back of his neck. Hammer’s hand grabbed at it. The thing opened its gaping maw, clearly intending to drop the clone - katarn armor and all - inside of its mouth full of hundreds of teeth, and an energy-absorbing tongue.

Once the initial panic subsided, Hammer ’s commando instincts took over. He removed two thermal detonators from his belt and armed them. With his other hand, still clutching the spike through his throat, he tapped out a message in code to Naat in red lights.

R U N

Naat doused her lightsabers and ducked behind the nearest bulkhead.

An explosion. A roar of fire. Silence. When she emerged, Hammer and the thing were both gone. She stepped on something in the haze of smoke and darkness. She picked it up: a shard of katarn, with the glowing T-shape visor fading to black.

Kenari System, modified Kettrifee shuttle Yorrurro

1020 Days after Geonosis

She wouldn’t feel totally comfortable until they were as far away from this planet as possible. But before she would give the go ahead for the Yorruro to jump into hyperspace, she needed to perform a bit of surgery.

Cal and Ujik, the only two clones to survive Kenari, were both in individual infirmaries that formed parts of the prefab rooms the Wookiees had prepared in the Ketriffee’s cargo bay.

She was nearly certain that Cal would be fine. The IM-6 was busy scanning him, but the most likely issues he faced were impact trauma from being blown by a nuclear-level explosion and hitting the sea at a velocity that would be terminal to a non-modified being not wearing armor built for that sort of thing.

Honestly, she was probably equivocating. Cal should be dead.

She closed the door. Ujik’s helmet laid on its side next to the table. He was still dressed entirely in katarn, but on the right side of his neck, the black underarmor suit was torn and his olive-toned skin underneath was showing, along with the dried blood, Human flesh, and the chitinous, black leg of one of those things.

“How bad does it look, doc?” Ujik asked.

“Honestly,” Naat sat down in a hover stool and pulled it forward to get a closer look at Ujik’s neck, “I’ve seen a lot worse.”

“I’ll bet.” Ujik said.

Naat turned his head to the left and she peeled back the black suit. It was wet with broken impact gel, blood, sweat, and fluid that she didn’t want to think about.

She pulled out a jar from the cabinet. It was filled with sealant carbonite fluid. The leg - appearing so much like something insectoid - didn’t appear to move, or have any life in it. But completely inert it needed to be before they transported it to Coruscant. So she dropped it in the jar and waited for it to sink to the bottom. The carbonite fluid would keep it stored. And they had a cabinet which would freeze it - completely stopping all cellular activity if any remained - until they got to Coruscant where it could be safely unfrozen and examined.

Ujik flinched at the removal of the alien part, “I had more fun on Drongar, truth be told.”

“I think we all did,” Naat said. She went back to examining his neck and saw the raw wound, “I’m going to try to cut out as much of it as I can.”

“With your lightsaber?”

Naat almost laughed, “If we were in the middle of nowhere, maybe. But we’re in a fully-stocked medical suite. I’m going to use a scalpel.”

“Fine, if you want to do it the easy way. I mean, worst case scenario with the saber, you just take my head off.”

“Yeah,” Naat said, drawing out the scalpel and igniting it, “And we’d never get to hear you perform at an open mike on 79’s. Now wouldn’t that be a tragedy.”

Ujik wanted to laugh. Naat wiped his neck with an antiseptic cloth, sprayed the wound with a localized analgesic, and gently carved a shallow cavern out of his neck with the tiny, cauterizing blade.

Ujik winced, his hands squeezing the edges of the medical bed so hard that Naat could feel the tension in the room.

When she was satisfied that there wasn’t a speck of that thing’s structure left in Ujik’s neck, Naat turned off the blade and put it away. She collected the scraps of Ujik’s flesh that mingled with the thing’s, put it in another carbonite jar, and froze that, too.

She pulled out a few pills that would douse Ujik’s pain and help him sleep. But he just looked at her and said, “Have anything stronger?”

Naat went back to the cabinet and pulled out a vial with an injection function, “This work?”

Ujik took it from her hand and slipped it onto his ungloved wrist. He sighed appreciatively, “Much better.”

She wiped his sweaty forehead with a cloth, “I’m really happy you made it out, Uj.”

“Same, Commander. Same.”

She got up and made to leave the medical bay, “Anything I can get you? Or you just want me to wake you up when we’re out of hyperspace?”

Ujik was silent for a long moment. Naat only knew he wasn’t asleep because his eyes were open, “How did Hammer die?”

A sharp spike through the neck.

“Saving me.” She said. “He carried two thermal detonators into one of those things.”

“Typical Hamm,” Ujik said, “Always had to make a show.” He smiled as he stared off into the room’s ceiling, “Good.”

Naat looked back at him, but he was already slipping in between consciousness and otherwise.

Two of them made it out.

Just two.

And not even that. Cal almost hadn’t made it out. It was his suggestion to rig the ship… but she was his CO. She could have overruled him. She could have said no. She shouldn’t feel bad. She knew that. It was already a close enough call. It wouldn’t have made much difference.

But that’s who he was. Cal and Hammer and Top-knot came from the same self-sacrificing, Mando warrior stock. All they wanted was a warrior’s death, and one that meant something.

“CT, tell Qurokka that we’re good to go. The samples are inert and secure.”

