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Arkania is one of the most miserable planets Cody’s been dirtside on, at least aboveground. It’s colder than Ilum, and just as sparkly. Between the glare of the snow on the surface, and the glare of the diamond mines below, their ship’s navcom had had a field day trying to land. Underground isn’t much better; the city is heated, at least, but it’s still several degrees below what Cody would consider comfortable, even wrapped head to toe in beskar’gam. The insulated metal plating might protect him from the biting wind, but it does little to improve the biting company.

As Mand’alor heir apparent, Cody’s had years of diplomatic training, alongside the young Dutchess-to-be and her sisters, who will one day share his work, negotiating with the Republic and the Unaffiliated Territories. It’s given him a degree of sociability, by galactic standards. Many of Cody’s brothers and cousins, the rather substantial line of House Mereel, Clan Fett, can’t say the same. Rex is passable at it, which is why he’s accompanying Cody, but Wolffe doesn’t have the time for anyone who isn’t on the same page, and Fox is the type to simmer with rage until it boils over, and then ka’ra help whoever’s pissed him off. Bly might have worked, if he wasn’t busy re-coordinating their military for sector patrol, in light of the rumors about the Unaffiliated Territories and some Republic successionists reorganizing under the banner of Ky Narec of Rattatak and his so-called Confederacy of Imperial Systems, and Boba is still too young to tell if he’ll internalize his training or decide to kriff off bounty hunting out in the Mid Rim or Expanse. Mandalore as a system – as an Empire – has a reputation for being terse and often hostile to outsiders. So it’s a little impressive that the Arkanians Cody’s met so far have made his family look downright inviting.

Doubly strange, considering it was the Arkanian Dominion who sent them the missive to come in the first place.

They’d received the message, of all things, through the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic. Or his office, at least. Palpatine is a shabuir if Cody’s ever had dealings with one, all innocuous words belying teeth. Cody’s still not sure how the Senate elected him into office but then, Mandalore has had tension with the Republic for longer than Cody’s been alive to tell it. Ba’buir had always said it harkened back to even before the most recent civil war, which had already done enough damage, inside and out: they’d lost a lot of edge systems wary of the infighting, and nearly all their Republic military contracts before things had settled down. Cody thinks that’s bad enough – the Mandalorian Empire makes up most of what would be the upper regions on most galactic maps, trickling down on either side of the Core. Directionality of that sort isn’t much relative in space, but any Core-worlder or Inner Rim colony who looked at it flat on a holo certainly had reason to be nervous, especially with the CIS growing below, out past Eriadu and Tatooine. Mandalore hasn’t been interested in true expansion in centuries, but if they wanted to put the squeeze on the galactic interior? Well, they certainly have the ships and army to do it.

Ba’buir said it was more than that, though, that it went back to the last great Mandalorian-Jedi conflict – the last Mandalorian-Jedi conflict, full stop – nearly two hundred years ago. It was when they got Ilum, and Jeddha, and Exegol, and that last one might have been more of a problem if their ancestors hadn’t had plenty of practice dealing with Yavin and Dathomir and Moraband before it. Cody’s seen the witches of Dathomir at work, cleansing the persistently clinging Dark off those planets. He’s about as Force-sensitive as his armor, but even he can feel the lingering evil on those rocks.

Mandalore had once aligned with the Sith, and Ba’buir had always decried the shame, the dishonor, but Ba’buir had also been adamant that the end result was for the best. The Jedi had created the Sith, and then let them be. Better to have none of either, Ba’buir had decreed.

Ba’buir has been dead since Cody was a child, so Cody takes anything he might have said lightly. He’d lived long enough to beg Cody’s father to build the treaty that currently keeps the peace, but he’d died in the last of the Death Watch insurrections, before Jango Fett had wiped the system clean. Cody wishes his younger brothers had the chance to know Ba’buir better, even if it means their father is Mand’alor now, and Buir is a good Mand’alor, working alongside House Kryze. Duke Adonai is kind to Cody, and Bo-Katan is a good spar-mate. Satine is a little too pacifist for Cody’s taste, harsh and unyielding, and has shown no interest in participating in government as long as the New Mandalorians and True Mandalorians together hold peace, but Silla will make a fine Dutchess one day.

Arkania is in Republic colony territory, just barely, which Cody supposes is why they’d ferried the message through the Senate to begin with. They have diplomacy channels with different systems for trade, but getting a private message into Mandalorian space isn’t easy. They take care of their own, but they really aren’t kind to outsiders. Mandalore has no need for Arkania’s diamond or mineral mines, and they have plenty of their own scientists and researchers. To the best of Cody’s knowledge, they’ve never had dealings with the planet, much less contracts of any kind, but the Republic Senate informed them that Arkania was insisting that House Mereel had a trade contract with the planet’s primary science ministry, Adascorp. Apparently, they were claiming that the order, whatever it was, was already paid for, and that if it wasn’t dispensed soon, they would have to renegotiate housing, or terminate the development program. As governing leaders, the Mand’alor and the Duke had dispatched Cody to investigate. As Cody’s buir and tom’ba’vodu^[1], they’d respectively asked that he take Rex and Bo-Katan with him.

Cody had obliged, though he’d rather drop Bo-Katan on Alderaan with Silla, who is out that way negotiating with their queen for an embassy and use of the neighboring hyperlane. It’s not far out of the way, and while Cody never minds a fighter like Bo-Katan at his back, she’s still a little young and hotheaded to be walking into this unknown. Good practice, Duke Adonai had said with a twinkle in his eye, but Cody still thinks she’d do a better job babysitting her nephew while her sister gets on with diplomacy. Silla doesn’t like leaving Korkie, but a preteen is not what Cody considers a boon to negotiating.

