Chapter 37

Chapter 37

Onderon, Japrael System

Japrael Sector

In the shade of low-hanging eaves, Steela Gerrera only had a single thought running through her mind; we were too late. Or rather, they were supposed to have more time. For the first time in four-thousand years, the skies above Iziz were made darker by the smog of war. Brutal Separatist cruisers hung from the clouds, just as murders of warbeasts weaved in and out of their ranks, each and every swooping dive ripping up slates from the rooftops.

Steela had never seen a Dxunian warbeast firsthand before, only in the most terrifying visages of her childhood nightmares. The vast majority of Onderonians haven’t, especially those who lived in the shelter of Iziz’s mighty walls. Flame-scaled rupings were a common enough sight, and oft spotted on Army patrols. By the Demon Moon, their small insurgency possessed a handful, albeit illegally.

But Dxunian warbeasts? Skreevs and, Unifras forbid, drexls? Those were more often than not the subject of tall tales, the real things stowed far far away by the Onderonian Space Force. The same Onderonian Space Force, it seemed, that was finally dipping its toes into the intrigue of the capital city after centuries of neutrality. And that was terrible news for their budding rebellion, because there was as much information about the Space Force as there was about the Beast Rider Clans.

The Space Force was the home of political outcasts and disgraced soldiers, exiled to a forever-crusade against the Demon Moon. Steela had painstakingly cultivated sympathisers in both the Iziz Council and the Royal Army, only for all of that effort to come crashing down as the impenetrable, non-aligned Space Force returned with their ruinous warbeasts in tow. How must those Wave Gunners vigil on the walls be feeling, having trained their whole lives to shoot down drexls, only to be forced to stay their hand at their very first encounter with them.

To make matters worse, those were Separatist ships, which could only mean the city will be crawling with droids even more than it already was in the coming days, and she was not so confident to believe they will be able to remain under the radar for much longer.

“Steela!” Dono called in an instinctively hushed shout, “Hutch’s cell got through the gate safely. His cover was for a chartered hunting party.”

It was a good cover. One of the best, actually. The longest Onderonian hunts could go on for weeks, if not months. Hutch’s cell was one of the largest, so the guardsmen won’t bat an eye at an entire caravan leaving the city. But it also meant ‘hunting party’ could only be used once or twice, before the gate gets suspicious. Fortunately, all of their cells were on the same flimsi, in that regard.

“His safehouse?”

“Not even fingerprints left behind,” Dono grinned, “And everything they couldn’t get out was stored in caches not even I know where.”

Dono was one her cell’s most zealous members, joining after her family’s boutique was trashed by droids for ‘anti-Separatist’ activity. As Steela’s right hand, she trusted Dono with everything from gathering sympathisers to scouting ahead. She trusted her brother, Saw, just as much, but he was a little... rough around the edges, and perishingly little of freedom fighting actually involved brute force.

Steela tore her eyes away from the fleet above, “What about the summons? Did you figure out the purpose of the gathering?”

“Can’t say,” Dono shook her head, “But whatever it is, the House of Kira isn’t attending. Our spotters didn’t catch the Kira’s colours among the arrivals. I got in touch with one of my contacts, who’s an ex-Army guardsman, to bring us up to speed.”

“Are you sure it’s safe?” Steela couldn’t help but be concerned.

“Apparently they were banished by the current Lord General for protesting against joining the Separatists,” Dono explained conspiratorially, “And they’ve had a chip on their shoulder ever since.”

“We’ll leave in two days,” she said with finality, “We’re the last ones out, so if the contact doesn’t arrive by then...”

“They’ll be here by today,” Dono promised.

That was good. They desperately needed the information, as the usually vocal Council of Lords were being exceptionally tightlipped about what was going. However, they desperately had to get out of the city even more; because something big was going on, and sooner than later the droids were going to crack down even harder than they’ve been before. Steela peeked inside the safehouse, at her comrades struggling to stack up ammunition and supplies necessary for their prolonged sojourn in the jungle before any unwitting eye stumbled upon a cache of smuggled weapons in the middle of Iziz.