“Yes, General.” CT-94 said, to a small chorus of Shryiiwook roars in the background.

When the comm shut off, Naat checked the other medbay. It was empty. The medical droid greeted Naat, explained that Cal took some medication for minor physical trauma, but was otherwise all right. He floated into the bay next door to check on Ujik’s vitals.

Naat headed down the gangway to her prefab.

Before she turned the corner, she sensed something odd, different, yet familiar in the Force.

A Zeltron Mandalorian and a Clone Commando stared at each other. The door to their Commanding Officer’s room between them.

“We both made it.” Cal said.

“We did.” Atiniir said, sighing deeply.

“So… what now?”

“Well,” Ati said, “We agreed. We both promised, right?”

“We did.” Cal said.

“So… this is the part…” Atiniir cleared his throat, “Where we both say something.”

“Do we do it… together?” Cal asked, “At the same time?”

“That’s a bit awkward, no?” Ati said, “Maybe one at a time.”

“One at a time.” Cal repeated, “Who first?”

And there was a long silence as they stared at each other, trying to figure out if one of them was supposed to break first, or volunteer, or suggest…

Naat rounded the corner and walked directly towards her door. Both the Zeltron and the clone looked at her. They both turned red, knowing that she had just heard their entire conversation.

“Su’cuy.” She said, looking from Atiniir to Cal, and back again.

“Su cuy’gar.” Cal said.

Atiniir said nothing.

Naat walked between them and opened the door to her room. The lightsabers on either side of her pulsed. And she couldn’t tell which one pulsed more intensely: her’s or Stam’s.

She removed them from her belt and placed them both gently on a side table.

Naat could feel Cal’s heart beating faster and faster, while Atiniir smiled, to no one in particular, and he resisted laughing from the awkwardness of it all.

Men.

She turned around. Naat took one of their hands in each of hers. Cal was in nothing but his black undersuit. Ati was still half-armored. She pulled Cal towards her, stood on her tip-toes, and kissed him.

She didn’t know if she was doing this right.

But it felt… right. To feel his body pressed against hers, one arm wrapping around his neck, while his hands slowly wrapped around her waist, and his lips pressed to hers, Atiniir’s hand in her other, as he stepped closer to the both of them.

When she pulled away, slowly, she caught his eyes. They stared long and intensely, never diminishing as she took his hand back, and turned towards Atiniir. Again, she had to stand on her toes as she kissed the Mandalorian. He wrapped his arms around her, desperately, passionately, and when he kissed her, he did so thrice before he slipped his tongue into her mouth.

Naat was shocked. Surprised. She broke it off… and wanted more.

She stepped back into her bunk, pulling both of their hands into the dormitory with her.

The door whooshed shut and she let go of them just long enough to remove her outer robes.

They helped her remove the inner ones.

The light turned red and the Yorruro shook like a box in the arms of an angry rancor. At any second, the Ketriffee shuttle might slip out of hyperspace, knocked out by a black hole, or an exoplanet, or a nearby star and be atomized by the tidal forces. And none of them would ever know. It could happen so fast that their last moments would be spent in each other’s arms, their brains never registering the electronic signals of complete annihilation.

She knew this was wrong. She knew the Jedi Order would expel her for loving a clone, for loving a Mandalorian. For taking them both in her bed, and into her body.

She didn’t care.

If this was to be her last moments in this universe before she was sent into the Force, to be pressed between their bodies, to be warm, and wanted, and loved, then so be it.

Chapter Text

Chapter 42: ZAM

Deesa bomb at da ’ Jedi Temple is a completely fake with actors. In mesa view, made-ee-up. Mesa could’n believe it at first. Mesa knew dey’sa had actors there, a’course. But mesa thought they killed some real Jedi, some real Younglings. And it’sa just showin’ how bold dey are. Dat dey’sa clearly usin’ actors. When mesa think about all’n the Younglings Mon Mothma has’n personally killed, n’ cooked, n’ eaten, mesa have no fear standin’ up agains’ her. Yeah, yousa hearin’ me. Mon Mothma has personally eaten Younglings. Mesa can no holdin’ back the truth any more. Mon Mothma is one of the most mui vicious serial killers dis’n Galaxy has ever seen.

- The Jar Jar Binks Experience, Holonet Transmission, 05.06.3634

[Unknown Location]

[Unknown Date]

His head was swimming. It was like he was hit with a stun blaster, but he couldn’t remember the shot or the sting. “Where am I?”

“Somewhere safe.” A voice said, “For now.”

He recognized that voice. He didn’t know its name, but he recognized it. Like poisoned honey, it seemed to flow into his ears as a single, unbroken stream.

Zam’s vision slowly returned. He tried to push himself up. But found that his hands were bound at the wrists, held apart, on either side of him.

He looked over at his right hand: it was held by a bracelet that choked his wrist. It didn’t seem to be connected to the X-shaped structure that he was lying face-down on, but no matter how Zam pulled, it wouldn’t move. His left hand had the same bracelet, and was held down by the same force.

