#5
by Heyseuss on Mon May 17, 2010 9:03 pm
Dral
The hold of the Nomad-class freighter was packed with all sorts of equipment bundled into smaller loads, the sort that could be put on the back of a pack animal or stacked on a civilian speeder, but there was room enough to curl up and sleep on a temperfoam mattress, away from the others. He liked his privacy, and he wasn't much for the camraderie that many of the other rebels went in for, the strange revolutionary fervor where everyone talked about what a magnificent universe they were going to make once they took down the Emperor; Easy my shebs, he thought, as if they hadn't grown up in a police state where political subversion was closely monitored and the powers came down hard on dissenters.
No, he didn't quite fit in with the Rebellion's menagerie of idealists. Like the rest of Vanadium, who were a mix of technicians and officer types, an experienced security soldier or two. Alderaanians, core worlders of various stripes. Few smugglers, bounty hunters or mercenaries were joining a lost cause like the Rebellion. He was an anomaly, someone that joined because it was his ass and out of family concerns, a typical Mando.
Even so, he’d had the assembly of all his equipment to contend with as he found where to put each item so he could reach it in a pinch, and then organized it according to priority – if he lost webbing, what would he miss the least…that went in his pack. Whatever he needed the most went on the belt pouches around his waist. But when he’d done all that, he had time to sit around, or time to socialize…instead, he’d gotten some of the paints and brushes he found in the hold and worked on the scheme on his armor, something that reflected his life – Mandalorians were big on symbolism, drew power from it. They were not fans of statuary or anything they couldn’t carry with them, but were all about mementos and badges.
He had a chrono set to galactic standard time, spacer's time, that gave him a reference to work by. It wasn’t to leaving hyperspace and making the insertion in, but plenty of time to update his paint scheme to suit his tastes.
"Kelborn," the major had addressed him earlier, "We're going to need someone to act as a pathfinder and scout the ground to make sure it's okay to land the ship. You have a jet pack so I want you to be the one to set up the markers. You’re also the most competent man for the job, you have experience in this sort of thing and can function independently of the unit." which was a nice way of saying that he didn't fit in with the rest of this slick little unit, either mentally or in terms of training -- these guys all learned their tricks from some Alderaanian security types, the ones that were disappearing and filtering into the Rebellion. Kelborn was different, from a warrior culture that prepared for war constantly.
Kelborn agreed to the task, largely because he knew the logic was impeccable, even if the major, a fellow by the name of Antilles, a common enough Alderaanian name, also had the ulterior motive of not particularly trusting the Mandalorian. "We'll make the best of this arrangement, though I'm not sure what the planners were thinking with such a late addition," he'd said.
Technically, his job was to provide unconventional insight and training as an advisor to the local guerrillas. There was a small freighter load of specialists and people who would help organize the guerrillas and Dral Kelborn, the Rebellion's very own sore thumb.
What Major Antilles realized in planning was that his men had no particular training to make drops via parawing or jetpack, and that made landing in a jungle hard. The ship had to land itself in the jungle and unload the gear. But someone had to scout out the chosen LZ’s and make sure it was safe to land. That's when the Major asked Kelborn if it was true that Mandalorians used jetpacks and that he had one.
"Fifteen minutes to atmospheric entry," buzzed the intercom system. He was already strapped down with the equipment he'd go on planet with; everything in its place, everything light and handy. The seals on his suit were working. The only thing he had to do was pull on his helmet and move to the door, but he didn't want to stand there and wait. Instead, he moved into the corridor and then the galley of the freighter, a mishmash of exposed piping and electrical wiring, and a much-taped up series of bucket seats occupied by other members of the unit, aruetiise. The nods were polite, but there was little camraderie between himself and these; he reported straight to the major, bypassing the normal chain of command. He didn't particularly know these men, being added to the mission so late.
At least the pilot was a grizzled smuggler by the name of Chen, a fellow he was more comfortable with. The cockpit of the ship hummed as computer displays lit the compartment and holograms shifted, twitched and shuddered. The ship, a Kuat Drive Systems Nomad-class freighter, was smaller than the sister class, the Wayfarer, and the cockpit was cramped for two. The cargo compartment was a separate unit attached by various hooks, something that could be jettisoned if Imperial Customs came calling, and it jutted off to the port side, obstructing the view of space from that side.
"So this is your show, eh Mando? Funny how they decided to drop you in for the rough job rather than one of these Alderaan Academy boys, eh? Guess he figures to get rid of the ballast first." Chen had a gallows sense of humor, which was more than could be said for the do gooders he was freighting in.
"That's the long and the short of it. Me and my kriffing big mouth, I had to tell him that us Mando boys like our jetpacks. Now I get to jump into the jungle. What's the update on weather?"