“Where’s Saw?” Steela suddenly asked, despite admittedly not entirely sure why Dono would know. Her brother was hard to pin down at the best of times–but if there was someone other than her that would know, it would either be Dono or Hutch.

Dono opened her mouth halfway, stepped back, and narrowed her eyes, “I’d imagine he’s on the roof, Steela.”

Her heart spiked–that idiot!

“Thanks,” she said hurriedly, traipsing back inside, “Fix yourself a drink.”

Without waiting for a response, Steela rushed through the storeroom and clambered up the wooden stairway at the far end, dust sprinkling off the timber at every footfall. Shoving open the half-ajar loft window, she pulled herself out onto the eaves and clawed up until she could see the soles of Saw’s boots as he laid flat on his back, watching the Separatist fleet through a pair of macrobinoculars.

“What are you doing!?” she hissed loudly, “What if they spot you!?”

“Relax, Steela,” Saw brushed her off, not even physically reacting to her presence, “I’m not the only one. Look.”

“Not the only–” she twisted around, and spotted dozens more climbing onto their roofs to observe what must be a once-a-century occurrence. Children jumping and gawping, whole families pointing out starships, and even recreational ruping riders trying to get in as close as possible before being warded off by shrieking droid starfighters.

Steela allowed herself to slowly deflate, internally scolding herself for not trusting her own brother. Which, she supposed, would be far easier if he wasn’t so difficult most of the time.

“So,” she sighed, “What do you see? Anything interesting?”

“Yes, actually,” Saw replied mockingly, handing her the binocs before scooting upwards, “Those ships have markings, and I swear we’ve seen them before.”

Interest piqued, Steela put her eyes to the binocs and scanned the Separatist warships–and through the magnification, realised that beneath the battle weariness and laser scars, each ship was clad in individually unique coats of paint. One had a flock of white birds racing alongside its hull, another a rose brush, and another a dazzling array of strange patterns that made her eyes swim.

“So...?”

She could feel Saw grabbing hold of her head and guiding her to what he wanted to see, “Look at those frigates. Don’t they remind you of something?”

Frigates, frigates... were those cave paintings? Cave paintings, and the other had what appeared to be indiscernible scriptures rakes across its hull. Saw was right, she had seen those before. The Halls of the Spirits was a series of caverns deep within Iziz’s mountain, said to be the very place Iziz came into being. The first primitive Onderonians took refuge from the wilds in those caves, and over millennia their descendants built the greatest city in the world. It was a sacred place, and no man in Iziz has not honoured the ancestors in its halls, for it was now the resting grounds for almost all Onderonians.

And all those cave walls was history, drawn and carved. Much like on that ship. And the other, the scriptures; it was just like the stone tablets displayed in Iziz’s largest university, the Ov Taraba. The first writing system of Onderon, it was said–the first ever stories and legacies of Onderon.

“You’re joking,” Steela said disbelievingly, “That’s just coincidence. There must be hundreds of other worlds like Onderon–”

“Then look there,” he insisted, growing heated.

A stark white hand, writ large. It wasn’t everywhere, only in the central dozen or so ships, but large and obvious enough to be the only common factor between the warships. Steela immediately, instinctively, knew what it meant. After all, what Onderonian didn’t respect their ancient history? Offworlders, perhaps.

The white hand meant ‘I was here.’ In the primal time, when humans were still struggling for the survival of their species on this hellish planet, there was only one way to prove to others that you existed. How else would you let others know that they were not alone, or that this place was safe, or that you drew this particular cave painting, than by leaving a signature of yourself? Throughout Onderon’s history, handprints of blood and paint served as a testament to their ancestors' existence.

“It’s too much to be coincidence,” Saw spoke her mind, “The Separatist commander is an Onderonian.”

“A very sentimental one, I agree.”