“They won’t budge,” the voice said. It was coming from behind him. Zam tried to move his feet, but he felt similar bracelets on his ankles being held down against the structure, “It’s a modification of my peoples’ own invention: a gravitational simulator. They use them at the scale of starships, to prevent an enemy from escaping by making their hyperspace computers think they’re still within a planet’s gravitational well. Using them at sort of mid-scale, at biological scale has proven difficult, but not for lack of trying. I managed to scale it way down. These little wrist locks,” he felt a tap against the back of one of his hands, “are made to think that the sensors in this table you’re lying against are similar to the gravitational field of a star. In other words, you’ll never get them to move until I turn them off.”

“Who are you?”

“You mean you don’t remember me?” She slowly walked out from out of his field of view and in front of him. She was tall, Tion’s height, but where Tion’s skin was so pink it was almost red, this newcomer’s was blue, so blue that Zam felt like he might fall into it. Her eyes were red like blood, and they burned into him with intensity. She had black hair that shined against the dim light in the room like dark stars, and a long, black, flowing robe. Around her waist she wore a red-gold belt from which dangled the black hilt of a lightsaber.

“You… you’re the Chiss. The Dark Acolyte. Working with the Separatists.”

“Well,” she said, “when you put it like that, you make me sound so… so very…” she put a hand against the end of the X near one of Zam’s hands and leaned forward, placing a finger against his chin, “ordinary.” She straightened and said, “My name is Ith’ro’cykok. General Ith’ro’cykok. But I know that this is difficult for you outsiders to pronounce or remember, so just call me Throcyk, my little Jedi.”

He swallowed hearing her call him something so intimate. Her hand, cold and stinging, brushed against Zam’s face like she was admiring a pet, “You captured me on Zygerria.”

“We fought.” She said, “You did excellent. I was so impressed. So aroused at your passion.” General Throcyk smiled and almost laughed, “I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised. You are a Zeltron, after all.”

“Are you taking me back to Count Dooku?”

“Hm?” she seemed genuinely surprised by the question, “Why would I do that?”

“He… he kills Jedi.”

“Oh,” she said, “No. Sorry, my little Jedi, he doesn’t have time for you. I hope this doesn’t bruise your ego, but you’re too small a concern for Lord Tyrannus.”

Lord Tyrannus? “Then why am I here? You beat me… are you trying to use me as bait?”

“Bait?” she asked, “For whom? Your Mandalorian friend? The other clones in your squad? Master Zey? No, little Jedi, I have you here first and foremost: to test a theory.” Throcyk lifted her left hand and snapped her fingers. The lights in the room turned on with a loud clang and Zam saw that two members of Red Squad were locked with their own bracelets on their own X’s on the opposite wall. Only, instead of being face-down on their X’s, they were face-out.

The clones were barely a body-length away from Zam. They seemed to be trying to get out of their restraints, still not having given up the fact that they were fighting against the gravity of a sun.

“I love these names. The Kaminoans have such little sense of art in the verbal sense. I’m sure they appreciate genetic structure, and the poetry it entails, of course. But Psycho.” She walked over to one of the clones and brushed the hair out of his face, “What a name for a berserker.” She rounded the back of his structure and made her way to the other, “But it doesn’t hold anything to Thread. A strange name, until one thinks of the thread that holds this one to his sanity.”

She kissed him on the cheek. Thread turned his face and snapped at her, trying to bite her neck open - and not in a nice way.

The Chiss didn’t seem to mind. She giggled at the display of violence and then walked over towards where Zam was being held.

“What theory?” Zam asked.

“Let me give you the background:” Throcyk began, pulling up a chair and sitting between the three captives, “I was assigned, personally by Lord Tyrannus, to investigate these strange, red-armored clones that kept appearing in every major engagement. So I took recordings from every battle I could find: Geonosis, Jabiim, Drongar, Umbara. These same clones appeared in all of them. Then they mysteriously disappeared. Like they were no longer being used for frontline engagement. Weird, I thought. So I widened my search. Funny enough, I found strange reports on Xo, of all places. So I consulted our Zanibar allies for footage of their attackers and wouldn’t you know it, that same red armor. Of course, the Zanibar are terrible techs, and the footage was incredibly grainy, but I was on the hunt. My subordinates wanted to set star for Xo right away, but no, I thought there was something better to do. Zygerria was already in the Republic’s sights after the whole Kiros thing, so I set a few temptations, had our contacts in Coruscant put it in front of General Zey, and well, laying a trail is an art, if I do say so myself, and it worked almost perfectly.”

Zam tried not to shake his head. Falling into the enemy’s trap wasn’t his fault. It was Master Zey’s. But it… it wasn’t his fault either. That’s what a trap was. It was no one’s fault.

“But that’s not a theory.” Throcyk said, “See, you’re not the only Zeltron in command of Clone Heavy units. Clone Heavies, by the way, is the polite term. They’re properly known as berzerkers. Specifically designed to do what the Wookiees call m’nuush, and the Trandoshans ‘burning in the blood,’ davjäan inyameet. But to Humans, it’s ‘going berzerk.’

“It’s a delicate balance,” she continued, “and a huge tactical problem. See: soldiers need to follow orders. This allows their command to maintain complete control over them. Theoretically. There’s always the chance, of course, of mutiny or treason, or what have you. But the clones, the Jango Fett clones, they’re designed to be better at following orders. The original prototypes, the so-called Nulls, and even the Alphas and the later Commando models, are slightly less modified as that score goes to be much more independent, and to work as more autonomous, functional units than the army-sized organization the rest of the GAR is supposed to be. Well, Nulls are barely modified at all. ‘Raw Jango’ was the term that was used.