From the cockpit, Galleefryn II loomed, ever closer, a green and blue globe that looked peaceful and idyllic from up here, as almost any planet could from above. It was hard to match up the political conditions down below with such a serene picture. In truth, he understood what the old smuggler meant when he talked about the serenity of space, the stately movement of the heavenly bodies. Old Chen liked to wax poetic in his cups, and he seemed to deem Dral to be the only man there worth talking to about such important things. The Alderaanians were a cultured people, but they didn't seem to have much of an appreciation for the simpler things.
"Rainy season. They already had a downpour where your drop zone is, should cushion the fall nicely. But it's a bad deal for avoiding observation. I'd rather be going in under a storm, but the Major doesn't want to mess up his timetable."
"No one ever told him that here in the kriffing real world, the plan never survives the first blaster bolt, I suppose."
"He's ex police, he doesn't want to hear it from a smuggler."
Kelborn glanced over at the graybearded old smuggler. They'd spent most of their time together on the ship, and formed a bond of sorts, though it was casual.
"Well, if your instinct suddenly twitches, I would do what it says, and not listen to him. Ret'lini."
"I don't need a kid like you to tell me that, Mando." But the rebuke went with a smile. "What do you think of the mission?”
"Too late to change my mind, smuggler. And I'll be out the door before them, one man can slip under the net more easily than many. After that, who knows? Guerrilla war in the jungle, beats sitting on some base somewhere. Mishuk gotal'u meshuroke, pako kyore."
"What is that, some folksy Mando wisdom you're trying to shove at me again, boy?"
"Pretty much. It means I don't like to sit on my shebs and get fat when I could be doing something useful."
The old smuggler snorted as he tapped on his console; the ship started to shudder as it hit atmosphere, "You think you'd want to spend as much time as possible with that pretty new wife of yours, but the best I can tell, all you Mandos are certifiably off the rails. Well, no time left for any more talk, watch your rear, Mando. You boys are hard ones, but you're stepping into a war now. Didn't think I'd see something like this ever again..."
"I guess that's the difference between us and the rest of you. We've been expecting this war for a while." He clapped a gauntletted hand on the smuggler's shoulder, "Re'turcye mhi, ner vod."
"Force be with you, kid."
And with that, Dral turned on his heel and strode down the corridor, toward the hatch he'd make his exit from, once they were in atmosphere. There was an inevitable round of equipment checks, things he figured he’d need in the event of difficulties. An array of weaponry, some of it new and somewhat unfamiliar when strapped on, such as the cord-hilted knife his wife had given him as a wedding gift – typical Mando wedding – he’d given her a blaster and she’d given him a knife.
"Kelborn?" It was Major Antilles, trying to do the decent thing by being a caring, conscientious officer, even though Kelborn wasn't particularly impressed by the man. The others in the unit looked up to and respected the man, but he was simply far too different to relate well.
"What can I do for you, major?" The courtesy was there, but it was the minimum. A simple understanding for each to stay out of each other's way.
Dral pulled on the helmet, settling it and letting the seals engage and the HUD spring to life with a slight, momentary hum before settling into silence. The audio pickups engaged, slightly sharper than the average human ear, but not too sensitive. The helmet had that familiar sensation, the temperature control just right and the air filtration provided air that seemed far normal to him than the atmosphere of some planet.
Meanwhile, it seemed as if the Major’s attention had wavered, down to the package; ”What is that, Kelborn?”
Kelborn’s fingers snapped open the clasps and he opened the case wordlessly, to show the Major what was contained within; a polymer and metal weapon, with a wide, gaping barrel and a large, six-chambered magazine and a trigger unit, among other things, ”Grenade launcher, fires standard large ones, fast if you need it. The Imperial Army uses the Caspel, but this has better range, better accuracy and more versatility. “
It was the last thing to strap to him, via a three-point sling that let it rest across his chest; he looped it over his head and then tightened the straps somewhat, making sure it was fitted just so.
Meanwhile, the Major continued, "So I see. Anyway, I just wanted to wish you good luck. You're very different from the rest of the unit, but you're the first one in and you have my respect for that. But in case things go wrong, I have a data chip for you with the information you'll need. Make sure if you are in a position to be captured that you clear out the data." Kelborn turned around with a nod, from behind the buy'ce and took the thumb-sized data disk. He wasn’t sure what to say, because it was the sort of thing the rest of the unit already had, and it seemed beneath his pride to thank the man for finally trusting him, largely because he was forced to. Instead, he just ignored the slight.
The craft shuddered in the throes of entry, causing some things to rattle along the bulkheads, even as Kelborn fed the data-disk into a PDA, along with a fast erasure sequence – three numbers, enter, and then a pair of keys pressed at the same time.
