RotSW: WFSAM - Chapter VI

STAR WARS

Rage of the Shadow Warriors When Few Stood Against Many


Chapter VI - Torn

Forward cargo hold, assault shuttle MILODON: en route to staging point somewhere outside Gyndine system

The blow knocked all air out of him as he was spun around and swirled down. He just about managed to get his arms up in protection as he crash-landed on the deck, hard. Enraged, he struggled back to his feet and faced his opponent, breathing rabidly. For a Mandalorian, a bolo-ball match, even a training session, was war. Ayden Stone danced around a little on the spot, like a boxer skipping to warm up, and glanced over the shoulder at his Noghri teammate. They were playing a two-on-two match, and Atross, the sturdy Togorian, just had charged into Stone, shoulders first, breaking the defense to score a goal with the ball.

"Wait for it," came Fell Tagren's scornful shout. He played in Atross's team, and was making a pause Ayden's reply. But nothing came. "Hah, so the grand 'Rockfall' finally admits it," Tagren continued. "He's only the champ as long as he's playing in the 'human league'." Glancing at the few spectators, he grinned nonchalantly.

Ayden shook his head in quiet amusement. "Look who's talking," he said. His team had lost, all right, but the others had only won thanks to Atross; Tagren had contributed next to nothing to their victory. "Kay, looks like this round's going to you," Ayden resumed with a sarcastic grimace. "I'm out for today, the rematch's gotta wait."

"There goes the champion...." Tagren chuckled, but accompanied Stone to the bench. Atross and Kharritokh, the Noghri, both shrugged and stayed in the makeshift arena. The forward hold didn't really offer the space needed for a bolo-ball game, but nobody cared as long as they had a good amount of fun playing.

Ayden nearly emptied a water bottle thirstily and splashed the rest over his face. Enjoying the cooling effect, he leaned back on the bench. Tagren sat down next to him.

"No, well played, ner vod," he said less aloud. "Good thing that Togorians loathe this sport. Otherwise they'd be galactic champions. How'd you get Atross to play with us in the first place?"

Stone shrugged. "Guess he realized it was the quickest way to get some space for this." He nodded towards the two nonhumans. Still in nothing more than unprotected jumpsuits, the two had since prepared for another kind of training. Atross was casually twirling a short wooden stick in his hands, waiting for Kharritokh to finish wrapping his wrists.

For any stranger, this would look like a fight with more than uneven odds. But Ayden knew better. The Noghri and the Togorian were an exceptionally well-rehearsed two-man team, perfect partners not only in battle. With at least four heads difference in height, and even a larger gap in body mass, they were an unlikely team, but they were complementing one another like no other.

You can't wish for better training circumstances, Ayden pondered. What better way to learn the advantages and disadvantages of fighting a differently sized opponent than this? It reminded him of a childhood tale of the Ewok and the Gorax, and how the young Ewok eventually managed to best and defeat the giant beast with nothing but a primitive slingshot. And Kharritokh was still the best fighter in unarmed combat he knew. Ayden had seen the two train before on several occasions, they varied gear and armament each time, and the Noghri had defeated his tall companion in the majority of the fights.

As he broke free from his reveries, Ayden saw that they had already started. Atross was going for Kharritokh's torso in a long swing with the stick, but the Noghri dodged in a roll and came out of it feet first, ramming them into Atross's shins. The Togorian's legs buckled, but he managed to keep his balance. Atross feinted to swirl around, what Kharritokh instinctively responded to with another roll. He was barely back on his feet when the stick connected with the hollows of his knees, and he toppled over. Even from the distance, Ayden could hear the Noghri exhale sharply as his back hit the floor.

But Kharritokh didn't back down. He whirled to the side instead, avoiding a follow-up strike from the stick, and jumped back to his feet, coming up inside the Togorian's reach. Unable to use his weapon, Atross withdrew a few steps to bring his left down on the Noghri's face, but the short martial artist was faster. He rammed his shoulder into Atross's thighs, and from what Ayden could tell, the Noghri probably put his entire bodyweight behind the charge. The instant the Togorian's balance began to waver, the Noghri stepped to his opponent's side, and accelerated his fall by kicking a foot into Atross's shin and bringing down both elbows on his back. Atross fell like a tree trunk, and with a thump his large body thudded onto the deck. He roared rabidly, but Kharritokh didn't give him a chance to get up again. The Noghri was on his back, one hand pressing down the furred head while the sharp claws of the other hand hovered millimeters away from Atross's throat.