“Now, soldiers for fighting a war and partisans, which is what the berzerkers are designed to be, intentional partisan units, are very different. Partisans need to be not only independent, they need to be unpredictable.”

“But we weren’t.” Zam said, “You couldn’t have laid a trap if they were unpredictable.”

“Cute and smart.” Throcyk smiled, almost laughing, “Thing is, I didn’t bait them. I baited Master Zey. Left to their own devices, I honestly have no idea what the berzerkers would do. You know that moments after the Battle of Geonosis, the Nulls seized a government building on Coruscant? Your clone berzerkers are designed to be more intentionally devastating than even Jango Fett’s natural state of being. If the berzerkers had no command or no suppressants, honestly, I think they’d be as much of a liability to the Republic as they would be an asset. There’s a chance they’d start attacking GAR infrastructure.”

“Suppressants?” Zam was stuck there.

“Right.” Throcyk smiled, pulling out a small box from one of her pockets, “You recognize these?” she pulled out a white pill. The kind that Zam had seen the Reds take almost daily.

“They’re supplements. Vitamins, and amino acids…” Zam trailed off, realizing he was making it up.

“See,” she said, “we tested it. It’s nothing of the sort. It took a whole battery of tests, running essentially round-the-clock to determine what the kriff it actually was. But there’s not a single vitamin, mineral, amino acid, probiotic, prebiotic, or whatever else your brain was trying to yes, and the word supplement.”

Zam felt his blood run cold, “What… is it?”

“This little guy is a very precise and specific combination of a Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitor, medication for depression in Human and most Near-Human species, an anti-epileptic, an anti-psychotic, a blood-pressure reducer, and just a tiny bit of an opioid. Not enough to cause addiction in the traditional sense. Just enough to have a noticeable affect on the clones’ physiology. When taken daily, you get the gentlemen you see before you.” Throcyk gestured to the clones behind her to the left, “Relatively normal. Maybe a bit explosive. But that can be excused as just… a part of the pressure that comes with their job. Their upbringing. Their role in battle.”

She picked up the red pill, “This one, however,” she held back a laugh, “is mostly glucose.”

“Sugar?”

“Yes. But at the core of it… there’s something else: a neutralizing agent.”

“That negates the effects of the white pills.”

“Precisely, my little Jedi.” She held it up to the light, examining the pill as if it truly fascinated her, “The glucose is packed so tightly that it releases on a rather delayed timeline, giving the user time to get to the battlefield before any effects are noticeable. This was all good in theory,” she said, putting the pills back in the box, “but we’d never managed to capture a berzerker before. And it’s just my luck that we captured two. Still, all of our models were just all over the place. I mean, seriously, if the clone berzerkers are taking the white pills daily, then their bodies are not just acclimated to the combination of suppressant drugs, but will have built up a reserve. Kaminoans are smart, don’t get me wrong. Genetics and drug interactions are their strength. Really their only strength, let’s be honest. But while biology is their plaything, it has rules, and they connect non-linearly, and can be completely arbitrary. This is how we ended up with the Nulls: they were the prototype that led to the clone army as a whole. Why? Because the Kaminoans aren’t perfect. Still… they are good at what they do. Possibly the best in the Galaxy.”

She stopped and stared at Zam.

“Sorry…” she laughed, “I’m rambling.”

“So… you’re saying that the Grand Army weaponized the Clone Heavies’ tendency to rampage through the Separatists?”

“They’re Human grenades, yes.”

“But that they’ve been systematically drugging them to make sure that they only… go berzerk when they want them to?”

“Exactly. That’s why they switch from the white pill, which suppresses these altered impulses and instincts, to the red pill, which reverses - however small - the suppressant’s effects, and allows them to m’nuush all over me and my friends and allies.”

Zam swallowed, and looked up at Thread and Psycho, who both seemed just as surprised as Zam.

“Come, now,” she said, “is it really that hard to believe? The entire clone army is basically one big weapon. The Republic - and the Jedi Order -- placed an order, as one would a speeder, or commission a work of art, or pay a pimp -- knew what they were getting into when they took charge of the clone army, organized it into the GAR, and sent it to war. This was what they asked for: a slave army, brought into being to combat the Separatist Crisis.” She waved the box in front of his face, “Now you’re feeling ethically challenged?”

“Fine,” Zam said, his head hanging, partly out of shame, partly out of embarrassment for his religion, “you’ve tested the pills. You’ve proved your theory.”

“What?” Throcyk said, genuinely surprised, “Oh. That’s not my theory. See, I don’t really have any way of knowing how deep the well of white-pill combo goes in the berzerkers. Maybe the reserve keeps them stable for hours, or days, or even weeks. If they’ve been taking it their whole lives - at least the length of the War, we know that - then it’s possible it could sustain relative stability in their psycho-emotional state for months. No. The reversing agent was… missing something.” She walked around the clones and then back to Zam. She flipped a lock of his hair, spreading a small dose of pheremones through the room, “And then it hit me. In a great deal of the footage we’ve collected of the berzerker units, there’s a Zeltron present on the battlefield with them. Sometimes they’re auxiliary officers, or mercenaries, or Intelligence agents, but always Zeltrons.”

