STAR WARS

Rage of the Shadow Warriors When Few Stood Against Many


Chapter V - The Shape of Things to Come

Contruum - three hours later

Ronan let his gaze drift through the cramped apartment. Sareth and Macos were dozing on the cold duracrete floor, while Ara was struggling to stay awake in a massive, uncomfortable-looking armchair by a long bed. Gladus was lying on it, no longer unconscious but in deep slumber.

Shortly after they had reached the safe house—or safe apartment—which Rios had procured for them, the old blademaster had regained consciousness. But even though Graven's antivenin had worked, Gladus was in awful shape. The 2-1B unit that the GAI lieutenant had brought along had had to anesthetize Gladus again, in order to work on the numerous other wounds inflicted by the Slayer, especially the severed forearm. The diagnosis hadn't been good news. While not impossible, surgically reattaching the amputated limb would bear the danger of another infection, and Gladus might never be able to use his hand the same way again. Thus, he had to get a cybernetic hand prosthesis, but that would take time. And since they couldn't just decide on it for Gladus, Ronan and the others had to wait for him to recover.

"Anything exciting from your little scouting trip?" Ara's strained voice broke the silence. Her weary eyes looked up to Ronan, and she couldn't stifle a long yawn.

"All quiet and cozy," he answered, shrugged and finally stepped out of the door frame. "Not too surprising, this time of day." The door hissed shut behind him as he approached the kitchen.

As he returned with a cup of hot stim team, he grabbed an empty chair and sat down in front of Ara. He took a few sips.

"How's he coping with it?" he asked, nodding towards the adjacent room separated by a closed door. Jiriad was in there, with Skira's body.

"He's a broken man. I'm not sure he'll ever recover from the loss," Ara said. "He was having big plans for Skira's future? Now his entire world has collapsed."

"Aye... He waited so long with Skira's verd'goten because he wanted to make sure the young man was able to protect his little daughter and his mother from any threat, especially in these desperate times. Altair didn't take him along to Raxus Prime for no good reason. He taught Skira to fight harder than many a grown man. He showed that back at the Open Palm. And then the vongese come and commit the most hut'uunla action I've ever witnessed." Ronan paused, taking a long draft from the steaming tea, gazing into the distance. "Saying that I feel with Altair doesn't even get close to it...."

Silence ruled for the next few minutes, apart from sporadic snores coming from the dormant men on the floor, and the constant hum of electronics and of the idle 2-1B droid. After a while, Ara leaned forward but kept on looking down. "It'll take a while before he's ready to tell Scotah."

Scotah Nakoyr—Jiriad's wife and a second cousin of Ronan's—was at their home in Keldabe with their seven-year-old daughter, Zoja. The skilled mechanic ran a small workshop for repairing and upgrading speeders, speeder bikes and swoops, in the same building as her husband's smithy. She would take the news as hard as him, mainly out of compassion with him, as he had always had the closer bond to their adopted son.

Ever so slowly, the loss was getting to Ronan as well. The fatigue from the battle and the exhausting aftereffects of the adrenaline had only done so much to dampen his emotions. Altair's family was the closest thing to a family Ronan had himself. The Jiriad kids called him Ron'vodu—uncle Ronan—an expression especially Skira had been using frequently. Their relation could have been closer, but even from the best friends Ronan tried to stay emotionally detached, a tragic habit he had to thank his time in ShenCresh Ops for—too many brothers-in-arms, closest of friends, had he lost then. But it always got to him.

First Dubrillion, and now this. He could feel that another chunk of his soul had been ripped from deep out of his chest, a void that never ceased growing. The agony was not nearly physical, it was physical. It hurt.

Ronan raised his head, weary. Ara had eventually dozed off. He envied her. He was incredibly tired, more exhausted than he should have been, but there was no chance he could find sleep. Not in this state. He had to suppress a groan as he rose from the chair. The tailbone he had crashed on earlier today was making itself felt. Ronan ignored the pain and set his cup on a low table. His hands were trembling, slightly.

As he walked towards the 2-1B unit, the droid awoke from standby and turned to him, the sad expression on his durasteel face illuminated by dim yellow photoreceptors. They should've gone for a less gaunt, skull-like face. It doesn't really help the sick when they're presented with such a creepy-looking droid when they wake up.

"Ah, Master Barec," the medical unit announced, "I've been waiting to talk to you alone. Your friend here has a really unique physiology."