They’d been given coordinates to a landing pad when they’d reached the main city. Cody leaves flying to Bo-Katan – she’s better at it than he is, and it had given him the opportunity to scan the city as they were coming in for docking. “Cozy,” Rex had remarked, his helmet vocoder doing little to disguise the irony in his voice. Bo-Katan had snorted in agreement. They’ve all spent time on Concord Dawn, where Buir was raised and Ba’buir was from originally, but they’re used to living half-underground at the Empire’s seat. Most of Mandalore’s surface is still devastated, even after two decades of concerted efforts, spearheaded by House Kryze, to rehabilitate the planet for life. But at least belowground, Buir and the Duke’s fierce support of hydroponics projects and crystal light innovation have turned the interior of Mandalore lush and green. Their cities may be domed, but they are growing, living spaces, so that Cody has never missed the sunshine, feels it in his bones even in the dark of space.

As they’d stepped out onto the landing platform, Cody had seen that Arkania was not operating on that principle. Like Sundari, the metropolis of Adascoplis was half-underground, with its sweeping towers poking up through the tundra and the surrounding mountains, as Sundari poked up through the dessert in its dome. Also like Sundari, Adascoplis seemed to favor dazzling geometric patterns built into the arcs and curves of the buildings, though in the rebuilding, Sundari had favored transparisteel as a symbol of their new, open governing, while most of the decoration here seems to be fine sheets of diamond, displaying the city’s wealth. Cody finds it a bit distasteful, especially as that seems to be where the similarity stops. A Science Minister by the name of Anildri had been waiting for them, ushering them into the city’s interior out of the wind and the cold, and even inside the warmer mountain caverns, Cody can see almost no greenery. Adascopolis is beautiful, sleek and gray and gleaming. It is also sterile, oppressive, looming. It is heavy with impracticality.

It is cold. There is no better descriptor that Cody can think of, and he’s sure Bo-Katan and Rex both agree. Their blue and white armors fit right in with the coloring of the city, but Bo-Katan’s Nite Owl and Rex’s jaig eyes, painted lovingly, almost seem to sneer like hawks with the unimpressed tension radiating from their posture. Cody, in bright orange and green, sticks out horribly.

Their Arkanian hosts blend right into the city, just as pale, just as beautiful, with wan smiles and eyes that don’t quite meet Cody’s visor when they pass by, as if seeing the same blight on their city that he himself had been noticing. Minister Anildri’s voice is the same polite, thinly-veiled condescension Cody is used to from Republic politicians, multiplied tenfold. She could give the Chancellor a run for his money.

“Kaysh ori’buyce kih’kovid^[2],” Bo-Katan mutters through their private helmet comms, as the Minister leads them through the corporation’s byways, into the heart of what she is calling “a deeply impressive complex, truly a feat of Arkanian engineering.” Given that she hadn’t asked their names, beyond a confirmation of, “You must be the Mereel contingent. We’ve been expecting you for some time,” and has spent the rest of the walk pontificating on how intricate their work for House Mereel has been, how astounding, how unlikely that any other planet in the galaxy had the physical resources or innovative minds to accomplish the task set before them, Cody is inclined to agree with his tom’ba’voduad’s^[3] assessment.

He clears his throat, timed as best he can for a pause in the Minister’s self-satisfied bloviating. “I don’t mean to interrupt, Your Honor-“ Kriff, he hopes he’s getting the titles right here “-but on behalf of House Mereel, we did have some questions about the nature of the order placed.”

Minister Anildri arches an eyebrow. Cody can’t tell if she’s skeptical, surprised, or just unimpressed, considering how empty the rest of her expression is. “Mand’alor Mereel did not discuss the nature of his commission with your House? We assumed, given that it was made on your army’s behalf, that you would have a copy of the contract.”

“Ba’buir made the commission?” Rex mutters over their comms. “That doesn’t seem kriffing likely.”

Cody ignores him, thinking hard on his feet. “Unfortunately, Mand’alor Jastor Mereel died almost twenty years ago, during some planetary upheaval,” he says. Arkanians are insular, largely isolationist. Who knows what they’ve heard about Mandalore’s civil war. “We understand there was a commission, but our governing body has changed since then, and we’ve lost any documentation he may have possessed.”

It's not actually a lie, on most levels: it’s been twenty years since Ba’buir’s death, and he did die during the war, when Buir and Duke Adonai restructured the government to include the Duke and Mand’alor roles concurrently. They do know about the contract, if only because the Republic Senate saw fit to inform them, and if Jastor Mereel did make the order, if he did have any documents to prove that, they have been lost with the bombing of cities.

It’s also a risk to reveal how little they know, but Cody thinks it’s an acceptable one. The Arkanians said the commission was already paid for. Whatever it is, they can’t upcharge without terms of contract changing. Cody has no intention of paying these people anything. Worst comes to worst, the initial missive said the Arkanians intended to terminate the project, if the finished units weren’t retrieved. If they decide they don’t want it, or the Akranians try to pull something funny, Cody can let the mystery project go to seed.

That it’s for the military…that’s interesting, in an unsettling way. Mandalore has never reached outside their Empire to fund their military. Outside worlds usually come to them for any military needs.

Minister Anildri hmms softly, her brow creasing. “Unfortunate,” she says, but she gives a dismissive wave of her four-fingered hand, like she has expected this from such unrefined company. “We will have to get you a copy, so you can see we have more than upheld our terms. We do expect Mandalore to acknowledge our discoveries; it will be good advertising.”

Because this planet is ruled by a corporation of self-important scientists. Terrific. And Cody had thought the Techno Union was bad, when they’d chased those shabuire back to Skako Minor.

“What kind of weapons do you think they are?” Bo-Katan asks. She keeps craning her neck every time they pass by an archway, like she expects them to reveal armories. Given how open the walkway is, Cody is thinking tanks. The complex ahead has high walls, guarded by wide double-doors, but no roof.