"Alright, major, I can make sure to do that. Good luck yourself, and I'll see you groundside." He didn't see the point in wasting the time with more awkward pleasantries as he checked to make sure everything was strapped down securely in place. Like an old time Mando, I'm jumping in. Too bad I don't have a droid to ride on like in the days of Canderous Ordo... he thought.
He paused before the starboard airlock and hit the comm unit next to it, ”Alright, Chen, I’m ready to jump. I’m entering the airlock now and waiting for your call.”
--
Zheryn
The operations tempo in Galleefryn, at least for the Three-Five-Deuce, was slowing down largely because of politics. Kelris hated politics, and the way the sector’s Moff, a woman by the name of Voreen Jaldor, took the side of the locals, like Radovan Vortusk and Qurzit Sangha over that of Colonel Numarkus.
The Three-Five-Deuce was kept out of action because of these disagreements on how to proceed and because Colonel Numarkus refused to use his forces, the face of the Empire, against the civilians in such a heavy handed fashion as Gal Durka’s bully boys.
”I’m waiting for Sangha, Vortusk and Durka to slip up, and then I intend to rescue these people from the uncaring Corporate Sector Authority in the name of the Emperor,” the Colonel said, quite candidly, at a meeting of the regimental officers. Then he’d given orders for the Three-Five-Deuce to pack it up for the countryside for training maneuvers, the better to distance himself from the current policy.
In light of the Declaration of Rebellion, which came to the Imperial Army’s commanders through the ISB and Ubiquitorate, the developments on Galleefryn were disturbing, the last thing they needed was to give civilians reasons to support the Rebellion against the Empire on this planet, but that was what the brutish Durka, a stanging thornface, was doing.
When Kelris put in a report to the Moff about the progress, reporting some military successes with warnings of alienating the population, it put him in bad odor. Colonel Numarkus, not a careerist in the sense that he would prize career over doing his job, took the hit for him. But it also meant that the Three-Five-Deuce was getting slowly cut out of the loop as local forces seemed to go about things in a heavy-handed fashion, steadily alienating local groups that would support the current regime if their needs were attended to. Instead, it seemed almost as if Vortusk were carving out a personal fief and Sangha, the Arcon guy, was helping.
While the Three-Five-Deuce was out on maneuvers and occasionally providing support in some form to other forces in the area, they largely spent their time out of the game, watching the varying degrees of success and failure with which Gal Durka’s men and the Galleefryn II local forces and even the Scout Troopers engaged the various indigenous guerrilla groups. It wasn’t going too well, with lots of sloppy work that alienated the civilians. Sources in Arcon City and on Galleefryn II in general were drying up and Kelris knew less and less by the day, which was the nightmare of any intelligence officer. Yet, the reports to Moff Jaldor were upbeat, a razzle-dazzle account of how many engagements were ‘won’ with kills and body counts, while omitting more significant data like bodies found to weapons found or that the probable kills were assumed while bodies were not found, something to justify the number of blaster bolts fired in the jungle. The Moff wanted results, and Vortusk and Sangha decided the best way to provide results was to dress up reports. The Three-Five-Deuce sent out the reports to their own command, but the Moff seemed charmed by Vortusk particularly and discounted them as ‘pessimistic.’
The intelligence shop was humming along with reports and information, though there was admittedly little to go on, because the local authorities under Durka and Vortusk, to say nothing of the ISB, actually had yet to forward over pertinent information on this suspected Rebel operation. It disturbed him that there was such a potential for organized opposition, but it seemed remote. It wasn’t, he told himself, like the Republic, old and decaying, unable to handle its own affairs. The Republic let the Trade Federation and other elements of the CIS grow for years before acting because the bureaucrats paralyzed the government. This was just the sort of thing that the Empire was created to put a halt to. A bunch of fool intellectuals wanting to bring back all the frailties, corruption and gridlock of the Republic seemed almost evil, by comparison, to a Jabiimi.
The quiet of the gray prefab shelter, with its many monitors and commo gear operated by troopers concentrating at their tasks, was sharply interrupted in a way that made Kelris almost jump.
”Kelris, saddle up, I want you in the command ship with me,” announced Jumarkus, from the doorway of the office snapping Kelris out of his reverie.
”Rebels, sir?” Kelris said this even as he grabbed his field gear, sitting in a corner of the pre-fab, and hauled it along, keeping apace with the Colonel as they strode purposefully toward the landing field, where an array of repulsorcraft sat.
”Not just any Rebels, Kelris, off-world support for one of the local groups, the Galleefryn Volunteers.” This was said significantly, and Kelris, even as he was shrugging on web-gear and his armored vest, stopped in his tracks.
