The Weaving Force: Chapter 14 (Patreon)

Chapter 14:

Satine:

There was a reason it was called “the trappings of power”, Satine mused, irritated at the spectacle in front of her.

It should have been a simple thing: Passing through the spaceport to meet Merrick and getting a head start in explaining his responsibilities for the day during which he would be managing her affairs to make room for Korkie’s presentation.

But she was the Duchess of Mandalore, leader of her people. Things couldn’t just be simple.

Her head of security needed to make certain the spaceport was secure, guards needed to be posted, a private wing reserved.

She understood, she did. She strove for pacifism, not complacent stupidity. There were many Mandalorian purists who would see her dead, and all of their work and forward progress undone. Men and women who had killed her own father before her. The Sons of Man’do’a, the Red Sun Heirs, Death Watch, Basilisk Riders. All of these sects and cults would undo generations of forward progress to return to times of blood and iron.

And the only entity that could stop them… was her.

So yes. She understood.

It didn’t make things any less exhausting.

“Duchess.” Captain Cadera of the Guard nodded, stepping up beside her. “We’ve secured the private wing. But with things on such short notice, I’m uncomfortable declaring the whole of the spaceport as a secure location. Please let us collect Lord Tal Merrik in your stead.”

Satine shook her head. “I appreciate your concern, Captain, but I’m not going to become a prisoner in my own palace because we’re forever scared at the mere happenstance of any potential danger. We’ve had no credible sign or report of any of the insurgent groups making any moves, and as short notice as it was for you, it would be doubly short notice for them. It will be fine.”

“I understand, ma’am.” Captain Cadera saluted smartly, giving no further protest. “My men and I will defend you should it be necessary.”

She offered a nod, a stray thought crossing her mind as she beheld the glint of almost pride in her Captain’s eye.

Pacifist or not, they were still Mandalorian. A leader refusing to run from danger was both expected… and encouraged.

(X)(X)(X)

Hannah

Approaching a planet through the upper atmosphere, Hannah found, was remarkably similar to a plane landing.

There was turbulence, of course, but beyond that the only notable difference was the view outside the small viewport.

Rather than city-scape or cloud cover, Hannah found… a planet.

She wondered how beautiful Earth might appear from this high. Sparkling blue, forest greens. Or perhaps they’d approach at night, and see the lights of the cities.

Even if it wasn’t her planet, the sight was still enough to steal the breath from her lungs.

Mandalore was an arid world, with a belt of green around the equator. Stormy skies darkened the furthest horizon, gleaming cities of metal pierced outwards like lances thrust into the heavens along the equator, and giant domes dotted the distant deserts like studs on armor.

It was… beautiful, in a primal sort of way.

Descending down from the upper atmosphere – towards the city of Sundari, according to the droid stewardess – Militia realized it was one of the domed cities. The largest as far as she could tell.

It dismayed her, somewhat, to know they were headed towards another desert, and the possibility of yet more sonic showers rather than hot water, but that was a relatively minor irritation. Truth be told, the prospect of seeing another world, another culture, was more than a little fascinating.

She’d never considered herself a traveling enthusiast – possibly because on Earth Bet there were no such things anymore given the dangers of the Endbringers and parahumans in general – but here, in this place, it was like she discovered a light switch to a previously darkened room. She found herself excited by the prospect.

The number of ships around the city surprised her as well. It dwarfed Tatooine’s traffic, and she’d already thought that to be impressive enough. There were not only more ships here, but they were also larger than the smuggler vessels and small freighters Tatooine had primarily dealt with.

Rugess’ bulbous head slowly slid into her field of view, the Bith evidently wishing to take a look around the spaceport they were circling for their docking bay.

She felt a smile tug at her lips. Truly, she didn’t want to find it funny, but Bith heads were so big and round the alien looked like he would quietly topple over any second now.

When he mumbled something it was quick, and she had to liken it more to a gasp than an actual word, but Alexandria seemed to catch some form of meaning in there.

“What is?” her one time mentor asked. It wasn’t aggressive per se, but the demand was implicit in her voice.

Rugess turned to her, big dark eyes blinking before he spoke. Dennis, beside him, was darting his eyes between the Bith and Alexandria.

“What is it?” he asked, eyes moving to the viewport for a moment, searching for whatever had set the conversation off.

“It seems the spaceport has unusual traffic of some kind,” Alexandria explained. “Repeat it, slowly,” she commanded Rugess.

He did, and Miss Militia couldn’t, for the life of her, follow more than a few sounds that perhaps reminded her of the sounds he’d made during the read-along book.

Even Alexandria’s features scrunched up. “King?”