Steela flinched, nearly digging her face into the edges of the macrobinocs. Whirling around, she found a woman in coveralls balancing precariously on the peak of the roof, her illustrious red-hair billowing in the breeze. Saw was already on his feet, hand hovering over his holster.

“Who are you!?” he shouted.

“The name’s Alvera– woah!” the woman attempted to walk closer, but her noticeably unstable footing cost her–with a step failing to find purchase on clearly open air.

With an explosive, panicked waving of arms, Alveraslipped off the peak, sliding uncontrollably down to the eaves–and if it wasn’t for Steela leaping to snatch her, she might have just found herself with a broken spine. Wrapping her arms around her, Steela slowly exhaled as she lifted the woman up to a sit.

“–Should I call you my saviour, or...?” Alvera trailed off, and as Steela backed away, she noticed a faded insignia on their shoulder.

“You’re the contact?” she asked incredulously, trying to match her mental picture of a gruff, exiled soldier with that of the clumsy person before her.

“Contact?” Saw asked, moving to open the loft window, “What’s this about?”

“Dono got one of contacts with Army ties to rendezvous with us,” Steela explained, “But I didn’t think...”

“I feel an insult coming on,” Alvera held up a hand, “I’ll have you know I have everything Dono promised.”

“...Get yourself downstairs,” Steela wiped her face, “Dono’ll fill you in.”

“I’ll do just that,” the contact took one final look at the Unifar Temple, high among the clouds, before descending through the window.

“You don’t trust her, do you?” Saw’s jaw clenched, “She’s acting and you know it. She managed to climb up here with none of the spotters noticing, and managed to sneak up behind us without making a sound.”

“According to Dono, Alvera is an ex-guardsman,” Steela pointed out, “Aren’t they the Army elites?”

Her brother frowned, “There has to be more to it. The way she walks... it’s almost like–”

“Like what?”

“Nothing,” Saw closed up, “I’ve got a suspicion, that’s all. I’ll keep an eye on her, trust me.”

She did. Steela did trust her brother, “Fine. Just don’t scare her away.”

“If she really was a guardsman, she’ll be the one doing the scaring,” he grumbled, dropping over the eaves and pivoting through the window.

Joining the rest in the safehouse, Steela found Alvera sitting on a chair sipping from a mug in absolute tranquillity even as half a dozen men and women surrounded her in what appeared to be an improvised interrogation. Saw was leaning against a pillar, face scrunched up in thought.

“Dunno.”

The Togruta opened her mouth to continue, but slowly hesitated until her jaw snapped shut with an audible click.

“What is it?” Scout whispered back. She had known her friend long enough to know Ahsoka was the type to say whatever comes to her mind. If she was hesitating, it must be something serious.

“...I can’t see their face,” she mumbled.

“Can’t see–” Scout diverted her attention back to the officer, squinting.

His face was... pretty. That was the only word that came to her tongue. It was the same kind of ‘pretty’ you might use to describe a spy; the kind that could charm you with one smile before cutting your throat with the next.

“I can see him,” Scout shot her friend a weird look.

“You can?” Ahsoka asked, “I can’t. It’s... blurred.”

Blurred.

“Ahsoka’s correct,” Master Kenobi leaned down beside them, “I cannot see his face either... nor does he have any presence in the Force. I do know that some files in the Temple Library suggest that Dxunian fauna have developed a resistance or immunity to the Force, so perhaps the phenomena may have spread to Onderon. Somehow.”

Resistance or immunity to the Force... haven’t she heard of that somewhere? Scout could have sworn she found something similar in Master Skywalker’s old mission logs while she was researching, dating from back when he was Master Kenobi’s Padawan.

“Granta... Omega?” Scout stated slowly, almost as if it was a question.

But Master Kenobi definitely recognised the name, the normally unflappable Jedi Master flinching. At least all my overpreparation finally proved useful, somehow.

“Thank you, Padawan,” he murmured, spurring forward to speak to his former Padawan.