Zam’s mind went back to the Temple on Coruscant. That day, all those years ago, when Ollei lost his osik at him. When Master Zey pulled Ollei off of Zam with the Force, and two other knights restrained Ollei until he could calm down.

“No…” he gasped, almost a whisper.

“See, I think it’s more than just this lovely, psychology-altering smell. I think it’s the missing ingredient.” She ran a hand over Zam’s face down his neck, and over the nape of his neck, “Zeltrons emit a natural base of pheremones, as I’m sure you’re aware. You can’t help it. Actually, while people have this… terrible conception of Zeltrons, exactly none of the pheremones Zeltrons emit are voluntary. They change whether one is feeling happy, or angry, or are ovulating, or menstruating, or have just had sex, or are in love, or are eating, exciting, basically anything a Zeltron experiences through the course of a normal day will change the output and composition of their pheremonal output.”

With a hand covered in Zam’s sweat, and a combination of his pheremones that was at least part his natural baseline, some remaining from his combat back in Erur, and a great deal of it now that was very much fear, Throcyk pulled it to her face, deeply inhaled the scent, and gave on of her fingers a lick.

“So sweet…” She walked back to her chair and sat down, crossing her arms, smiling, and locking eyes with Zam, “So, here’s the theory: if the white pills wear off, and the red pills reverse their effects entirely, will Zeltron pheremones make clone berzerkers actively dangerous?”

“No,” Zam nearly shouted, “they’re my men. They’re my friends. They would never hurt me.”

Both Psycho and Thread were nodding their heads, agreeing vehemently with Zam.

“Maybe.” Throcyk said, “But we’re about to find out. It’s been…” she checked her commlink, “Approximately fifty standard hours since they had their last red pill. And between sixteen and twenty since their last white? I wouldn’t know any more precisely than that. But the pills are wearing off. And as they wear off, this room is going to build with Zeltron pheremones.” Throcyk indicated a table off to the side, just out of Zam’s field of vision. He could see there were… things on it. Instruments. But it was too far, and just behind his hand so that he couldn’t tell exactly, “A lot of Zeltron pheremones. So here goes the theory: if they’re living grenades, thrown into the enemy to cause maximum, indiscriminate damage, then you,” she leaned forward, and placed a deadly, cold, blue hand against his cheek, “must be the firing pin.”

“No.” Zam said, “No. That’s not possible. That… that would mean… G… Master… Master Zey…” His eyes went wide.

“Go on.” Throcyk said, “You know it’s true: that would mean Master Zey intentionally put you in command of Red Squad, knowing that you would make them more dangerous. More lethal. More deadly. And, of course, that if things changed… they might turn on you.”

“No…” Zam said, refusing to believe any of it. His head shook, and then stopped suddenly, refusing to cast out more pheremones into the closed, poorly ventilated room, “No, no, no, nononono… I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it. It’s… it’s not possible.”

“Ah, you Jedi and your powers to delude yourselves into erroneous ways of thinking. It never ceases to amaze me.”

“Master Zey is… he’s my Master. My teacher. He raised me!”

“And he betrayed you. Threw you into battle, like so many Masters before you: treating you just like the clones, putting you into deadly danger, just to achieve their delusions of a higher purpose.”

“If Master Zey put me in charge of Red Squad… it’s because he has faith beyond a reasonable doubt that they would never hurt me. Pheremones or no.”

“And you?” Throcyk asked, “Do you have that very same faith?”

Zam nodded, so shallowly, and so slowly, that it was imperceptible. But the word was caught in his throat.

“Well… let’s see.”

Chapter Text

PART III: GLASS

Chapter 43: MONK

Binks Hotel. Binks Starline. Binks Nerf Steaks. Binks Tihaar. Even a Binks line of nova crystal jewelry. Almost three years after the previously unknown Gungan delivered a speech in front of the Galactic Senate in favor of emergency defense powers to the Supreme Chancellor, the Binks brand is everywhere: from the skyrises of Coruscant, to the market shelves on the Outer Rim.

Wherever the Galactic Republic sends its armies, the Binks brand seems to follow.

On Drongar, one of the most outer of Outer Rim planets, I was inserted with a Republic Medical Surgical Unit (RMSU, or Rimsoo), and around the sabacc table, we drank Binks brand Ithor Pale Ales.

When I visited Tagge City on Corellia, where the Republic builds its Star Destroyer class ships, housing was supplied by the company, but materials were sourced from none other than Binks Affiliates.

Even as I type this, Binks InterGalactic is in the process of acquiring factories that print the data-processors for commlinks.

I opened my commlink. The brand I use is one of the ones which next year, will be a Binks Affiliate.

Before the Battle of Naboo, an event that precipitated the fall of former Supreme Chancellor Finnis Valorum, Jar Jar Binks was known only to the denizens of the underwater city Otoh Gunga as the weird klutz they ’d banished for embarrassing the Bosses. His relationship with both the Gungans and the Naboo Royal House led to his appointment as Representative of the Gungans, attached to the Naboo Senatorial Mission, and later as a delegate for Senator Padmé Amidala.

Since the war began, he has been an ardent supporter of the federal government: the expansion of Chancellor Palpatine ’s power, of the expansion of GAR command, and the Galaxy’s biggest cheerleader in the fight against Dookuism and the advance of Separatist forces.