“Could be ships,” Rex offers, clearly catching that same vibe. “Or maybe it’s biotech. Aren’t these guys geneticists? If Ba’buir was worried about the effect of war on Mandalore’s surface, maybe he wanted them to make something that would just affect people.”

“Cheery thought,” Cody says, “since we haven’t been at war for two decades.” There have been some border skirmishes, sure, mostly from what used to be Hutt Space, but Ba’buir’s efforts weren’t in vain.

Oblivious to the private chatter, Minister Anildri stops outside the gate, folding her hands in front of her as she turns to face them. Cody draws to a halt, shoulders pulling back as Rex and Bo-Katan flank him. Minister Anildri smiles.

“Just through here,” she says proudly, “you’ll find the first twenty units, ready for distribution.” The smugness that seems to infuse most of her words has amped up even further, so thick with the relish of presenting her greatness to them that Cody wants to gag, lip curling beneath his faceplate. She adds, “We’re still completing flash regimes on a few thousand more, but if you required an immediate contingent, these shall serve you well. They’ve taken best to the training.”

They’re deep enough in the city that the wind is no longer a problem. Cody’s blood still turns to ice. “Training?” he repeats.

“Contingent?” Rex says over comms. Bo-Katan is twitching, and Cody sincerely hopes she doesn’t put a hand on her holster. They are supposed to be here diplomatically, even if his skin is suddenly crawling. He has a very, very bad feeling about this.

“Yes,” Minister Anildri beams. Her teeth are just as shiny and white as her hair. As the rest of the city. “We were provided some texts, of course, and blended it with our own training regime.” She signals to one of the guards at the top of the tower, on either side of the gate, and without a sound, the doors start grinding open. “Arkania is one of the most advanced civilizations in the galaxy. It seems we’ve worked on similar projects with Mandalorians in the past, though I don’t believe it made it out of the infancy stage, scientifically. Adascorp was able to retrieve the research, and Mand’alor Mereel was kind enough to bring additional cultural records for us to use as a basis for further training. There is very little our scientists cannot improve upon.”

The doors are opening, and Cody’s heart is pounding. His boots are loud against the stone, louder than the swish of the leatheris outerwear rustling around the minister’s ankles as she leads them eagerly through the archway, which gives to a wide balcony. It overlooks something like a courtyard, the kind the palace barracks at Sundari overlook for training. More unsettlingly, as Cody steps up to the railing, curling gloved fingers around the stone so hard he can feel his knuckles whitening, the bustle of the space below freezes. About two dozen figures are sparring, and as one, all two dozen stop everything, turning with their eyes up towards the minister. Towards Cody.

The back of Cody’s neck is tingling, an itching that reminds him of his childhood training. Mandalorians on Arkania…not in the last few decades or centuries. But a few millennia ago…wasn’t there something…?

Rex steps up beside him, and freezes too. “Kriff,” he swears over helmet comms. “That’s creepy as hell.”

“What are they?” Bo-Katan asks breathlessly.

They are, as far as Cody can tell, a mix of humanoid species, all in similar beige and white robes as Minister Anildri, all carrying staves, some crackling with electricity. They all hold themselves with the same poise, a uniformity that would have Cody swearing they were droids, if not for how visibly alive they all seem to be.

If Cody’s heart beats any faster, his beskar’gam would be ringing. Blood roaring in his ears, he rounds on the minister, diplomacy all but forgotten as he echoes Bo-Katan’s sentiment. “What is this?” he demands, and it’s all he can do not to reach for a blaster. Demagolka, his mind is howling. Monster. Dar’manda najaat’la chakaaryc darjet’ad.^[4] Beneath them, a slight ripple stirs through the gathering.

Minister Anildri blinks, wide-eyed. This is the most emotion she has shown all day. “I know,” she says, clearly trying to soothe. “Arkanian bloodlines are superior, and we’re aware Mandalorians prize their clan lines quite highly as well. But we were told to attempt a variety of species, and it’s no easy feat, manipulating midichlorians. Even with the research basis, there’s a reason it was shelved, and even for us, with millennia of advancements since then, it still took a few years to stabilize any of the subjects. For every success, we may well have a hundred failures. Just getting their thresholds to historical averages was a miracle in and of itself, and even some of these have required supplemental training to compensate.”

Cody’s helmet sensors are malfunctioning. “Midichlorians,” he repeats.  “You made us an army of Jedi?” He’s sweating, rage boiling.

Beside him, Rex stiffens. “Demagolka,” Bo-Katan hisses. Three millennia ago, Cody remembers, there was a Mandalorian scientist. Three millennia ago, a dar’manda warrior tried to make an army of Mandalorian Force Knights, and failed. He died for his hubris. Two centuries ago, the last Jedi fell to Mandalorian blasters and blades.

Mandalore does not hunt down Force-sensitives in their space, because the old texts say to leave them be. Cody knows many gorane are blessed by the ka’ra. He knows the witches of Dathomir, on knee to the Empire so long as they are allowed to remain self-contained. There is a difference between blessing and training, and a youngling who never learns of their skill, never grows up to wield that power. After a time, it fades away.

There should be no Jedi, Ba’buir had always decreed. The last Mandalorian-Republic treaty: if the Republic was found to be harboring any Jedi, trained in the old ways, Mandalore would respond with impunity. And here Arakania is, saying that Cody’s own ba’buir is dar’manda. That he ordered the creation of thousands of Force-sensitive beings, that he ordered them trained. That he gave the Arkanian’s the ‘cultural materials’ to do it.