That might have gotten his interest at another hour, but now he just replied with an incurious "Uhuh...."

"For his considerable skills in swordfighting, and the agility required for that, Master Tite has a physique too sturdy and muscular. I have taken various blood and DNA tests on him." The droid took a little overly dramatic break. "I detected traces of Nagai blood, possibly third generation. One of his great-grandparents must have been a full-blooded Nagai."

Now that got Ronan's interest. "At least that'd explain his affinity for knives and blades... But shab, what the osik does that have to do with your therapy? You're supposed to make him ready to fight again, not conduct DNA tests to trace his kriffing bloodline."

The 2-1B raised an arm in defense, a treat far too human for Ronan's liking. "Master Barec, I merely—"

"Better hope you haven't told anyone but me about this. Otherwise I'll make sure that nothing but a heap of scrap metal will be left of you after you've finished treating him. I can't have the GA gathering personal data of my men. Shab, you aren't even supposed to know his full name, let alone his fighting preferences."

"My apologies, sir," the droid offered. "Lieutenant Rios supplied me with a full GA database file of Gladus Tite, to give him the best treatment possible under consideration of his medical history. I must say, the record is immensely incomplete, but that isn't totally surprising due to his... special background. But there was a mention of unnatural abilities for his physiology, so I conducted a few tests to complete the file. It is only for the benefit of Master Tite."

Ronan grimaced. He would bet his modified Firespray that before a certain Mandalorian slicer had paid Gladus's record sheet a visit, the file must have featured an immensely vast amount of data. Without the asylum Ronan had granted Gladus not even a half-year ago, the face of the former assassin would still be on dozens—if not hundreds—of wanted lists throughout the galaxy.

He shook his head. He couldn't say he was a fan of the Galactic Alliance, and although Rios seemed nice enough, there was definitely a memory wipe in order for the prying—or spying—2-1B. But that had to wait until it got Gladus back to his feet. For now, Ronan would keep that little detail about Gladus a secret. The Nagai had been both enemies and allies of the Mandalorians at a time—but then again, who hasn't?

The former commando didn't owe the 2-1B unit a reply, although the surgical droid appeared to be expecting one. He left it for good, striding away from Gladus's improvised sickbed.

The first thing Ronan glimpsed as he gently pushed open the door into the small adjacent room, was a long table under the only window, on which lay the covered body of Skira. Jiriad was sitting on a chair, the torso of his own vonduun-crab armor imitation in hand—he had donned the rest of it again. He didn't look up as Ronan walked in and seated himself. The armorsmith removed a small plate from his flak vest, a dark object which he put onto the couch and picked up a smaller, similar-shaped white piece instead.

Ronan knew right away what the fellow Mandalorian was doing. Jiriad had taken the center piece of Skira's white breastplates, commonly called the chest diamond, to replace his own by it. It was common Mandalorian tradition to take armor pieces of fallen loved ones or close friends, and carry them as symbols of remembrance, keepsakes that ensured the fallen one was never forgotten. Some Mandalorians had whole patchwork armors due to that tradition, while others just kept the tokens at their homes, in their ships, or carried them along in pouches. In Jiriad's case, it was the diamond, the armor piece with the probably most sentimental value, as it was closest to the heart.

Ronan's hand involuntarily went to his artistic belt buckle. It bore the intricate crest of the Jatt family, the Devaronian family where Mandalorian tactician Trynic Jatt had come from. Ronan had removed the buckle from Jatt's weapon belt before leaving his corpse to the flames on one of the many pyres over the battlefield on Dubrillion. He had lost a great friend and comrade there, and keeping a symbolic item like that was the best way to honor him.

Detaching himself from his reveries, Ronan glanced back at the armorer. Jiriad had since fastened Skira's diamond piece to his own armor, and hauled the spiked and armored flak vest over his thick dreadlocks. The white center piece looked too small in comparison to the rest of his abstract torso protection. With only fifteen years, Skira hadn't been fully grown, yet, and his armor had still been nothing but a temporary duraplast protection.

Finally, Jiriad met Ronan's eyes. Ronan gave him the most encouraging nod he could. Suddenly, the sniper felt he shouldn't have interrupted this utterly intimate and personal ceremony. But the Kiffar didn't seem bothered, and maybe he appreciated the company.