Rugess’ head bobbed this way and then that way, hands moving in a “so so” gesture. Gingerly, he reached for his datapad, and quietly typed with halting, careful movements so as not to hurt himself.

When he turned the pad around a drawing was in place.

No, not a drawing. On closer inspection Miss Militia realized it was, in fact, some kind of sigil, or seal.

It was an odd thing, swooping curves and a valley dipping into a stylized V… or perhaps a depiction of a human womb?

Very odd.

Rugess pointed at the datapad, saying something before pointing outside.

Miss Militia turned and realized that, indeed, she could spot, distantly on the ground, banners held by armed and armored people bearing the same sigil.

“Apparently, if I’m understanding Rugess correctly, an important official is currently at the spaceport,” Alexandria explained, her head turning ever so slightly to peer out the window herself.  “The house of Kurze?”

Rugess shook his head, typing again on the pad. The letters were in Galactic Basic, but Alexandria seemed to understand it.

“Kryze,” the woman nodded.

“Will it cause a delay?” Miss Militia asked, only for Dennis to smirk her way.

“Got a hot date that we’re in a hurry for?” He waggled his eyebrows, cheeky grin making his face look years younger. Nevermind that it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Few could smile after a conversation with Alexandria alone when she took them to task.

She smiled back, even as she lightly tapped her toe against his shin in an admonishing “kick”. “You know what I mean,” she answered.

“Unclear,” Alexandria answered Miss Militia’s question, rubbing at her chin.

Miss Militia knew that look, and could already see the gears beginning to turn in some form of a plan.

Whatever it was, or might have been, the decision was utterly taken out of their hands.

One day, years later, when she heard men and other things say, “The Force has a will”, she’d wonder if this perhaps was a moment of that in action, that cosmic “energy” deciding to tug the strings harder than normal.

She’d never been one to believe in fate.

The intercom crackled to life.

“Hey there, sentients, this is your captain speaking. It appears there’s an issue with docking bay E-4. An escort is arriving to inspect the ship before allowing us passage into a different landing bay. Shouldn’t be much more than a few minutes.”

(X)(X)(X)

Satine:

“Merrik!”

His name escaped her like a sigh, genuine relief flooding through her like cold water as a tension she hadn’t even been aware of uncoiled from the muscles along her shoulders and back

Her friend smiled, approaching her with his hands held out to grasp her own in a firm, reassuring grip. “Satine, it’s been so long,” he laughed.

She felt a pang of guilt, though she knew Merrik didn’t mean it as anything more than a jest. She’d sent him away not even a year ago, when the attacks from “purist” Mandalorian groups had grown too close for comfort. They’d nearly killed Korkie, though thankfully her nephew was too young to truly remember the close brush with death as anything more than vague nightmares on occasion, flashes of blaster fire and distant screams of men; or so he told her when he came into her room crying.

So Merrik had been sent away. It’d taken nearly half a year to drive back the insurgent groups until they could do little more than hide. The list of prisoners and… casualties mounted with every failed attempt on her life. So, mercifully, did the list of the rare few converts that left their orders for the ways of the New Mandalorians.

And now he was back, answering her abrupt call for help as quickly as she knew he would.

“Your message sounded urgent,” the lines of his face shifted in concern, his voice dropping to a whisper. “It’s very rare for you to ask for help. What’s going on?”

She felt a flush then, embarrassment sending the heat of shame through her.

That she’d called him away for something as… unimportant as her nephew’s wish for her to be present at the display of his academic project… It was inconsiderate of her.

But the act was done, no use for such regrets, if any, now. Because she could not, in fact, regret it. Korkie deserved more of her time than she could give.

“It’s a personal matter,” she evaded hesitantly. “I simply need your help for a day or two, representing myself, house Kryze, and our interests.”

“I understand,” he nodded, pushing the subject no further. He’d done these kinds of favors for her before. “What are the most critical meetings, and with whom will they be?”

She turned, bidding him to walk by her side as the droids, serfs, and others began to load Merrik’s belongings into her private transport, with her guards following after them.

“Well, the first and most pressing talk is with the Cathar diplomats. As you know, our relations with them are… strained,” she answered haltingly

Merrik winced. “That is a… kind way to frame our ancestors nearly wiping out their species, I suppose.”

“Merrik,” she admonished as sharply as she could.

Even so, giving voice to it was unwelcome, but the sentiment was correct.

She sighed. “The Cathar represent one of the worst atrocities done by the old Mandalorians. If we can reconcile with them, it will show the greater galactic community that we are committed to our new way of peace.”

“It will give us legitimacy, you mean,” he surmised.

It was a rather reductive way of putting things, but on the whole… “Yes. We need this,” the more she thought about it, the more she cursed that Korkie’s presentation couldn’t perhaps be on any other day. She stressed, “Our movement is not even three generations old. In the greater scheme of things, we are considered to be in our infancy, and many believe that we are simply a trend that will not last.”