His near literal meteoric rise, of course, has drawn questions. How did a former political exile, from a species that was once invisible to the Galactic Senate, suddenly get to a position to rub elbows with the Tagges, Diaths, and Bulqs?

There ’s an unfortunately easy answer to this: this is how the Galaxy works.

Theoretically, a farm boy from Tatooine could rise to become Supreme Chancellor - or a clumsy exile from Naboo. But we all know how unlikely that is.

Of course, if someone does break into that exclusive club of the most connected in the Galaxy, it usually attracts not just more connections, but wealth as well.

A lot of it.

- Who is Jar Jar Binks?: The Rise and Rise of the Representative from Naboo, by Den Dhur, Galactic News Network

The Second Moon of Zygerria, Low Orbit

1033 Days after Geonosis

The Galactic News Network heard about the unrest on Zygerria about as early as any Republic-based organization could. GNN declared themselves “neutral” as soon as the war broke out. Still, Raxus was always nervous that GNN could be used as a front for Republic Intelligence.

As a result, GNN sheared off its assets located in Sep… Confederate territory, under an independent organization simply called GNN-C, “Galactic News Network - Confederate.”

Monk was a little surprised to see a veteran reporter like Den Dhur reporting from Zygerria. He was well-known on Republic holodecks as a hard-hitting journalist. He’d been to Drongar and Jabiim. He reported from Geonosis in the aftermath of the battle, and even secured the first interview with Prime Minister Lama Su.

They’d been told that the Separatists’ dominant ideology was Dookuist dictatorship. That the only thing holding the Confederacy together at all was lies and propaganda. And that if the truth pierced the Separatists’ worldview, they’d overthrow their rebellious oppressors and re-join the Republic.

Monk had lived too long to believe that osik. He’d seen too many tyrants rise and fall - including among his own Nest.

But it was different seeing Den Dhur, with his reputation for the harsh truth and nothing but, reporting from the streets of Zygerria, speaking into a holoreceiver while Zygerrians and slaves tried to kill each other.

It hit differently when it was him and his Squad who caused the violence to begin with.

An unGurlanin paw reached out and switched it off.

Monk didn’t say anything. But he did feel a bit annoyed. He was watching that.

“The job’s done.” Takkor said, “Forget it.”

Monk sighed, “I feel…”

“Forget it.” Takkor repeated, “It’s over.”

“But it’s not.” Monk said. He stood up and left the seat. He went to the cockpit and found Tion sitting in the pilot’s chair. The screens, even the auxiliary ones around her, were busy scanning the Galaxy for the Commander’s bio tracker.

When he sat in the copilot’s chair, he saw that she was asleep, her head tilted to the left side against her shoulder.

“Tion?” he said, his voice slightly raised.

She awoke with a small start. Her helmet fell off her lap and hit the deck with a clang. She shook her head and inhaled, turning to see Monk next to her, “Oya,” she said, “I’m awake.”

“You should sleep,” Monk said, “You’ve been running hard for days. Since well before we left Zygerria.”

“I know,” Tion said, “but not until we find Zam.”

“Let me watch the scanners,” Monk said, “You need rest.”

“I’m fine.” Tion said. She slapped herself in the face, rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and checked the thermos off to the left. It was empty, but she tipped it back into her face to get the last drops of caf.

“Tion…”

“Monk.” She declared, “I said I’m fine.”

“We want to find him as badly as you do.”

“The hell you do.” She said every word like it was its own sentence. She turned her head to him, and Monk saw the terrible Mandalorian determination in her eyes.

“All right…” Monk said, “These monitors are on auto, yeah? You’re just watching, waiting for the second they latch onto his signal.”

Tion didn’t say anything.

“If you want to help, get me more caf.” She held out the cup towards him as if he was her subordinate, not Commander Reykal’s.

Monk took the cup either way, “There’s nothing we can do at this moment until the scanners find him.” For some reason, repeating this basic information seemed to hit Tion differently. Maybe it was just Monk’s persistence, “And he might be in trouble when we find him.”

“You don’t think I know that?”

“And what I’m saying,” Monk said, remaining calm, “is that you might need to be at full strength when we find him. He might need you at your most rested, your most capable.”

Tion seemed to get very still, as if she was internalizing Monk’s words.

“Think,” he said, “if he needs us, if he needs you, he can’t have you tired… lagging.”

“Fine.” She declared, picking up her buy’ce, and dropping her empty cup of caf on the center console’s open space, “But the second the scanners pick him up, you wake me.”

“I’ll wake you when we’re zeroing on the planet.” Monk said, getting himself oriented with the screens and the equipment.

Tion turned, ready for a fight, “That’s not what I—”

“You’re not my commanding officer.” Monk cut her off.

She apparently took that to heart and left the cockpit. Monk watched her through the security cameras as she got to her bunk and the door closed behind her. Her biotracker indicated that she was almost instantly asleep.

Takkor arrived in the cockpit a moment later, “Ugh. You turned it back on.”

He was right. As soon as he was satisfied that Tion was asleep, Monk turned one of the auxiliary screens back to GNN-C.

He climbed into Tion’s old spot and looked from screen to screen until he landed on Monk, “You’re a glutton for punishment, aren’t you?”