The Mandalorian father went over to his son and pulled down the blankets to the waist. It didn't shock Ronan to see that the smith hadn't cleaned up the corpse. Skira's clothing was covered by mud and dirt, dried splashes of blood—black and red—on his face. The sweat from the fights still glued his hair to the forehead.

Jiriad had his own chest diamond in hand, and as he was placing it on his son's armor, Ronan got up and stood next to his friend. When Altair was done, he knelt down and placed both hands on Skira's chest, one over another. Ronan put his right on the Kiffar's shoulder.

"Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar Darasuum, Skira," Jiriad recited in slow and measured words. I'm still alive, you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal.

By reciting this daily, Altair committed himself to immortalizing his son. It was a straightforward ritual—Mandalorians never wasted many words, and a fellow Mando'ad would always understand the spiritual value.

They remained in their position for a while, before Jiriad eventually got back on his feet. His tanned face no longer showed traces of tears, and as their glances met, Ronan caught glimpses of reignited flames in Altair's dark brown eyes.

"If you want a time out," Ronan offered, face to face with him, "spend some time with your family back home, don't let anyone keep you, ner vod. I might even come with you, shab...."

"No," came Jiriad's brief but determined reply. "Zoja and Scotah will not be safe before every single vongyc hut'uun in this galaxy is dead. I can't protect them sitting on my butts in Keldabe, waiting for it to solve itself."

Ronan wasn't able to find words. The loss of a lost one could change you forever, and if Jiriad's way to deal with it was to go for vengeance, it was his call. Everyone who couldn't accept that it was an utmost personal thing could not be considered a friend. And Ronan did accept it. Not only because Altair was his friend, but because he had been on the brink to do the same thing more than once himself. Revenge was a powerful thing, it took a lot of character strength not to be controlled by it. Ronan didn't trust himself to have that strength, but as far as he could judge, Altair Jiriad did.

He gave him a brisk but measured nod, one that conveyed far more than approval and support. They kept their eyes locked for several more seconds before Ronan knelt down before Skira as well, reciting the same words his father had.

The sniper was still on his knees as the door was gently pushed open and Ara entered. She hesitated for a moment, and then said, "Gladus is awake."

Less than a minute later, the three had gathered around the injured swordsman's bed.

"Fierfek," Gladus mumbled with an even raspier voice than usual. He was moving the stump of his forearm through the air, his eyes fixed on it. The 2-1B unit didn't stop him. "That sensitive heap of scrap just broke me the news." The droid was standing next to the bench, the ever inculpable face gazing from patient to visitors.

"We're sorry, Gladus," Ara started, "but seems there's no other way to—"

"Spare me your pity," the scarred and bearded ex-assassin interrupted her, shaking his head slowly. He didn't nearly seem as drained or weary as Ronan would have expected him to be. "I'm not fretting about it—it just annoys me that I have to go through the whole procedure again."

Ara exchanged a baffled glance with Ronan. "Come again?"

"That blasted scarbutt could've just as well hit two inches to the left. Then my old synthetic hand could be replaced with a new one, easy job when all the neural synapses already exist." He paused, realizing that his explanation hit on a wall of perplexity from the others. "What, didn't tinheadie tell ya? The majority of my cut-off hand was already cybernetic, that's why I chose to use it as a blocker for the Slayer's attack in the first place. Trouble is, I missed and he hit flesh and bone instead of metal and circuits. Talk about irony. But it allowed me to go for his head, and that one worked out quite nicely."

"Oh," Ara and Ronan exclaimed simultaneously. His secrets don't stop there, Ronan mused. Jiriad was standing passively next to them, not paying real attention. Gladus noticed.

"How's it going, big fella?" he addressed the Kiffar. "I did what I could to give that karking coward of a crab-boy what he deserved. It's an awful way to die, and I'm sorry for your loss, ner vod."

That was probably the first time Ronan heard Gladus use a Mando'a word. Never thought that cold-blooded killer could be sentimental.

"Reminds me...." Ronan said and fetched a cloth bag from the table. He retrieved the coufee, the severed forearm and the scalp of the Slayer, and showed the objects to Gladus and Jiriad. "These are yours, Gladus."

The former assassin eyed the items, slightly startled. "Give the scalp to Altair, I owe him at least that much after stealing his kill. I'd have left the Slayer in one piece if there was a possibility, but there's only so much we can do about an unknown enemy. Just give me that dagger, and do whatever you feel like with the forearm. I sure don't want it replacing mine."