Anakin Skywalker leapt out of his skin with a startled jolt, followed by a long hiss. He glanced back at her with a single eye, nodding slightly.

“Who’s that?” Ahsoka asked again, insatiable curiosity brimming in her wide eyes.

“Some terrorist who was immune to the Force,” Scout recalled the reports, “Master Kenobi and Master Skywalker were tasked to bring him to justice.”

“So did they?”

Scout’s face scrunched in effort, “I... think so? Either I can’t remember, or the report never got that far.”

“Master Jedi–” her concentration broke, and all the memories at the tip of her fingers fled away, “How may I be of service?”

“Rain Bonteri?” Master Plo immediately asked.

Master Skywalker flinched, leather creaking as his gloved mechno-arm curled into a fist. Right, wasn’t he the guy who thrashed our fleet at Christophsis? Bonteri paused, flicking a glance towards her Master for a briefest half-second, before bringing a hand to rest on the pommel of his sabre–as if trusting the thing could stop a lightsaber.

But something wasn’t right. Master Skywalker was still a Jedi Knight; he wouldn’t get so angered by something so normal. Pained as she may to say it, men die all the time in war, and Rain Bonteri was no different from the thousand other Separatist commanders who plied his trade. Anakin Skywalker wasn’t looking at Rain Bonteri, but something else. But what? Scout creeped forward, leaning forward so she could see his face... just what are you seeing, Master?

“Not the first time we’ve met, I am guessing,” Bonteri nodded at Master Plo, “I assume you will be in charge of protecting the senators, Master Jedi?”

“We are,” the Jedi Master confirmed, “I would like to confirm the route we are taking to the Palace.”

“You do not have to fear anything, Master Jedi,” Bonteri gestured towards the colonnade that constituted as the foyer, at the hundreds of animal-drawn carriages awaiting them. The hundreds of soldiers had moved, too, to flank the carriages, with the Senate Guards crowding around those bearing Republic devices, “I have been placed in charge of this summit’s security, and have taken every precaution to ensure the proceedings are not interrupted.”

“You did not answer his question,” Master Skywalker pointed out.

Rain Bonteri eyed him carefully, before finally relenting, “Very well. We will be taking the sky ramps to the Unifar Temple. As you can see, they rise above the city, and are the only way to access the walls or mountain.”

The sky ramps. Scout had not noticed them from above, but from the ground they seemed painfully obvious. The ramps were colossal superstructures that, as their name implies, acted as elevated bridges above the tangled riot of buildings. From afar, they appeared like the flanks of grey snakes slithering amid the rooftops and towers, steadily climbing to the mountain peak.

“After that will be the reception,” he continued, “And the prisoner exchange will be tomorrow, followed by the negotiations... the exchange is going on as planned, yes? The RRM were quite insistent about it.”

Anakin Skywalker grit his teeth and took a half-step forward, only stopped by Master Plo’s firm hand, “Is there a man named Rex among your prisoners?”

Bonteri stared blankly, previously relaxed palm morphing into a grip around his sabre’s hilt, “...Who?”

“He’s a clone captain,” Master Skywalker explained impatiently, “He was on my ship, at Christophsis. You were there, I know you were.”

“If he survived, he must have been transferred to Battleship Fifty-Three,” the Onderonian replied tersely, “And if you did not find him there, he must have died as a result of your raid.”

“Raid?” Anakin Skywalker’s face reddened, “It was a rescue operation! Dying stars know what you would have done to my men–”

Master Kenobi’s shoulder rose and fell in a silent sigh as pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head, as if thinking ‘I knew I shouldn’t have allowed him to come here.’

“What I would have done–?” Master Kenobi’s fears were proven right the next second, as Rain Bonteri’s expression grew precariously brittle. Indignation was blatant, as if he couldn’t quite believe his ears; “Master Jedi, I would have treated them with every right a prisoner of war would have afforded, and if you had not raided my ship, you would have found each and every single one of them here on Onderon. I realise there is no small supply for barbarism in this galaxy, but do not think that we are all monsters just because we are Separatists.”