“I wouldn’t have thought Mandalorians would call this an army,” Anildri titters, giving Cody a look like she considers this playful teasing, like Cody isn’t vibrating in his armor with the effort to keep from slaying her where she stands. Rex is still reading as shocked, but Bo-Katan looks like she mirrors his sentiment. “If we have ten thousand successful units by the completion of our work, I’ll be quite surprised,” the minister adds. “But your clan leader only requested a few thousand; we’ve done quite well, given the circumstances.” She spreads her clawed hands out, indicating the clusters of beings below, still watching the exchange at their placid distance. “They’re not true Jedi, of course, the way the old ones were raised. But we’ve had scholarly texts to build on, and found a holocron or two that we were able to use to transfer much of the philosophical teachings. And, as you can see, substantial training with lightstaves,” she adds. “True kyber is difficult to acquire, outside of Mandalorian space, so if you want to outfit them accordingly, you’ll have to provide us the materials for proper ‘sabers. We’ve analyzed designs, of course, so you needn’t handle production yourselves. We can accomplish it before the rest of the units are complete.”

She’s practically salivating, Cody thinks with disgust. He’s been to the outpost on Ilum, seen the kyber caves. They are beautiful things, more so than any diamond mine in the galaxy. And why, by the ka’ra, and in the name of every kriffing Sith hell, would Cody, or any Mandalorian, want to outfit a Jedi with their most fearsome weapon, when no Mandalorian in their right mind would even want one trained? Why would Ba’buir-

He can’t have done. It’s the only explanation.

It’s too much to take in. Judging by Rex’s shifting and Bo-Katan’s tension behind him, Cody isn’t the only one struggling. He focuses again on the sea below them and tries to rein in his anger, to think tactically, to honor his training. Twenty-odd Jedi, he can contemplate. A few thousand, he’s not yet ready to consider. They all look of an age with him or older, some possibly older even than Buir, which doesn’t seem right. Cody picks out a Togruta who must be nearly middle-aged, a few Twi’leks, even a Kel Dor amongst them, though several look Human Standard, at least to Cody’s eye. Cody has seen drawings of old Jedi robes, and their manner of dress is close, cut somewhere between that and the angular lines of Arkanain fashion, though a few have discarded their outer layers, clearly in the middle of training bouts before this interruption. On instinct, Cody removes his helmet, tucking it under his arm.

It’s a move he second-guesses, when a ripple of curiosity goes through the beings below, and Cody doesn’t need to have met a Force-user before – he has taken the Creed under a goran, has seen the Dathomirians, has even met a farmer or two who he was sure wielded the power, if not at full strength – to feel the wave of probing directed his way. He grits his teeth, remembering his shielding. Buir had taught him, praying he would never need it, and Cody forces it up, eyes tight as he turns back to Minister Anildri.

He has too many questions, not the least of which is who in the kriffing hells ordered an army of Force-sensitives, because Cody can’t believe any Mando would do that, much less Jastor Mereel. Not if Demagol’s research was the basis, certainly. But Cody is a tactician, Mand’alor heir apparent. He knows diplomacy, and he knows battle, and he knows they’ve already given up too much to the Arkanians about how little they know. He keeps his anger off his face.

“I want to meet them,” he says flatly. Inside his bucket, Rex makes an un-Mandalorian squeak.

“But of course!” Minister Anildri looks pleased at the thought. She signals the guards again, and the gate starts to grudgingly close behind them. There are sweeping staircases on either end of the balcony, winding in an arc to the training yard below. Anildri gestures towards one, and Cody strides forward, the minister placing herself just a half-step before him as she agrees, “It’s only practical for you to evaluate the merchandise yourself.”

Rex is making several frantic hand signs at Cody, most of which boil down to danger and are you insane? Bo-Katan is hot on Cody’s heels, and Cody shoots her a look that he hopes conveys don’t get any ideas. He needs a better evaluation before he makes a plan, even if retreating to their ship to glass this whole place feels like the knee-jerk reaction. Probably especially if that’s the case. A good tactician doesn’t jump immediately to total annihilation, no matter how horrific the matter may seem.

Does this go against the Mandalorian-Republic treaties? If they claim an army of Jedi, or any Jedi at all, does that break their agreements? The Republic has never been pleased about that aspect of the treaty. Cody is going to have to talk to Silla, and Buir, and Duke Adonai. He needs to see that contract the Arkanian’s claim Ba’buir made.

If there’s any way to let this program die, that might be the simplest path to take.

He descends the stairs after Minister Anildri. On the bottom step, she calls out in a language Cody doesn’t recognize, and many of the Jedi turn away, returning to sparring or spectating. It’s less eerie when they’re not moving in unison, but it’s still uncanny. Those on the mats are fluid fighters, well-trained with their lightstaves. It won’t deflect blaster shots, like Cody has heard a real lightsaber can do, but it will still serve them well in a fight. Cody clocks a few moving too fast, or too precise, in ways that make his skin itch. He has met a few Force-users, but they had all been quiet people, easy to go along with the Empire. They had been excellent farmers, or good with animals, or preternaturally lucky at small games of chance. Save the Dathomir witches, Cody has never met a Force-user who so casually displayed this level of ability. Even the gorane only speak with the ka’ra, visions burning in the heart of the forge. They do not claim to override their rule.

Minister Anildri calls out again, which turns the head of a human or near-human observing the Kel Dor fighting a serpentine species Cody vaguely recognizes. Thisspiasian, maybe? The human disengages the crowd, folding his hands in his sleeves as he makes his way over. To Cody, the science minister confides, “We’ve had quite a bit of success with this one. His midichlorian count is lower than we’d like, but he is remarkably intelligent, and one of the more obedient units.” To the Jedi, she says, “Obi-Wan, this is…” she pauses, as if finally realizing she has never asked Cody his name.