Ronan laid the coufee and the severed limb on the bed, but as he wanted to hand the scalp over to the dreadlocked Mandalorian, Jiriad refused with a lifted hand.

"It's your rightful kill, Gladus, one that tells of great skill," he said. "You made sure that Skira's death wasn't in vain, and I would never have bested that... creature myself. I'm in your debt, ner vod."

He's coping with the loss all right, Ronan thought, a little shocked. It takes quite some to talk about such a loss so soon, and straightforward at that. While Altair had never lost a loved one before, he was dealing with it exceptionally well. Ronan just hoped for his friend that he didn't simply pretend to be "fine".

He spotted the hint of a nod, a lopsided smirk from Gladus to Jiriad, who had since found a seat on Ara's armchair by the bed. "Your call," the blademaster started, "ju—"

"Apologies, Masters," the 2-1B interrupted. "I see this is a happy reunion, but you're still my patient, Master Tite, and we will need to get you to a medical station in order to work on your synthetic forearm."

Ronan laid the scalp next to the other Slayer items and closed in two steps on the med droid. "Medical station?" he demanded, his voice pure ice. "As in 'medcenter'? No way, tinnie. Gladus stays right where we can see what you're doing to him. That's nowhere but here."

The droid didn't respond for a while, and due to its lack of facial expressions, it was hard to tell what was going on in its logic circuits. Then it looked down, and up again. "All right. If you can spend another day to wait for it, it's not for me to decide. Bringing him to a medcenter, however, would speed up the whole issue tremendously."

Nice way to end the argument with another argument. Stupid droids...

"It's all right, Ronan," Gladus said. "I'm a big fella now, I can look after myself. I'm only slowing you down, anyway, and it's merely a hand." He motioned to the 2-1B. "Get started." The med droid gave Ronan another glance, then it attended to the necessary preparations.

"Hmm... still, somebody needs to go with you," Ronan muttered. "Ara, can you wake up Sareth?"

She complied and approached the two dormant men on the floor.

"So, what's the next step of action?" Jiriad inquired with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "Apart from—"

A loud curse from Ara interrupted him, and he and Ronan spun their heads around.

"Osik," she grumbled. "Y'see that?" She was pointing at a heap of cloth, bags, vests and other things Sareth and Macos had tossed to the floor before going to sleep. The heap was quaking, as though a living thing was moving or trembling beneath it. Ara started to rummage through the medley while Ronan and Altair were approaching.

"What is it?" Ronan began, but then he saw it. Ara had pulled out a head-shaped object from one of the bags, and stripped away the cloth it was wrapped in. A meaty, brain-like object with short tendrils at the bottom, and it was vibrating heavily. It was unmistakable—it was a villip, a Yuuzhan Vong biot used for long-range communication.

Ara cast the living piece of technology back into the heap and drew her weapon, a long and elegant Bluebolt blaster. Ronan just about managed to jerk her arm away before she could release a shot.

"No!" he roared. "It may still be of use. They won't know we found it unless we respond." He paused, aware of Ara scowling at him, panting. "Whose bag is it?"

She forcefully freed herself from Ronan's grip and, instead of holstering her blaster again and responding, she stood up and went over to Fenix. The weapon gripped with both hands, she aimed at the sleeping man's face.

"Don't kid yourself, Ara," Ronan said. "That's not his bag."

Ara swirled around, fire in her glassy eyes. Reluctantly, she lowered the blaster, bringing the aim to bear on the head of Sareth. The head of her husband. With ice in her voice, she spoke hoarsely, giving the sleeping man a kick with her boot.

"Rise and shine, you hut'uunla piece of osik."

*****

Yuuzhan Vong warship UNDYING AGONY, space

The membrane of the door hadn't even fully contracted when Tzekon Lian stormed right through it, holding a stiffened amphistaff with both hands. A low-ranked officer was sitting in front of a wide assembly of villips.

"Face me!" Lian ordered with a bark. The young Yuuzhan Vong's head spun around. "There is a reason we agreed with our informant that only he contact us, not the other way round. Us raising him on the villip would bear the danger of blowing his cover."

The comm officer didn't even get the chance to open his mouth. The living serpentine weapon nearly effortlessly penetrated a gap between two rips and first pierced a lung and then his heart, before it came out of his back again, like a lance jabbed through a training ragdoll.

"Let us pray to the gods that you just didn't compromise it all."