”You think the Rebel Alliance cut a deal with Serat’s group.” It wasn’t a question; they’d been trying to get the Volunteers for a while, but they’d been surprisingly resilient. They were not as eager to fight as the other guerrilla groups, they seemed to understand that they were in a position of weakness on the planet, and aimed to survive. They were, in essence, fulfilling the number one mission of any guerrilla movement – survival.
Numarkus nodded curtly, even as they arrived before the command LAAT/I, not so much refitted for any specific duty as it was simply piloted by the best crew in the regiment, with the specific task of keeping Numarkus in the air and in command or landing him where he needed to be landed.
”I’m fairly sure that is the case, Kelris. The thing is that a planetary defense anti-starship battery got what looked like a suspicious ship, and we have some intercepted communications, listen to this.”
The Colonel clicked his command into his PDA and it issued a burst of static, and then;
”…took a hole in the cargo pod, it’s bad…jettisoned the pod, as you no doubt saw and heard… major’s dead, unit is wiped out… I have to get out of here… on your own...
And then another voice, with an unusual sort of accent that nagged at Kelris’ memory, ”Copy that. Now get your shebs out of there…n’t worry about…try to make contact…tell Neyla that I said ‘oya!’ …know what that means…k’oyacyi, ner vod, out.”
”Force be with you kid… out.
The recording finished. Kelris nodded a moment, as various other troopers started to filter into the area, ready to load up on the laarty for the mission.
”So there’s a group down there, cut off survivors of a botched insertion, and we’re hunting them?”
Numarkus nodded, ”That’s right. It’s too bad that Vortusk’s men didn’t simply track the freighter as it was incoming, because we could have gotten everyone all at once, but there’s one live potential prisoner down there and we need to try and get him. The problem is that Gal Durka is en route as well. I want prisoners, Kelris, because they can provide all sorts of good intelligence for us, we can possibly roll up the enemy with what we get out of these frakkers.”
Kelris nodded, understanding the point; Durka had a tendency to kill in interrogations using brutal methods to extract confessions, but he had no real ability to interrogate to extract actionable intelligence. ”Command wouldn’t have sent us Mon Mothma’s declaration if it weren’t highly concerned with this Alliance to Restore the Republic. This group isn’t merely an issue for Galleefryn II’s problem, this is a link to a greater galactic threat and it is our duty to the New Order to make sure we acquire these people for the intelligence they can provide on the bigger picture.”
”Exactly, Kelris,” Numarkus nodded, even as he turned to the troops fully assembled and waiting for the orders to board the laarties, the command bird and three others, which were idling with the engines fired up; , making that ‘chonk-chonk-chonk’ sound, the drives on the laarties required the Colonel to yell over the noise.
”This is hot stuff, troopers, load up and we’ll brief on route.”
The only thing that bothered Kelris was that he couldn’t place the accent of the one man, or the slight, but dim familiarity of the snippets of foreign language he used in the comm chatter. But then, he had confidence he’d be able to ask the man, or alien, what it all meant soon enough.
--
Down below, the jungle canopy shrouded any view of the ground itself. While the laarty had the ability to see through that, due to the refitting of various sorts of sensors, it was hard to tell who was what down there with the amount of traffic. It was a staggering deployment of men and even machines into an area, flooding the place and confusing all observers. The first couple times they’d come upon a light-fight, it turned out to be a friendly fire incident and bad communications.
”Stanging battle droids,” seethed Numarkus, over the internal comm, ” It’s Sangha’s way of making sure we can’t patch into the communications and coordinate efforts.” It was the sort of underhanded method the Arcon man used.
”Crypto’s on it, sir. It might take some time, because it’s been a while since anyone’s had to actually crack CIS battle-encryption, but at the same time, it’s decades out of date from the SOTA. We already have the local comms, but they seem to honestly be lost in all this activity,” Kelris replied confidently, as the laarty banked and swung around, moving over various points of the general area in an attempt to locate signs of anything, perhaps even the cargo pod that the intercepted communiqué indicated as jettisoned. C racking the code was an intelligence job, and while Kelris was not a techie by inclination, “Crypto” or so went the moniker for one of the most oddball troopers in the regiment, a slicer serving a sentence in the Imperial Army of all places, was his man, brought along for this sort of job.
Numarkus nodded, even as he peered down with a gimlet eye on the battlefield and noted, ”I don’t see much in the way of action, besides the moisture farmer militia blowing itself away.”
”You probably won’t if whoever down there is smart and thinks like a guerrilla – you don’t go engaging a superior force unless you have to, and in all this chaos, it shouldn’t be hard for people that keep their head to slip through. There’s too much going on around here and no one’s in command.”