“We did this.” Monk said, “I don’t think that gives us the right to turn away from it.”

Takkor didn’t say anything to that. Monk wondered if maybe that was indication that he was conceding the point.

“What do you think happened to Zam?” Monk asked.

“I don’t like speculation. Not without data.”

“What are you, a droid?”

Takkor laughed, “There’s only a few possibilities: he was killed and his body destroyed, in which case we’ll never find him. He was killed and his body was taken off world. He was captured and taken off world. Or he turned coat and abandoned us mid-op.”

“That seems unlikely.” Monk said, “For all our sakes, I hope he was captured.”

Takkor sighed, “Me too.”

If Zam was captured, the logical places for him to be taken would be Raxus or Serenno, the capital of the Confederacy of Independent Systems, and the home world and estate of Count Dooku himself, respectively. The scanners, however, picked up nothing. It was possible that Zam’s tracker was in hyperspace. But if he was taken from Zygerria and immediately transported to Raxus, then the journey in any CIS ship should have reached the planet by now.

Local scanners sensed nothing in the Raxus System. It was still very possible that he was taken there. The Separatists did a lot to try and stop Republic Intelligence from using local assets. Especially after the whole Raxus Prime incident in the first year of the war. So it couldn’t really be ruled out that his bio tracker wasn’t dug out and he was taken to Raxus without it… or that he still had it, but they were successfully jamming the signal.

Serenno was a bit farther away. They might still be in hyperspace, and only get the signal as soon as they had left it.

Of course, there were a thousand other options. The Separatists had other bases, some on the complete other side of the Galaxy, and there remained the possibility that Zam’s body was incinerated, and the biotracker destroyed with it.

In which case, it would take centuries before the scanners came to the conclusion that the tracker’s data was not to be found anywhere in the Galaxy.

“I don’t think Tion could ever accept that.” Monk said.

“Yeah…” Takkor said, “Me neither.” They sat there in silence for a long moment while Den Dhur talked about the plight of the Zygerrian slave, “You see the look in her eyes when she talks about him?”

Monk didn’t answer. He felt like it wasn’t really his business, other sentients’ feelings.

“Deranged.” Takkor said.

“I’d say she’s in love.”

“They’re not mutually exclusive.” Takkor said, “You don’t think I’ve seen the way you look at me, sometimes?”

Monk’s Human face flushed, “That’s different.”

“If you say so,” Takkor said, “It’s all right. I like you, too.” Takkor turned one of the monitors to the common room. The biotrackers of their two clones indicated that Butcher and Rancor had just woken up. They left their bunks and immediately went to the room, put the table away with the flick of a button, and brought out the grav bags. Both immediately started hitting them - which weighed approximately as much as a B2 battle droid - across the room at each other.

Monk was so used to seeing his brothers put on displays of strength in battle and training that seeing them on the screen like this, next to a GNN-C report on the violence only a scant few billion kilometers away, made them seem like they were something… else. Something larger than life. Something otherworldly: like a force that ace reporter Den Dhur would report on, and not the men he’d shared countless meals with for the past twelve years.

“You never told me how you ended up with the Reds.” Takkor said.

Monk felt rather exposed, “You never asked.”

“Well, I didn’t want to pry.”

“Do you want to pry, now?”

“I confess that I’m curious.”

“You tell me how you ended up with Tion?”

“You first.”

Monk inhaled and made sure the cockpit was locked, “I… ah, was just roaming the Galaxy. I had left Naboo. Lived among a herd of kaadu for a few generations. Had a relationship with my Gungan rider, of course. That was…”

“Something else, huh?”

“You ever live as a kaadu?”

“No. But I’ve had riders. Especially when they’re your only riders. That’s a special relationship.”

“Well, when he died, I left Naboo. Decided to see what was next. Ended up on Kamino. I snuck in as a Qiiluran sea-bird, acquired a Kaminoan noblewoman, but… you know, they have their ident-tags down tight. The perks of a virtually closed society. So I could hang out as a tourist, and people would assume I was just some random local, but it was hard. I stumbled on the cloning project, and decided to acquire them. I acquired six or seven of the clones in their sleep, and slipped into an empty bunk. When they scanned me later, they assigned me to the Heavies.”

“The Heavies’ genome is a bit different from the Regs.”

“It was an accident. I had no way of knowing at the time.” An experienced unGurlanin took multiples of the same species if they could help it. Random genetic mutations, propensities for cancer, congenital diseases, allergies, and all sorts of recessive traits could be lessened when one took multiple samples from the same species and merged them into a single, dominant, strand in their genetic reserve code. Turns out, the dominant strand in Monk’s genes was interpreted by Kaminoan scanners as a CH unit. “When the Kaminoans were setting us up for tracks, I got put in Red Squad with other Heavies. There was a slight confusion about my genetic structure…”

“But you only gave them what you wanted them to see.”

“Didn’t even have to. When they took my blood, all they saw was their altered Human DNA. They didn’t get to the Gurlanin core.”

“I mean… there’s a tiny bit of Gurlanin DNA in all of our morph’s codes. Isn’t there?” Gurlanin civilization wasn’t too tech savvy, and the few that submitted to scientific testing and genetic sequencing for xenobiological study didn’t really publicize that fact to their Nest.