Ayden was once again amazed at Kharritokh's speed. The whole training fight had been over in a matter of seconds, and had it been a real fight, Atross would be dead now. The two fighters were already back on their feet, talking, but Ayden couldn't hear what they said over the loud cheers and applause from the others in the hold. He only saw how Atross picked up the stick and gave it into the Noghri's hands, when he was distracted by a brute rumble from the left.

A few meters beside the bench, Norac Tristan was sitting on the deck, and by his side, a large ball of fur had just uncurled, revealing a four-legged canine animal. The rumble was more of a yawn, and short, sharp fangs dominated the now wide-open mouth. It was a vornskr, and the lack of a tail showed that it had been tamed. But it wasn't Tristan's pet; it belonged to Kharritokh and was more of a mount and battle companion than a pet. Rukh, how it had been named in honor of Rukh, the Noghri Death Commando who had killed Grand Admiral Thrawn, was a rather large specimen, large enough that Kharritokh could ride on its back in battle. Ayden had once seen that in combat against the Vong, and it was an intimidating sight—even gotta be for the Vong, he thought. Rukh was a tough creature, numerous scars and a raw build showed that. The vornskr's fur bristled as it spotted Kharritokh fighting, but apart from a short hiss, it didn't show any reaction—Rukh was clever enough to know that it would get punished in some way if it disrupted a training fight between its master and his Togorian friend.

The two were still fighting, but Ayden stopped watching. He longed for a few minutes under a sonic shower, but that was a no can do. The old Bantha-class assault shuttle wasn't a luxury liner, its refreshers had nothing more than a toilet and a sink. On the way to his locker, he stopped a few moments to rub Rukh's neck. The large creature had very long fur, what made it look even more intimidating. Its crimson eyes fixed on Ayden's during the caress, and it began a deep purr.

"Gotta hand you over to Norac, sorry."

Tristan shot him a grimace as he walked by, but when Ayden reached his locker, the comm speaker signal sounded and the voice of Jorso Sateda, their pilot, clanged in the hold.

"Sorry to spoil the fun, vode, but we'll be out of hyperspace in ten. So you better get suited up, everyone."

Great. Ayden rolled his eyes. Now he had to cope with an even briefer visit to the 'fresher than planned.

*****

Safe house, Contruum

"Why? Just tell me, Sareth. Why did you do it?"

Ronan could only presume what had to be going on inside Ara. He knew he was furious. But in her voice, he could also make out a trace of terror, of sadness and, most of all, of despair. She was looming over her husband, a husband who was strapped to a chair propped up in the middle of the room; a husband who had betrayed them all, but most of all, his wife.

"You're not the man I married. You're not the father of my children. I look away for an instant... and when I turn back, I see a weak chakaar. An aruetii." She had to pause to clear her throat, her voice had become hoarse. "An aruetyc hut'uun." There she had said it. She had called him a traitor, and a coward—the worst insult for a Mandalorian. "Dar—"

"Ara." Sareth looked ashen, thick blood gushing from his freshly broken nose. He was trembling, breath heavy. "Let me... explain. The Vong... there is no stopping... them. Sooner or later, we will be... overwhelmed, slaughtered... enslaved, just like the rest of the galaxy. No way out... is that what you want for our children? A life as a mutated... brainless slave?"

"Open your eyes, Sareth! The war is over, nearly. The GA's fleet is en route for Coruscant, you said so yourself. Their whole fleet. The crab-boys are history."

"Don't... kid yourself. They'll need a miracle... now, to retake Coruscant. Or a superweapon. We both know that miracles... don't occur at our convenience, if they... do at all. And the... pathetic Jedi don't have the... guts to use a superweapon, even if they had one." He coughed heavily. Ara hadn't shaken him up tenderly. "I made a choice. To protect my family. When ensuring at least... some kind of future for my children meant to betray a... few strangers, the—"

"Strangers? Strangers?" Ara's voice was pure ice, tainted with contempt. "You betrayed your vode, your brothers and sisters. They are family, too. And you think the vongese let you in live in peace after they wipe out every Mando'ad in the galaxy? Let you raise a nice little bunch of kids, a nice little bunch of new Mandos?" She looked over her shoulder, glancing at Jiriad. He was standing a short distance behind beside Ronan; both had their arms folded. She glared back at her husband. "Remember Skira?"