Numarkus grimaced, ”And I can’t assume command here, either.” Usually, that was an Imperial commander’s prerogative, but it was usurped on the orders of Moff Voreen Jaldor, who felt that Vortusk and his forces had a better idea of ‘local conditions.’
”Sir,” cut in Crypto, ”I have access to ESPO commo, including traffic from what sounds like a commander droid and Commander Durka, sir. You might want to hear this.” The trooper danced his fingers over the command console in a staccato and brought up a holographic map of the area to represent where the communications were taking place as a droid-ish voice started to drone.
”…lost contact with 3B5-2516, rerouting patrol 3B5-2540 to grid reference X53-Y7602…
”OOM-class droid commander, by the sound of it…” interjected Kelris to Numarkus, who nodded as they listened intently.
”Shoot to kill. I want bodies,” growled a bestial voice.
”Roger-Roger.”
Numarkus got on the comms, ”Vode-3, I want you to get to grid reference X54-Y7602 and observe toward X53. If necessary, I want you to neutralize droid forces if they get in your way and to prevent them from killing the quarry. Use DEMP weaponry, EMP grenades and any other measures as you see fit. Only use air support if you make contact, but do not engage unless fired upon, you are here to observe. I want the people we are hunting alive if possible. Be advised, estimated enemy strength is at squad level, eight or so troops. Tell your fireteams to stay out of sight and to stay in contact. Good hunting, out.”
Kelris glanced over at Numarkus, ”That’s a risky operation, sir…”
”I will accept responsibility for this clusterfrakk, Major, but I am looking out for the Empire’s interests here. I do not intend to be derelict in my duty.”
It was long minutes before the report came back in from Vode-3, ”Vode-6, this is Vode-3, we have evidence of an engagement below, and have planetary droid forces in our visual sight, but no sign of the package at this time. I want permission to make several false insertions and then land an ambush detachment south of this position and see if we can flush the quarry toward you and away from these droids, over.”
”Permission granted, to begin false insertions but hold off on the actual insertion pending my order, Lieutenant. It’s a mess down there. I’ll have the final authorization in a couple of minutes, out. ”
Kelris interjected at this point, ”Sir, I advise you put a rear guard element behind the position of our quarry, just in case they try to double back or move in that general direction. We’d do it on Jabiim that way, we’d try to confuse them by changing direction. In this mess, you’d be surprised how easy it is to slip between units and right out.”
”Good call, Kelris. I’ll let Vode-3 to slip in a four man observation post when they make their false insertions…”
--
Dral
Chen had been right, it was easy to land on Galleefryn II; it was a nice, easy, soft landing after an exhilarating, liberating jump out the port side of the ship into thin air, waiting for minutes before finally slowing himself down and bringing himself into position to pop a braking chute and use a jetpack to ease the way in; just like the old Mandos on their besuliske in the glory days.
But once he got on the ground, it all went pear-shaped in a hurry, starting with the sound of a huge explosion in the air above, and the sight of a jettisoned cargo pod full of the rest of his unit, including his late commander, plummeting down in the distance and making a huge racket and smoking mess as it impacted with the ground.
He’d expected trouble in the form of local forces after getting the bad news from Chen, and he wasn’t running into much in the way of good luck, either. He knew that as soon as he took down a patrol of tinnies with an EMP grenade from his launcher, he’d be drawing a response. His best hope was to try and double back south and then strike out, rather than try to run in the direction they expected him to run – away.
The only good thing about the situation was that B-1 battle droids were fragile, and not programmed to be scouts or trackers; he doubted he could pull this trick against organic troops, especially Imperial Scout Troopers.
Galleefryn II was a steaming, stinking jungle, with soil that sagged underfoot from the moisture, and he could hear vehicles flying overhead and felt himself crouch lower in the underbrush as he tried to move through slowly – he’d had a number of family that helped, in Mando fashion, train him for mental resilience and cool-headedness in a situation like this. He knew that if he moved fast, as expected, he’d draw the hunters. By moving slow, by watching, by staying cool, he retained control of the situation.
You had to control yourself. To allow the situation to control you was tantamount to calling out, ‘shoot me!’
The ground was soft and spongy, but there were hard spots where the root systems of vast, squat, leafy trees poked up to potentially trip the unwary. At the bottom of all this jungle were fallen logs, vast, covered with green growth and full to bursting with insect life. The entire place chattered and buzzed, but that backdrop receded.