“A shadow of one. But the Kaminoans didn’t think anything of it.”

“Wait… that means…”

“There’s some Gurlanin DNA in the clones? Yeah. The secret is there’s Gurlanin DNA in all of the Kaminoan projects. It’s how they make their genetic structures so malleable.”

“Dank ferrik.” Takkor said, “That’s…”

“Genius.”

“An outrage.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t remember any of us getting royalties for use of our genes, do you?”

“I’ll call the Nest.” Monk said, “Maybe we can file an injunction.”

“Ha. Ha.” Takkor said, as if there was anything funny about that fait accompli.

“Your turn.”

“Tion’s Covert was staying in the mountains on Tao. I was living as my handsome Gammorrean bull form. Was making a killing as a gladiator. Have you ever seen Taoese fights? No weapons. That’s a requirement. None at all. No weapons, no modifications, not even Level 1. Very traditional. Anyway, I was making money. A lot of money.

“Tion and her brothers, Atiniir and Allen left the Covert one night and came to the port city where I was fighting. I was feeling like having a good time, morphed my even more handsome Zeltron self, and joined them for a night of drinking on the town.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“They were young Mandalorians, sneaking out of the umbrella of their conservative Covert to enjoy the delights of the city. Well, one morning I wake up in a comfy ryokan between three half-armored Mandalorians. One of them wakes up and freaks out: pointing a blaster at me.”

“You morphed in your sleep.”

Takkor laughed, “You ever do that?”

“A couple of times.”

“It tends to happen when I’m happy. Good thing it’s almost always just back to base.”

Back to base, the Gurlanin term for returning to their base form: the black furred quadruped. Sleep-morphing was uncommon, but almost every Gurlanin and unGurlanin had done it at least once. And it was almost always back to base.

“Of course, I had to explain to them then and there.”

“And they just… accepted it?”

“It’s not like we were at war or anything. We had a good night, I liked them. They liked me.”

“How did you end up… going with them?”

Takkor smiled, “Heh… well, I offered to morph a strill and go back with them. They were all a bit surprised I had a strill morph, but were happy to take me back to their Covert. I would go hunting with them, travel with them to new places, and when the war started, and Allen and his wife and mother had a fight… well, Tion took me with her.”

“Allen broke up the Covert?”

“Not exactly.” Takkor said, “Allen and his wife disagree about fighting and killing clones. Allen’s mother got involved. She wasn’t against Allen’s perspective, but she lent some credence to Larra’s argument. Then Uncle Beskar got involved. He nearly killed Allen. Beskar hates Jedi. They took his son. Or so he says. Allen left. Last we heard, he was working with the Republic. For a fee, of course. Atiniir and Tion decided that they wanted to try and get the Covert from out of Beskar’s control, so they decided they needed to split up, show that they could earn the Covert’s keep, and they could return and kick Beskar off his patriarchal throne.”

“And you went with Tion to Xo?”

“Yep. I was closest with her, anyway.”

“How do you like Allen and Atiniir?”

“They’re good people. Allen’s Mirialan. Naturally born Mandalorian. Atiniir is a Zeltron. A Foundling like Tion.”

“What about Uncle Beskar and Allen’s mom?”

“Both Human. Uncle Beskar, as you can tell, is…”

“Hard.”

“Like his namesake.”

“And the mom?”

“Kurta. She’s…”

Before Takkor could explain any further, one of the monitors alerted them to a lock on Zam’s biotracker.

Monk immediately checked the map where the signal had locked on:

Kadavo.

The planet where the Zygerrians processed and broke their slaves.

The machine had a 97% certainty that the biotracker was there.

Monk immediately turned the ship’s navigation away from the Zygerrian system, getting the ship out of its natural grav lock. “Hang on,” he said, “we’re going to Kadavo.”

“Kadavo?” Takkor tapped a few controls, pulling up the Galactic map, “That’s… what a day’s ride from here?”

“Assuming we can find a direct hyperspace route.” The ship was leaving Zygerria’s grav shadow and readying for a hyperspace jump.

“Wait, we don’t have a direct route.” Takkor said.

Monk tapped the ship’s precision nav-calc. It wasn’t a direct route, but it was a route. They could always readjust mid-hyperspace. But they needed to go. Tion may be asleep, but every second counted.

“If we’re lucky, we could get there in under 20 hours.”

“A lot could happen in 20 hours.” Takkor said.

“I know.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 44: NAAT

Finding out that Binks, or JJB as his associates at Binks InterGalactic (BIG) often refer to him, was once banned from his home city, never seems to strike anyone as a mystery. Without his wealth, and the trappings that come with it, there is little that seems … well, fanciful about JJB. He is rude, brash, and extremely opinionated. He is just as likely to extend his long, elastic tongue across the table for a piece of meat or fruit as he is to ramble about the ‘Galactists’ who have infiltrated everything from the Senate, to the Confederacy, to the Jedi Order.

Of course, trying to figure out what JJB was banned for back in Otoh Gunga, the capital of the Gungan Authority - the government of the Gungan city-states that dot the fresh-water seas across Naboo - is a bit of an errand.

Fool, clumsy, and stupid are the words I was given for his banishment. Even the historians at the Royal Library of Theed told me that Jar Jar Binks was banished for causing a “public nuisance,” but the records refuse to get any more specific than that.