Ronan took a step closer. He could hear Sareth's gulp. "He... he wasn't planned—"

"No?" the former commando said. He had to pull himself together not to lash out at the man. "Well that's inconvenient now, isn't it? Since we were all planned to walk into that trap. Without Graven's help, we'd be corpses now. Thanks to you." He was starting to get impatient. "What else did you tell them?"

"Noth—"

In an instant, Ronan was by the chair, both hands clasping Sareth's bloodied vest. Ara wanted to intervene, but he just shot a glare back. No. You can have your pick at him later. They had a lot of good men and women out there, and if Sareth had leaked any other information, he had to get it out of him. And pronto.

"Aye, like we're such big players. Cut the osik, di'kut." He tightened the grip and pulled. "What else did you tell them?"

Ara's husband didn't even open his mouth. Alright, you asked for it. Ronan brought his foot up under the chair in a jolt. The light metal construction dropped backwards, and two impacts were audible, as the back of the chair crashed down, followed by the back of Sareth's head.

"Don't you get it?" Ronan said, leaning over the moaning man. "It's end of the line. You won't get to see your kids again, and neither your Vong contacts. You cooperate, however, and we may do some reconsidering." He bent his knees and squatted, looking into Sareth's face up close. It had swollen up around the broken nose, making him look like a boxer knocked out for good. We've only just started. "I'm not asking again. You better hope you haven't told them about Gyndine. That'd give the term 'surprise attack' a whole new unhealthy twist."

Ronan watched closely for any ever-so-minor reaction from Sareth. At the mention of Gyndine, his trembles ebbed down a little, and Ronan could spot him squint slightly. Fierfek. He straightened up again, walked a few steps, and then returned to the chair. They're flying right into an ambush.

"You can't keep... my kids from me," Sareth said with a voice strained from agony. "I did th—"

"But I can," Ara muttered. "Dar'manda and shuk'la riduurok is hard, but dar'buir..."

Sareth winced and swallowed hard. In the same breath, Ara had divorced him, made him and outcast and threatened him with being disowned by his children. Ronan could see the realization dawn on the man's battered face. He had lost everything, and he could only save a fragment of that by cooperating now. He was looking up to Ara, his expression one of begging, but also of unyielding defiance. He wanted her mercy, but didn't offer anything in return to earn it.

"Altair, you can take over," Ronan said. "I have to warn off our Gyndine task force, they're probably walking right into one big trap. Get as much out of him as you can." Usually, he would have handed that to Gladus, a man better suited for such a dirty task. But the former assassin hadn't lost a son and now had the person responsible sitting right in the same room as him. Jiriad would do just fine with the interrogation.

The Kiffar had already approached, anger written into his tanned face, as Ara grabbed his arm to stop him. She looked him in the eye with grim determination.

"No. I'll do it." She bent over her now ex-husband and jerked the chair back upright.

Ronan could nearly sense her inner struggle, but it was starting to crystallize which part of her was winning. Her grim warrior side, the side of her that had seen all the misery in the war, that drove her to the edge of despair. But Ara still had the strength to keep up the fight, and he admired that in her. But this, her husband's ultimate betrayal, was too much. Sareth would get to feel the full broadside of all the remorseless emotions that had built up in her over the years and decades.

Ara pulled out a short dagger, and Ronan turned away. He shook his head on his way to the other end of the room. Sareth's behavior both intrigued and puzzled him. The man was a traitor to his own family, in his belief of saving them. And yet he didn't give out his information, now that they had found out. He didn't take his chance at the small measure of redemption they offered him. Either the crab-boys have done a pretty good brainwash on him, or he's gone mental. Ronan frowned. Wars did that to people, even to the best.