The droid patrol came in typical ranked formation, the sort of thing that was sneered about in gathering places for Clone Wars veterans and others familiar with the behavior of battle-droids. It was easy to neutralize them with a single grenade from the rotary launcher. The weapon was not subtle, but it was hard to pinpoint without the benefit of a counterbattery radar, something that required clear skies to operate…in the jungle, the enemy would have no such thing. The grenade launcher was an ambush weapon, perfect for hitting the enemy unawares, so long as you didn’t worry about the reinforcements.
A blaster was a dead giveaway in this environment, at least to his mind. In the distance, one heard the occasional report of blasters, but that died down in this sector. He had no access to enemy comms, but he imagined that the loss of a patrol, even of cheap clankers, would be noticed eventually and reinforcements would be coming.
The verpine pistol he carried survived the insertion and seemed like a useful option, except that it had a very limited capacity for ammunition. It wasn’t such a good choice against droids, but against organic enemies it was probably his go to weapon, unless he was confronting more people than he could take on. Then he’d have to compromise himself with the launcher or even fire a blaster bolt.
He moved along at a slug’s pace, choosing his footing carefully and letting the direction-finder on his helmet’s HUD help chart his course. The environmental seals on his beskar’gam held, which meant that he had air conditioning and a supply of water in the suit itself, something that was as important for holding out in deep space for short periods as it was to staying fresh in the middle of a sweltering, steaming jungle for extended periods.
He’d have to stay out here for some time, he realized, until the hunt was called off, however that was going to happen. He had to get so far out of the search radius and hunker down a few days just to be sure, because even if he did survive and contact this Atria Serat, he might well be leading a canny enemy right to the Galleefryn Volunteers, which would make the whole point of the effort in vain. It was true that he had a jet pack, but it was also true that a jet pack didn’t help him more than it hurt him; it was an instant giveaway of his position, it exposed him, it made him easy for all his enemies to find and shoot him. No, to get out of here, he needed to be the hunter, not the prey.
He didn’t really have time to mourn Major Antilles or the rest of the squad, if he’d even really been inclined to – they’d been alright, but they were still aruetiise and not to be relied upon, for the most part.
Them and us, the old Mando way. So much for the Rebellion’s brotherhood of beings united in a just cause, he thought with some sarcasm, before admonishing himself to put his head back into the business that was afoot.
He found himself moving through the underbrush along the bottom of a gully when he heard the sound of water hitting leaves steadily, not in the haphazard pattern of condensation, but something more constant, spraying even his visor.
It couldn’t be… but it was. He froze in place, practically crouched on his belly, as the spray continued, along with the sounds of grunting from up above.
It was instinctive to spring up from the gully and try to hit the guy, hard and fast when he was at his most vulnerable. Only afterward did he look at the man he’d slammed against a tree, breathless, and swore to himself; that was an unusual camouflage pattern, but he knew what Imperial Army issue looked like.
The knife his Neyla gave to him, a dull, thick blade made of some ultra-sharp alloy, with a knotted-cord hilt, was already in his gauntleted fist, even though he had a punch-vibro weapon in the forearm plate. It was more for dramatic effect than anything, but it worked, ”Stay quiet and answer questions quietly. Nod if you understand.” His own whisper was harsh in his own ears, redolent with the undertone of desperation and fear, but perhaps that would add a fearsome element to it.
The trooper nodded, wide-eyed. A young man, about Dral’s age, and possibly an experienced, trained trooper, but not quite ready for this. The Imperial stormtroopers knew the value of armor as a fearsome symbol, faceless helmets to inspire fear. But Mandalorians knew it from thousands of years of practice.
”Which way are your comrades?” It was more a test than anything, but it was an important one, he could see the signs, over the man’s shoulder, of which way he’d come from.
”E-east!”
”Wrong answer. They’re behind you, some distance.” He dug the knife blade into the man’s neck-flesh, working the tanto-tip of the blade in until there was a thin trickle of blood.
”One more chance, di’kut. I know more than you do, I know when you’re lying. I want you to patch me into your command channel. If you do anything else, I’ll slit you from neck to groin…”
The man seemed to believe him, and perhaps he even hoped that Dral would follow through on the opposite of the promise and not harm him further if he played it straight. It didn’t even make the Mandalorian blink to think that he was playing on a man’s sudden, wild hope and desperation in such a fashion.
”H-here, it’s tuned to the channel, listen!”
”…so far, we’ve just run into Durka’s droid patrols. We had to put one down when they tried to detain us, stanging clankers…”
”Acknowledged. Proceed with the current operation.”
Dral nodded appreciatively, even as he left the comm unit on the man, for the moment. ”How many other patrols are there of you and what are your orders?”
”S-several, north of here. We’re the furthest south, in case your unit doubled back…we’re s-s-supposed to observe and avoid contact, call in your position and try to capture you a-a-a-live… I really don’t know more than that, I’m a trooper first class.”