“Cody Fett,” he says tightly, scanning the Jedi – Obi-Wan – with as neutral a face as he can manage. “House Mereel.” The anger is less boiling now, instead a coiled heat in his stomach, warning him at being so close to an enemy. Caution is in Cody’s nature, but he’s surprised at the other heat that warms his veins. Obi-Wan is…well, he’s pretty, Cody thinks. He’s an inch or two taller than Cody, with a neatly cropped beard and copper hair curling just above his shoulders. His blue eyes flick over Cody in return, lingering briefly first on the Mythosaur signet on his left pauldron, then on the curling scar on Cody’s face, before settling back on Minister Anildri, like he’s waiting for something. Yes, he’s pretty, but that doesn’t make Cody less wary.

If anything, it makes him more so.

Minister Anildri hums in acknowledgement. To Obi-Wan, she says, “We’ve been informing them of our successful units. They’re here to see our progress.” There’s a layer of pointed meaning in the words that Cody doesn’t miss; demonstrate, it says.

Obi-Wan smiles blandly in response, angling his body away from the minister and towards Cody instead. He keeps his shoulders loose, hands still in his sleeves, and offers a slight incline, in the suggestion of a bow without actually bending at the waist. “Hello there,” he says, and Cody forces himself not to startle at the accent; it is Core-world, Coruscanti-style, as if Obi-Wan’s attended their Upper Academies instead of been stuck underground in this laboratory of a city. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he continues smoothly. “You’ll forgive me for not knowing the appropriate level of deference; our diplomacy training indicated Mandalorians are against bowing as a rule, but it is part of Jedi respect rituals, and we haven’t been informed if we’re to be soldiers or weapons for your army. We’ll correct accordingly at your command.”

It’s not so much that the rage vanishes. Instead, it’s swept up in a tidal wave. Cody manages to keep from reeling, though he does shift on his heels, fighting for neutrality in his exposed face as conflicting facts slam into him. Obi-Wan is polite – is well-trained. He is a Jedi, allegedly, artificially made. And he doesn’t know if he is a person or an object, only that he belongs to Cody’s people.

Cody is going to kill every Arkanian in this place.

He thinks his shields must slip, because Obi-Wan’s eyes dart to his face, the briefest flash of confusion cutting across his features before smoothing out again. Cody locks it down; he can’t afford to be letting a bunch of kriffing empaths read his confliction. He’s had dreams of Jedi, in the way that children often do: nightmares of yellow-eyed Force-users seeking revenge, razing cities. Heroic adventure dreams of cutting down a rogue Jedi, his beskad cleaving flesh to his family’s pride and joy. Face to face with a real one, Cody has to contend with the fact that this is not a myth, a legendary monster to slay. Why did they kill all the Jedi in the first place? Because they had allowed – had created – the Sith? But Mandalore had allied with the Sith before…the teachings are hazy, and Cody suddenly wishes he had paid more attention in ancient history classes instead of focusing on the present-day politics. What had happened, really, two hundred years ago? Why had they decided to finally lay waste to an ancient enemy? Why, this time, had they not stopped until the Jedi were truly extinct?

A person stands before Cody, and he is jetii and demagol’ad, living fruit of Mandalore’s great mistakes. What is Cody supposed to say?

Carefully, he asks, “Baj’hibi Mando’a?”^[5]

Obi-Wan blinks, but his response is instant, and better accented that Cody expected, considering the state of his Basic. “Elek, nicet’be. Val ru’ba’juri mhi yaihi’lyc.”^[6]

It takes Cody a moment to place the archaic title, and when he does, he flinches, and feels Rex do the same at his back. That’s…really not helping his desire to deal with this the old-fashioned way. But if the Arkanians taught Obi-Wan Mando’a – taught him to address Cody as Master, as one-who-puts-me-on-my-knees – then asking questions like this isn’t an option. He can’t guarentee honest answers in front of the people who made them, if Cody asks things like, “Do you consider yourselves an army of slaves?” And asking Minister Anildri technical questions – why do they look of such varying ages if the Jedi can’t be more than twenty years at the most, why did Ba’buir say he wanted them, why are they so calm and kriffing proud about making an army of Jedi slaves – feels unspeakably rude in Obi-Wan’s presence.

Mandalorians don’t believe in slavery, on top of every other reason why this mission is proving to be the worst of Cody’s life. Politically dicey with the Republic, morally reprehensible by internal Empire standards – Palpatine couldn’t have given Cody a worse present if he tried. What is the protocol for acquiring thousands of sentients you don’t want, apparently already bought and paid for, made of the labor of the worst war-criminal in Mandalorian history and incredibly liable to start another war? The CIS is already making rumblings. This is the last thing Cody needs.

“Nu nicet’be,” he manages. “Mando’ade n’mircetar.”^[7]

Obi-Wan blinks, and Cody doesn’t think he imagines the way the Jedi’s shoulders straighten a bit. Minister Anildri looks back and forth between them blankly; either she doesn’t speak Mando’a personally, or she’s unbothered by pesky things like morals and ethics. Slowly, Obi-Wan offers, “Ni suvari, alor.”^[8]

Well, Cody can live with that.

Minister Anildri does spare him having to ask any questions by deciding to interject smoothly, “As you can see, we’ve put a great deal of work into them. Obi-Wan here is one of our near-human units. Stewjoni, to be precise. Very loyal, and quite good with languages; if not for the low midichlorian threshold, we would have attempted more. He’s also one of our most proficient with the combat technique the Jedi used to refer to as Form Three, if you’d like a demonstration.”

It's undoubtedly more showboating, trying to retain her share of the conversation, but it’s an opening, Cody realizes. A chance for privacy, or near enough, without appearing suspicious. “I’d like a demonstration,” he decides. “I’d like to see how your new Jedi fight.”