It was insulting, truth be told, to be considered little more than a mere… fashion. Something in vogue that would be gone when the next shiny bauble came along.

Merrik nodded in agreement. “I shall do my best. What should I do if the Cathar take your absence as an insult?”

“Inform them that if they are willing to delay, I will be pleased to meet with them first thing the very next day.”

It would drop like a bomb on her already stuffed schedule, but she would do it.

“Alright then,” he responded, nodding as they passed through the hangar doors to enter the civilian part of the terminal. “What would come nex-”

That’s when the shot rang out.

(X)(X)(X)

Hannah

When the pilot said that a security team would inspect them, Hannah obviously had no frame of reference to really use as a measuring stick.

If this were on Earth, it would be obvious that planes could not be inspected “mid air,” and officers on those planes wouldn’t be heavily armed and armored for that job.

So she couldn’t really identify anything of immediate concern when she felt the ship lurch around them, something clearly impacting the side of the vessel where the airlock seal was. And, while she found the two armored men that walked in… well, armored rather excessively for such a simple task, she didn’t know what law enforcement here looked like.

It wasn’t until she looked at other people in the cabin around her, that the trickle of unease began to spread across her mind.

“Something’s wrong.”

The words came from Alexandria, barely a whisper of warning, and they immediately made Dennis tense as Rugess began to look around.

But the men were across the cabin already, opening the pilot bay door. Militia saw the man turn, an easy comment ready on his lips before he caught sight of the armor.

The gun came out of its holster, and the man barely had time to scream before a bolt went through his head.

There was no blood, the heat instantly cauterizing the wound. Compared to a gun, the blaster let out very little sound, more a sharp bird chirp than anything.

The kill was clean in a way bullets couldn’t be. The body jerked back, the force of the bolt sending the head and neck jerking sharply, likely breaking vertebrae, the movement of the body arrested by the seatbelts still strapping the pilot to his chair.

Passengers screamed, many hitting the deck. Mothers and fathers curled their bodies protectively over loved ones as Hannah, Dennis, Alexandria and Rugess ducked low into their seats. She, Dennis and Rugess for cover, Alexandria likely to keep up appearances.

The second man turned around, a helmet in his hands that he placed over his head.

It was a brutal, intimidating thing, its most striking feature being the prominent T-shaped visor at its center.

“Alright people, listen up,” his helmet’s speakers snarled as he pulled out his gun. “Stay in your goddamn seats, and the pilot takes his last flight alone today. Don’t stay in your seats, and you’ll be joining him.”

Miss Militia turned her head, eying Alexandria out of the corner of her eye. The other woman caught the look and signaled her to wait.

“Crash,” the older woman mouthed. Miss Militia took her meaning.

None of them knew how to fly a ship, and the pilot and his murderers might be the only ones who did.

Wait for the landing, then they could move.

The man who shot the pilot shoved the lifeless body out of the seat and took his place, fingers quickly pushing buttons and turning knobs. “Jha’te. Mando’a no krush’te’ka.”

She didn’t recognize the language, though the sound from the airlock was unmistakable.

Six more armored men moved through the lock, sealing it behind them. The people cowered as the soldiers – if they were soldiers -- spread out through the interior cabin, one marching up to stand beside Dennis, blaster rifle far too close to the boy’s stone cold face for comfort.

“You.” He grunted, and Militia had to take a moment to identify who he was talking to. “Helmet off.”

A deathly, tense silence filled the space between them, suffocating in the intensity of it and yet lost on those around them.

“I have a medical condition,” Alexandria tried, but the man drew closer, rifle now pointed at her.

It wouldn’t kill her, but if a fight did break out… their chances of crashing were much, much higher.

Miss Militia held her breath.

“Your medical condition looks like a helmet that can house a frakking communicator. You think I’m stupid? Take it the frak off before I shoot you.”

The commotion was drawing attention now. The other seven armored men in the cabin started turning to look their way, fingers tense along the triggers of their weapons.

A single second felt like it stretched on for hours.

Militia heard the helmet clatter to the floor, its silhouette black along the edges of her periphery.

Across from her, Dennis suddenly turned a worrying shade of green, closing his eyes as though trying to unsee the sight.

She didn’t want to look. But she did.

Staring defiantly into the barrel of the rifle was the face of Rebecca Costa-Brown.

“Slide it over,” came the demand.

The helmet scraped along the floor, caught under an armored boot.

The rifle pointed down. Two shots rang out.

“There. Not so hard, was it?”

Alexandria’s eyes burned like embers. A promise in them.

Him, him she would save for last.