Dral nodded, and not unsympathetically said, ”Of course, you’re the three-fifty-second regiment, by the sound of things. So one last question, trooper…” Dral mused as he turned over the man’s forearm, having caught a flash earlier; it was a dark-ink tattoo on pink flesh, the letters “VODE AN” prominent, ”What is this?”
The man seemed bewildered by the seemingly incongruous question, ”It means ‘brothers all’in some language, it’s our regimental motto.”
”Mando’a you mean.” That drew a surprised look, ”That’s the language. I was just curious….” And with those words, the young man tensed even as Dral removed his knife from the guy’s throat as if to sheath and even started to release him.
Then, suddenly, he punched into the man’s chest with the vibro-blade gauntlet, ending him quickly and with total surprise, avoiding the struggle that was coming with the young man’s tension. He lowered him gently, not out of some sense of compassion, but to avoid making too much noise in pulling the man down into the gully with him.
It took some minutes to cover the man’s corpse well enough and strip him of useful equipment. It was only when he was moving away, one last look toward the mound of dead foliage to show where the young Imperial Army trooper was that he commented, ”Not my vod. Just some aruetii.”
Even though he had access to enemy communications, he still had to undergo the nerve-wracking hurry-up-and-wait of staying hidden through the search, trying to slip through the enemy cordon an inch at a time, but with the Empire and the local militia and the CorpSec military types all feuding and not communicating, his job was easier.
He put some distance, quicker than he would have liked, between himself and the urinating trooper whose name he never bothered to get, Names are people that matter, this was just another number.
He knew once they realized that their friend was missing, and particularly once they found the corpse, the search would grow more intensive in this particular area. If he was patient and lucky, he could use the competition to his advantage.
The Rebellion was not his cause, Mandalore was. The Mand'alor put out the call to arms against the Empire that enslaved Manda'yaim, the home planet and fundamentally eradicate Mando'ade through economic and other means. Now, he saw evidence of at least one Imperial regiment co-opting and perverting his culture and felt a spike of animosity. These men were adopting phrases of a language the Empire was trying to destroy, they stood against much that people like Dral Kelborn stood for, which was to say that Mandalorians did not trust governments and were interested in self defense, too independent of a philosophy for the Empire. It was the rankest hypocrisy.
It felt more personal than it did before.
--
Zheryn
The whole thing was inconclusive and disappointing, with one dead trooper to show for the effort of trying to hunt this elusive Rebel guerrilla cell. When the Three Five Deuce landed in force to start hunting for their own and the enemy, they told the locals and the ESPOs to get out of their AO, something that caused political ripples on Galleefryn. Gal Durka even had the temerity to make threats toward Colonel Numarkus that were met with cold disregard and reports were forwarded straight through Imperial Army command, bypassing the sector Moff, which was almost unprecedented, but deemed necessary.
It had required some extremely underhanded maneuvers to transfer a lieutenant back to Coruscant with a hand-delivered missive to the high command detailing what was going on in the sector, and Jumarkus was calling in favors, but it was important enough, in his mind, to risk for.
By the same token, the Three-Five-Deuce collected as much intelligence as they could from the battlefield, weapons signatures, information and the remains of the cargo pod that’d been jettisoned, but they still had no glimpse of their enemy, no idea of what they were looking for. They had more and better information on the enemy than anyone else, but they weren't sharing outside of Imperial intelligence and Army channels, largely because they know the planetary government wasn't even aware of an organized, interplanetary rebellion yet.
The headquarters of the Three Five Deuce was, accordingly, a tense place.
That was when Crypto called Kelris over, and Kelris commed Colonel Jumarkus, who’d been unduly nervous the last several days, owing to the rather uncomfortable position of intriguing against an Imperial Moff. He was joined by the regimental Sergeant Major, a man by the name of Nespo.
”Colonel, Crypto managed to salvage the footage from one of the battle droids. You should see this…bring it up on the holo display, Crypto.”
It was a fuzzy picture of a squad of battle-droids, B-1’s, on patrol, with the numbers and lines and scan results running constant over the screen.
”This was salvaged from a B-1 droid, sir, and it’s not entirely clean, because an EMP weapon was used on these tinnies, but just watch…” chattered Crypto, as he typed away.
Then they saw it, a figure suddenly spotted by the droid at the moment the weapon fired, the static went up and the screen went blurry.
”That’s not much, Crypto.” The colonel sounded disappointed, perhaps impatient. It made the young trooper flinch a bit and made the reply hasty, stuttering.
”Well, uh, sir, I did manage to clean up the image, zoom in and isolate it. I got a very good look at our terentatek…”
Numarkus and Kelris looked over it cooly, taking in the features of the crouched figure, ”Looks a lot like the ARC armor that Drex used to wear,” commented Sergeant Major Nespo.