Obi-Wan’s expression flickers again. Cody isn’t sure what he’s getting off him, but he experimentally loosens his shields; not enough to let the Jedi invade, but enough to suggest that he’s not planning on trying to kill him where he stands. If it makes a difference, Obi-Wan doesn’t show it. Anildri bows, managing to make the move even more condescending than Cody would normally take it, and raises a clawed hand to signal one of the other Jedi.

Cody steps forward instead. “If you don’t mind,” he says, “I’d like to test him myself.”

That certainly gets Obi-Wan’s attention, and this time he doesn’t bother couching the intrigue. It sends another lick of heat along Cody’s spine, being focused on by that sharp blue gaze. Unfortunately, Cody’s type has always been calculating and, frankly, dangerous. The more deceptively dangerous, the more intriguing. There’s a reason he’s never pursued anyone, even casually. The men Cody wants are men he can’t risk seeing, because Cody is going to be Mand’alor someday and he can’t do that with a knife in his gut, placed there by a disarmingly pretty face. “Very well,” Minister Anildri says, though she looks a little doubtful. To Obi-Wan, she says, “Clear the mats. It may do the others good to watch a true Mandalorian in combat.”

“Of course,” Obi-Wan says obediently. He turns, and wades back in amongst his brethren. Cody watches as he bends his head, speaking hushed and quickly, the other matches drawing to halts as a central space is cleared.

When Cody turns to face Rex, handing off his helmet, Rex clearly takes it more out of shock than anything. “Vod-“ he starts, voice low and warning.

“Trust me,” Cody murmurs back.

“They’re jetii,” Bo-Katan hisses. She glances around, though the only one within earshot is Minister Anildri, and bites out, “They’re demagol’ad jetti. They’re- they’re-“ She huffs, and Cody fixes her with his best I’m going to be Mand’alor one day, and I’ll need you in my advisory council look.

“They were bought and paid for by someone claiming to be from House Mereel,” he says, too quietly for anyone else to hear. “Someone claiming to be Mand’alor. We need to know why, and we need to decide what we’re going to do with them, because taking them might very well start a war we can’t afford.” They can’t fight the CIS and the Republic at the same time. “He’s not going to kill me,” he adds. Cody’s certainty in his martial prowess is matched only by his certainty in the way Obi-Wan called him alor; no trace of viciousness or insincerity, just something Cody might even classify as relief.

He flexes his fingers, then unsheathes his beskad. He’s comfortable with a blaster, but he leaves those in their holsters. He’s not planning on firing live rounds at Obi-Wan, at least until he’s sure the man is truly capable of dodging them.

Obi-Wan, he thinks, notices the move, tilting his head as the only betrayal of his curiosity. Cody steps into the center, his boots leaving heavy indents on the mats. Obi-Wan steps opposite, so light on his feet that he doesn’t disturb the surface, the foam unbending. He shrugs off his over-robe in a movement that, in spite of himself, makes Cody’s mouth go dry. Oh. Not just pretty. Under the billowing folds, far less hidden by the tunics beneath, Obi-Wan’s shoulders are only slightly less broad than Cody’s, his build lean but not willowy. Cody forces his eyes back to Obi-Wan’s face in time to see a smile twitching at the other man’s mouth, curious and daring as he pulls a short lightstaff from either side of his belt, clipping the two halves together with a twist that activates crackling electricity along the blade. He assumes what Cody recognizes as an exceptionally polite opening stance, and Cody has to bite back a spark of amusement.

He'd been angry, he thinks. Now, the fire in his blood is a different kind of burning.

He takes a moment to circle, sizing Obi-Wan up, checking for any obvious lulls in his guard. There are none, Obi-Wan’s steps sure as he matches Cody’s pace, and the sparkle in Obi-Wan’s eyes tells Cody he’s being just as thoroughly sized up. “Never thought much of the Jedi as fighters,” he says conversationally. “On account of them all dying in the last couple centuries.”

It’s a tactic he sees Obi-Wan understand and reciprocate, the Jedi’s smile sharpening as he verbally parries, “Well, I can only speak so much for our forebearers who fell on your blades, but we were made for Mandalorians, for your army. You’ll find our training more than satisfactory.”

Cody feints, just to see if Obi-Wan will take the bait. He doesn’t. He drops his voice a little lower, out of Minister Anildri’s range of hearing. “And what does the Mandalorian army need with a bunch of Jedi?”

“I was rather hoping you would tell us, alor.” The title, this second time, is not delivered with the relief of a man believing Cody doesn’t intend to treat him as property. It’s delivered, this time, in crisp upper-class Coruscanti, smooth and purring and oh, yes, Obi-Wan is good at this game. “You did order us, after all,” he adds, blue eyes narrowing. “Surely there was a purpose?”

Cody lunges forward; he gets the sense if he doesn’t attack first, Obi-Wan will keep up his patient defense until ordered otherwise or Cody drops his own guard, which isn’t happening. Obi-Wan reflexes are excellent, nimbly sidestepping and parrying the second strike with an expert twirl of his staff. The impact jolts up Cody’s arm, more for the crackle of electricity, making his hair stand on end. He trades a few blows before ducking in close, muttering, “Be honest. They made you?” Not just finding, not just training – made, from scratch, thousands of Force-sensitives. Cody hadn’t thought that could be done.

Obi-Wan, to his credit, does not miss a beat, murmuring, “They did. At your behest, I’m told, although I’d say you seem a little surprised to see us.”

Understatement. Cody ducks a prime seep of Obi-Wan’s staff, then slices with his dagger. “How-“

“I’m not a scientist. You might ask Bant or Che-“ A head tilt towards a watching Calamari and a blue Twi’lek. “-They have Healer training. I know it was certainly a feat. Our esteemed creators are very smug about their success.” He lowers his voice further, stepping in for a brief hand-to-hand exchange that catches Cody’s breath, forcing him to roll on the balls of his feet to return each blow in kind; Obi-Wan’s strikes are strong and sure, and Cody would bet anything there are lean muscles rippling under the folds of his robes. “They’re not much inclined to share their research, but I get the impression they’re running low on raw material, however they did it. The Force is not kind to attempts at manipulation.”