“Anybody can be a monster. It is a choice we make, not one labelled unto us,” he continued, and for the first time Scout found someone who could rival her Master’s towering height, “Even slaughter has rules for civilised men to follow, and I’ll be twice-damned before I give up hoping that there is still honour in war. It is not battle that makes monsters, but what occurs after.”

Master Skywalker was silent, but seething. Scout half-expected either Master Plo or even Master Kenobi to step in, but both seemed content to simply observe. Observe the exchange, and observe Rain Bonteri in particular... had he always looked like that? She couldn’t remember.

“Master Jedi, the ‘monsters’ you seek are those who are incapable of following rules. Those who fail to treat enemies with respect, those who fail to recognise surrender, those who cannot differentiate between the guilty and innocent, those whopunish the collective for the crimes of the few,” Bonteri wasn’t speaking in general, Scout realised, but directly at Master Skywalker, “I will not lie, Master Jedi, this galaxy is filled with men who sanction slaughter. It is because they are fuelled by anger and loss, or merely sadism, or apathy. We do not call those people ‘men’– we call themsavages.”

Anakin Skywalker was trembling now, skin shining with sweat. It was as if Bonteri had indeed drawn that sabre and shoved it through his heart. Honestly, Scout thought that the Separatist was being reasonable; but whatever he said had clearly been personal to her Master.

“You would know a lot about savages,” her Master said quietly, “Wouldn’t you, Onderonian?”

“Correct. And that is why we also know a lot about the sanctity of life, whether it be of men or monsters,” for some reason, it looked like Bonteri was looking down on Master Skywalker, despite their similar heights.

“That’s enough, Anakin,” Master Kenobi warned.

Anakin Skywalker shook his head, “I would like to see the prisoners. To ensure they are being treated as humanely as you claim.”

“No you won’t Anakin,” Master Kenobi snatched his arm, “You will be coming with me, and you will be doing what you came here to do; protecting the senators.”

At the word ‘senators,’ Anakin Skywalker stilled. He blew out a furious breath, before composing himself and nodding, muttering an apology as he retreated a few steps.

“I will see the prisoners,” Master Plo reasoned, “I too wish to see the conditions the prisoners are held in. Of course, one of your men will be invited to review our holding wards as well.”

Rain Bonteri’s expression slackened, “That is agreeable to me.”

To their collective surprise, however, Master Plo then looked down at her and Ahsoka, “So, Padawans? Will you join your Masters at the reception, or will you visit our men with me?”

On one hand, she would be trapped in a stuffy room filled with politicians for the next several hours– so it wasn’t really a choice, however. That was, if she didn’t also have a duty as a Padawan to remain with her Master... but it was Plo Koon who raised the idea in the first place, so did it really count?

Besides, she knew from Appo that Rex was a close friend of her Master, and the least she could do was afford him some closure.

“And these two are...?” Bonteri trailed off.

“These two are our Padawans,” Master Kenobi introduced, “Ahsoka and Tallisibeth.”

The Onderonian blinked, glancing at them–then at their Jedi Masters–then back at them again, as if he couldn’t quite believe his ears. Or his eyes.

“You are...” he squinted, as if she was some alien lifeform he had never encountered before, “Anakin Skywalker’s Padawan?”

“Padawan Learner Tallisibeth Enwandung-Esterhazy, at your service,” she bowed lightly.

“Padawan Learner Ahsoka Tano, nice to meet you!” Ahsoka chirped.

“Right... most certainly,” Bonteri smiled at them in such a way that suggested he thought they were mere children, “In any case, any decision you make can occur after we reach the Temple. Let’s not keep the senators waiting.”

With a hand, he gestured towards the convoy of gilded carriages. The sky ramp leading up to the mountain peak, right then, appeared perilously long and difficult.