”No doubt, Sarn’t Major, because that’s the armor the old ARC armor was patterned off of. It’s Mandalorian.” Jumarkus replied.
”I thought they were pacifists, sir…”
”They say the Duchess of the Mandalore System is, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t their warriors, spread out in the galaxy or factions that keep up the old warrior ways. You knew Drex, and he was a man that was trained by Mandalorians. You wouldn't call him a pacifist, would you?” The Sergeant Major nodded agreement in a subdued fashion, narrowed eyes, as Jumarkus continued, ” Kelris, we need more information on the current status of Mandalorian factions, known mercenaries and any other information there is to be had through the Holonet…”
Kelris nodded as Jumarkus gave orders, even as he pointed out something to Crypto. ”Zoom into that, Crypto.”
”What do you see, Zheryn?”
Kelris traced the outline with his finger, ”It’s like the symbol we saw on the Declaration, but jagged, more primal. Not sure what it means, really. Is this a sign of widespread Mandalorian support for the Rebels, that they’re hired by the rebels? But if it’s just a mercenary, why adopt their symbol? I need to do a lot more research on this Colonel.”
”Then I suggest you get to it, Kelris.”
--
Osana
The Intruder comes back a mess and the entire base knows that something happened to the Galleefryn II mission, the first actual ground mission this base ever had. We didn’t know most of the people involved, except for Dral, but the very fact that the ship returns on its last legs, damaged and barely held together, points to bad news.
Naturally, Neyla’s one of the first in the hangar, with that blaster pistol of hers, her wedding gift of all things, strapped to her thigh; it’s a well-made looking one, not that I know weapons, according to Wellin and others. I honestly cringe for her; she’s my good friend, even if things have been difficult, and I feel for her, just as I feel for Dral, even though things are done. It’s hard to think that he’s gone, but the fear wells up in me and I start shaking anyway. This isn’t how the wars are supposed to start—all the plans, all the talk and what comes back is a beaten up freighter.
It’s Neyla who puts an arm around me, rather than the other way around, and I feel like I’m failing here. After all, it’s her husband, and I have to get used to that somehow, that may well be gone.
One of the captains in the place tried to wave us off, but Neyla gave a glance at him that was all patrician ice. The Alliance is technically democratic in nature, but it’s also loaded with aristocrats that all know each other and there seems to be a great respect for the old boy club, or old girl in this case. Neyla Kelborn née Dallin, despite marrying into an aliit, or clan, of Mandalorians, is still very much the card-carrying member, even if she’s traded up from a dainty diplomat’s blaster to a more substantially heavy Mando-style dallorian alloy model that bring the words ‘dispute resolution’ to mind. The captain, I suppose was mindful of both her social standing as well as her recently adopted habits, such as marksmanship practice with her wedding present, and decided to let her find out news about her husband.
The ramp lowers from the ship and a skuzzy old man, a real fringer, steps out, bearded and wearing his hair in a ponytail, with leather pants; real old guy outlaw type stuff. But in his way, he’s attractive, though he seems both troubled and relieved. Others were trying to get a good look at the ship and the pilot, but there were troopers clearing the way to get through, but that doesn’t deter Neyla.
”Excuse me, but what news of Dral Kelborn?” she shoots out at the older man.
”You’re the wife eh? I’m Chen. Your husband was on the planet and alive, but on his own. The rest of the unit got killed when an anti-aircraft missile hit my cargo hold while waiting to land but he was down to mark the LZ for us. He told me to tell you one thing.”
”What was it?” Neyla prompted, as the troopers try to prod the old man along.
”'Oya!' We'll talk later, I have a date with a debriefer, it seemsAnd then the man is off at the behest of the security troopers. He walked jaunty, even though he was bound to face a bunch of questions and unpleasantness about the mission.
The crowd starts to disperse a bit, show over and some information overheard, such as the fat news they overheard from the old man’s account of what went on to Neyla.
”But what does that mean, Neyla?” I don’t think it says much, one word in that anachronism of a language he insists on using, but it seems almost as if Neyla is a Galactic Basic-to-Mando’a dictionary these days, and she looks at me like I ought to know this. It’s unspoken; she’d listened when he talked about his people and his culture, and I was horrified by it. It’s an argument that’s too fresh to bring up, so I just bite my tongue rather than say something snarky.
”It’s a Mandalorian word, it means ‘let’s hunt’ or ‘the game is on!’ But what it also means is that Dral is down there, and isn’t about to give up. And it means we can’t give up on him.”
Last edited by
Heyseuss on Mon May 24, 2010 2:05 pm, edited 1 time in total.