“You really have the Force?” Jedi training is one thing, but there’s culture, and then there’s the ka’ra’s blessing. Cody believes in it – he has to – but he’s never truly seen-

Obi-Wan sweeps his leg, knocking Cody down, and while he’s off-balance, Obi-Wan thrusts a hand out in front of him, like shoving, and Cody grunts as something hits him right in the beskar’ta, despite the space between Obi-Wan’s palm and his chest plate. It hurtles him back another few feet; he flips into a stand again, and throws his knife.

Obi-Wan catches it inches in front of his face, without a finger on the hilt. Cody stares, panting, and holds out a hand to halt Rex, who has bristled, and Bo-Katan, who looks ready to storm onto the mat to his aid.

“Impressive,” he says, when what he means is by all the ka’ra and everything holy. The knife twirls in midair, Obi-Wan’s gaze sharper than the blade.

“As ordered, alor,” Obi-Wan says, and Cody’s gut twists with two conflicting kinds of heat. There’s too much distance between them for privacy, and the knife clatters to the ground as Cody charges, with another series of vicious slashes with his beskad that Obi-Wan manages to block and parry. His movements are efficient, tight; if this is Form Three, then Cody can guess that Form Three is meant to exhaust one’s opponent before you tire yourself, trading brutality for patience. Cody’s stamina isn’t inconsiderable, but he can feel the challenge straining in in his muscles already.

“We’re not looking for an army,” he mutters, locking eyes with Obi-Wan as his beskad collides hard with the lightstaff’s cross guard. It’s a risk, but: “We’re not in the habit of buying and selling sentients either. You know we didn’t order this. Our government didn’t know it was happening. It could get us in trouble with our own people, as much as the Republic.”

“Pity,” Obi-Wan says, though his voice goes tight. He spins the lightstaff, nearly disarming Cody with the move; he barely keeps hold of his blade, grunting as electricity clips his pauldron before he can return with an overhand thrust, knocking Obi-Wan’s shoulder with the hilt. It gets them in close, into an upright grapple as Obi-Wan traps his bicep in an elbow lock, adding hot in Cody’s ear, “What if I told you it was in your best interests to take us?”

“Why?” If Cody didn’t know better, he’d say Obi-Wan sounds frantic, bargaining, underneath the deceptive levelness of his voice. “I know jetii have visions, that the ka’ra shows you things. What have you seen?”

“Me? Nothing.” Obi-Wan bites back a grunt as Cody wrenches free, getting a nick across the Jedi’s cheek in the process. He ducks the second sweep, and then locks Cody in hard again, with the pole of the lightstaff against Cody’s shoulderblades. “I don’t have Force visions,” he adds. “I just get feelings.”

“And you feel we need you.” Cody can’t help the incredulity.

“I feel you’re not considering everything.” Obi-Wan’s eyes meet Cody’s, gaze burning in intensity. “I know there’s a war coming. I don’t need the Force to feel that; the Arkanians talk when they think we aren’t listening. I know we could be helpful, and I can tell you’re intelligent enough to understand that everyone is willing to bend under wartime. Things that seemed unforgivable in peace are forgiven when bloodshed begins. That is called desperation.”

Obi-Wan really is intelligent, tactically trained. The Republic is anxious, that’s true. If the Mandalorian army agreed to protect them, if the CIS forces decide to attack, they can probably ratify the treaty retroactively, with no consequences. If the citizens of the Mandalorian Empire find out that an army of sentients were commissioned, they might forgive their leaders for liberating beings created by one man, at the legacy of a torturing murder.

It might also bring civil war again. Cody’s own lineage will be in question. Can Mandalore survive internal conflict if their borders are pressed on at the same time?

He shoves Obi-Wan, curved blade digging in towards his ribs. “You’re asking me to take a risk that puts all my people in jeopardy.” Does Obi-Wan know that Cody isn’t just a representative? Does he know that Cody is responsible for the safety of his people, his planet, the Empire at its farthest stretches?

Obi-Wan blocks it with a forearm, pushing back. “I’m asking you to reconsider.”

“Why?” The Jedi wants something. He wants to be taken. It feels like a trap; the Mandalorians killed the Jedi, ages ago. Why would a resurrected race be so desperate to serve their destroyers?

“Because we’re already paid for,” Obi-Wan insists. “You lose nothing by accepting.” Unless they lose everything. Unless Cody plays the politics game better than he’s ever played in his life. “And if you don’t take us, there are orders.”

“What orders?”

“We’re to be destroyed.”

Cody misses a step, jarred back as it allows Obi-Wan a hit square against his chest. Concern flashes in the Jedi’s eyes, but Cody forces himself to bounce back, leveraging his grappling cable to hook Obi-Wan’s ankle, knocking him down. Cody follows him to the mat, hauling him into a chokehold, his vambrace and shun’bur biting into the soft skin of Obi-Wan’s throat. “If we don’t take you, they kill you,” he realizes, horror washing over him. That’s what the missive meant. Renegotiating housing didn’t mean storage, it meant housing. Terminating the program didn’t just mean shutting down future development. There are lives at risk.

“We’re proprietary research,” Obi-Wan chokes. His fingers flex against Cody’s vambrace, skin pale in this sunless, unforgiving tundra planet, almost deathly against the bright orange sunburst paint. “The contract-“

Cody needs to see this karking contract. “Yield,” he demands, tightening his hold.