He reached the table in the corner, where he had put his gear. Fenix sat in a chair next to it, elbows propped up on his knees, looking dispirited watching the events. He hadn't said a word since he had been woken by the noise, and while Ronan was glad of the absence of his bothering curiosity, he wasn't sure if not something else had shaken up the man. But right now, he didn't care.

He grabbed his helmet and donned it, powering up its internal systems. With a few voice-issued commands, he remotely accessed his Firespray's hyperwave transceiver, and while the interstellar link was being established, Ronan consulted the chrono in the edge of his HUD. If everything went according to plan, most of the forces gathering at the rendezvous point outside Gyndine system had arrived ten minutes ago. They were to wait another three hours for the stragglers before making the jump to the Vong-occupied planet.

I'm still on time. Building up the link was taking its time. Nemesis, Ronan's ship, had top-grade communications equipment on board, so he wasn't used to waiting. With the HoloNet down or largely out of commission—thanks to the Vong—hyperwave and hypercomm had to suffice, but at least they worked—usually. Sometimes, a connection was established within a matter of seconds, sometimes it took minutes. And sometimes, it didn't work at all.

Ronan decided to use the wait to check on Gladus. The burly man was still on his sickbed, but the 2-1B had been deactivated for the time being—even with the planned memory wipe, the droid could still pick up classified intel and broadcast it before they got a chance to erase it. No, the unit would definitely experience a close encounter with an unsubtle EMP charge once Gladus was patched up.

"I take it Karr won't be the one to babysit me now, after all." The assassin's voice was still hoarse, but the color was starting to get back into his grained face. He was recovering exceptionally well. "So, what's your nice police conscience say about slotting the traitor?"

Ronan grunted. "You just keep asking for it, burc'ya. It'll come down to Fenix and Rios watching your backside, I can tell ya." He shook his head, slowly. "As for Karr... it'll depend on how much he leaked. But ultimately, it's Ara's call."

"She's not giving him the subtle treatment now." Gladus's brow furrowed, slightly—it was as far as he got to a real grimace.

Ronan took another glance at his HUD's readout—still nothing. He glanced at Ara and Jiriad on the other side of the room. Her blade was hovering millimeters from Sareth's face, and with the other hand, she was twisting one of his fingers as if to break it. Ronan called to get their attention, and as they looked up, he waved a finger to beckon them over. The interrogation had to wait.

"We may have to leave this rock in a hurry," he began when they had approached. "You saw what's going on, Gyndine looks like one textbook ambush now. If I can't get a secure channel to the task force within the next few minutes, I'll have to inform them the old fashioned way. And that means flying, at full throttle. Even at top speed, it's gonna take a good four hours to get there. That's one hour too late, they'll long have jumped into the system." He scanned their faces, which was a bit odd since he still wore the helmet. "What I'm saying is that this is more than just a courier run; at best, it's a rescue or reinforcement mission. If worst comes to worst, however, we'll only arrive to pick up the debris." Ara and Jiriad exchanged troubled glances. "Nemesis's engines are already warming up, though it'll take some time to get to the spaceport. I'll need at least Sareth on board."

"I'll come," Ara stated without hesitation. Then she went back to her former husband and started to prepare him for transport.

Ronan glanced at Jiriad, and then Gladus. He motioned to the injured man. "You can either come along in your current state, or get your arm fixed and catch up later. Ara's Gladiator is still gonna be here."

Gladus looked down at the stump of his arm. "A one-handed gunner's not gonna be much use on your ship. I'm staying."

Ronan turned to Jiriad to address him, but something in his helmet HUD caught his attention. "Shab." For a moment, the connection icon showed static, then a garbled bar appeared with the message LINK COULD NOT BE ESTABLISHED. CONNECTION TIMEOUT. He jerked the helmet off and nearly slammed it to the floor, but caught himself. It was no use to try again.

Jiriad stared at him, his expression a mix of anxiety, tentativeness and suppressed anger. Ronan could guess what was brooding in him. Either he stayed to take care of his son's remains and informing his family, or he accompanied them for payback to the Vong—and perhaps also to Sareth. He glanced from the adjacent room back to Ronan. "Count me in."

The sniper gave him an appreciative nod and started to stuff his gear into a bag.

"Alright, that's it. Let's hustle, people."