Obi-Wan doesn’t. He manages to duck the hold, forcing Cody to flip him, pinning him to the mat with a forearm against his chest. Obi-Wan’s face is calm, but his eyes are burning as he arches into the touch, and Cody realizes abruptly that he isn’t winning; Obi-Wan has rightly understood that Cody is analyzing the situation, not the battle, and is prioritizing negotiation over a proper fight. “Alor,” Obi-Wan says softly. “Cody. There are children.”

The battle-rush surging in Cody’s veins goes suddenly still and cold, ears ringing. “What?” he breathes.

Obi-Wan’s tongue darts out, wetting his lips. Cody fights not to be distracted. “Our aging is…inconsistent,” he begins. “Enhanced. They had trouble, especially at the beginning, with us surviving past decanting. They were on a timeline; they needed us older to reach it. I’m thirty cycles biologically, but fifteen chronologically. The eldest of us are barely eighteen. The youngest in training are only four or five, and there are still crechelings being decanted, easily another thousand. They’re children, Cody, by anyone’s standards. Please.”

Cody lurches back, up off Obi-Wan, staring down in horror. Obi-Wan gets cautiously to his feet, summoning his staff back to his hand. The casual use of the Force should send another lance of fear down Cody’s spine, but there’s no room in his heart to be frightened of Obi-Wan, or their murmuring, frowning Jedi audience. Not when Cody’s beskad feels abruptly twenty pounds heavier. Obi-Wan looks older than Cody, but he’s not. And if there are actual ade here…

Cody would be condemning them to die. They were made for the Mandalorian army, and every last one of them has their life in Cody’s hands.

Cody has trained in politics and diplomacy just as long as he’s trained to use a blade. None of that is as important as the Resol’nare, what it means to be truly Mandalorian. If Cody rejects the Jedi because he is afraid – of them, and of what the Republic or the politicians might say – then he is no better than Palpatine, sneering behind his teeth, saying pretty things that don’t hold any meaning. It is dar’manda to make these new jetii in the first place, but it is even more dar’manda for Cody to reject them. Cody has honor.

Well played, he thinks, not knowing who he’s addressing. He wonders if Obi-Wan can hear it.

Aloud, he calls, “Gev!” and Obi-Wan inclines his head, falling back into a neutral pose, letting his lightstaff drop to his side. Cody can’t look at him head on, burning in his periphery as he takes several measured strides off the mat, addressing Minister Anildri, who perks up when he does. “Not bad,” he says, keeping his voice level, expression as flat as he can manage, stomach churning. “The Arkonian’s work is everything as advertised.” Horrifying. Cody squares his shoulders. “I’d like to see Mand’alor Mereel’s contract before we finalize the terms.”

“But of course.” Minister Anildri gestures for Cody to follow, a flick of her clawed fingers indicating to the Jedi that they have been dismissed, based on the way they all seem to step into Obi-Wan’s space, hustling away with him towards a door on the far end of the yard. Through the throng of brown robes, Cody catches Obi-Wan’s eye one last time. He thinks the Jedi inclines his head, looking relieved, and Cody’s gut clenches again.

As he passes Rex, following Anildri, his vod mutters, “What the hell are you doing, Kote?”

Cody takes back his helmet, securing it over his head so he can switch to private comms. “They’re going to kill them if we leave them behind. I don’t know exactly what the contract says, but apparently that’s part of the deal, why they called for us in the first place. To decide if we’re taking them…or if they’re scrapping the whole thing.”

“They’re Jedi,” Bo-Katan says, and Cody can hear the uncertainty in her voice; not fear, not rage, but somewhere curled around derision, like she wants to spit at the Arkanian’s feet. “The galaxy is better off with them dead.”

“Do you really believe that?” Cody asks, tilting his head curiously. Bo-Katan pauses, and then her shoulders crunch in.

“I don’t know,” she says. “That’s what the elders always said.”

“What did the jetii say to you?” Rex asks. “He said something that changed your mind.”

“He told me there are still children.”

Rex’s shoulders jump angrily; Bo-Katan swears under her breath. They fall into flanking position behind Cody, squaring up as if he’s leading them into a fight. In a way, Cody thinks, stomach sinking, he may be leading them into the fight for their very way of life. “We can’t leave ade,” Rex says flatly, sounding vicious and sour. Cody isn’t sure who the target it, besides their Arkanian hosts. “Gar taldin ni jaon’yc; gar sa buir, ori’wadaasla.”^[9]

It's not the way the saying is usually applied. Cody still agrees. “We’re not leaving them,” he says. “They were made for us. We owe them that much.” This is Demagol’s legacy, and Demagol’s alone. Cody will not allow it to taint the honor of his people as a whole.

Minister Anildri glances over her shoulder, seeming surprised that they’re not quite keeping pace. “Is everything alright?” she asks.

“Everything’s fine,” Cody says tightly. “Just discussing what’s owed.”

The minister smiles broadly. “Well, I’m sure you’ll be relieved to know your people have already paid.”

“But yours haven’t,” Bo-Katan mutters, and Cody wishes he could reprimand her for the viciousness of the sentiment. He can’t, because that same itch of rage is simmering beneath his own armor, searing the skin.

“Not yet,” he agrees quietly, and feels her startle, then stand tall. “One thing at a time. First we free the Jedi.”

“Free the Jedi,” Rex agrees, “then make sure these shabuire don’t have a chance to do it again.”

Cody is diplomatically trained. He can fight, can lead the army, but it’s been a very long time since he felt Mandalore’s warrior heritage coursing through his veins. He closes his hand around the beskad on his hip, swipes his thumb over the knife where blood from Obi-Wan’s cheek just barely stains the blade. He tucks it back into his sheath. Someone will pay, he swears to the ka’ra. He does not wield their blessing, and so does not know if they reply. But Cody feels the sunlight in his bones, buried in this mountain beneath the snow, and he thinks that’s as good an answer as any.