Chapter Text
21bby, first month, seventh day
CORELLIAN RUN, EN ROUTE TO CORUSCANT
Master Kit Fisto was, in most regards, the Republic’s equivalent to eternal sunshine. He was notorious for that sixty-toothed smile plastered across his face at all hours of the day, as though joy itself had been hardwired into his cranial ridges. Battlefields, council chambers, idle strolls through the gardens, stern conversations with fellow Masters, or even addressing droids with all the patience usually reserved for children, there it was, that grin. It was less an expression and more a fixture, like architecture grafted to bone. In time, it became his trademark, the man’s personal heraldry. So much so that whenever I wandered the grimy, neon-bathed markets of Coruscant’s lower levels and saw one of those cheap plastoid plushies with a wide, vacant grin, I would immediately and involuntarily think of him.
(And here I pause, dear reader, to reflect on the cruelty of trademarks. I myself would wish, one day, for some definitive hallmark beyond the tedious accusations hurled in my direction: insubordination, habitual disregard for orders, cynicism bordering on corrosive, gratuitous cussing or my alleged inability to shut my mouth for more than five minutes at a time. Alas, I suspect that shall remain my legacy: that Jedi, the one who either talks too much or dies too young. Pick your epitaph.)
It was precisely for this reason that when I encountered Master Fisto striding through the Temple halls after his latest mission with his former Padawan, Nahdar Vebb, I felt my stomach knot. The smile was gone. Vanished. The absence of that grin was more unnerving than the most grotesque battlefield wound. For if Kit Fisto could be stripped of his smile, what chance had the rest of us at maintaining even the illusion of levity?
Naturally, I asked him what had happened. Of course I did, curiosity is both my vice and my virtue, though usually the former. His response was clipped, his voice robbed of its usual sparkle: “Nahdar’s heart was in the right place, but he tried to match Grievous’ power with his own.”
I nodded solemnly, as though such gestures could conceal the maelstrom of confusion and grief that tore through me. What does one say in the face of such blunt tragedy? Words become inadequate, trite, insulting even. “I’m sorry” is the conversational equivalent of handing a soaked rag to a drowning man. And yet silence, too, feels cowardly, like turning away from the wound in fear of its depth.
It is a strange thing, hearing the death of a friend reported in casual speech. An acquaintance, yes, perhaps; but a friend, a comrade-in-training, someone whose sweat had mingled with yours on the practice floors, whose laughter you can still recall echoing against Temple walls, this is harder to compartmentalize. My mind betrayed me with memory: Nahdar, younger and less scarred by experience, fumbling through one of our shared classes, his palms rubbed raw after a particularly ill-advised grip during sabre drills. I remember teasing him about it, and he, smiling through the pain, promising that next time he’d have me bested. That small, unremarkable moment lives vivid in my mind. And now; nothing. He is gone, carved away by fate’s cruelty, his name relegated to the list of fallen Padawans.
His lightsaber, like mine taken once upon a time, now rests in Grievous’ grotesque reliquary. Master Fisto told me of it: the General’s lair, a cold, cavernous monument to barbarism disguised as architecture. Within, he keeps his trophies: Padawan braids, lightsabers wrenched from still-warm hands, gods-know-what else. A museum of the macabre, curated by a half-droid sadist who collects proof of every extinguished flame he has snuffed from the galaxy.
“Thank the Force you managed to survive your encounter with him,” Kit said at length, his words casual, but weighted with the sort of gravity that only comes when one is remembering the names of the fallen.
I looked up at him, lips pressed together in what might generously be called a smile, though it was closer to the pained reflex of a person caught halfway between laughter and vomiting. “More luck than anything,” I shrugged. In truth, luck had been the sole architect of my continued existence. My memory of that particular encounter is maddeningly vivid: the ambush closing in like a tightening noose, the air thinning until my lungs convulsed like dying fish, and the singular humiliation of feeling his claws brush across my back. ( Some nights, I swear the scar has phantom pains, as if it wants to remind me that I once tried to bisect myself in the midst of battle. Wicked sense of humour.)
“Don’t undermine yourself,” Kit replied, shaking his head in that oddly paternal way he had. One almost expected him to hand out sweets and bedtime stories alongside battlefield advice. His smile was present again, though subdued.
“It’s been more than a year now,” I murmured, gaze drawn toward the great windows of the Temple. Beyond, Coruscant’s sky was a blur of speeders and transports, all of them darting in frantic, insect-like patterns, yet rendered strangely dull through the glass. “A year, and yet I remember it in grotesque detail. Who would have thought that would be our first harbinger? That he was not to be an isolated horror but a chronic one? A recurring nightmare across the war.”
“There hasn’t been an enemy as formidable as him in years,” Kit said, his tone sobered. He studied me as though weighing whether I carried more scars on my flesh or in my memory. “The Separatists are exhausting every possible stratagem. They won’t stop, not while they can field him.”
I nodded. “I said as much once to a friend; Senator Amidala. I told her, months ago, that the war would not end until Grievous and the Separatists were dealt with. Permanently. Emphasis on the last word.” I raised my brows at Kit, who, to his credit, didn’t lecture me on Jedi restraint, though his silence said volumes.
“Grievous is strong,” he said instead, clicking his teeth softly. “Stronger than most comprehend, particularly when flanked by an army that grows more insidiously advanced by the day. What you saw at Geonosis is nothing compared to what they field now. One must be extremely careful.”
I caught his glance sidelong and forced a grin, baring teeth more than expressing joy. “Ah, yes, ‘One must be extremely careful.’ I do appreciate the subtlety, Master, though I suspect you’re addressing me specifically.” I let a sharp breath out, one that rattled just slightly in my chest. “Still, he’s not omnipotent. We’ll find a way. A loose wire, an overlooked vulnerability… or perhaps we’ll just break into his lair and confiscate his cough syrup.”
“If I were your master,” Kit said, smiling again, warmer now, as we ambled through the corridor. “I’d advise you not to do anything reckless or stupid.”
“But you’re not,” I countered, my grin meeting his. “And thus, you are spared the duty of keeping me alive.”
He stopped by the entrance to the archives, chuckling low in his throat. “No, I am not, and I will not say it.” Then, as though the thought had only just returned to him, he added, “Oh, and before I forget; the Chancellor was asking for you. I overheard him speaking to Master Windu, but… well, I imagine he intends to summon you sooner rather than later. Best to hurry and ambush them before they ambush you.”
“The Chancellor?” My brow arched upward with such force I thought it might leave orbit. “Asking for me?”
The Master offered nothing but a nod, and I could think of no more original response than to return it in kind.
Now, I have mentioned in a previous entry, perhaps even ad nauseam, that I maintain a fairly positive opinion of the Chancellor. Not out of any profound conviction, mind you, but out of the simple fact that my only exposure to him has been from the farthest balcony of a Senate address. (Holograms, of course, don’t count. Anyone can appear kind in pixelated translucence.) One develops respect at great distance; the man is all the more majestic when rendered small, framed by architecture, and guarded by those scarlet-clad ceremonial statues with pulse rifles. From such vantage, one may safely assume him to be benevolent, wise, and irrelevant to one’s personal survival. But then came this summons. A direct request for me. Not a Council member, not one of the fabled war heroes, but me, an unremarkable speck in the Jedi census. This was either a coronation or a death sentence, which, functionally speaking, amount to the same thing.
Naturally, my thoughts as I made my way to the Chancellor’s office oscillated wildly between paranoia and self-importance. What do you mean, he knows who I am? What do you mean, specifically me? From the infinite roster of available Jedi, he selected this half-charred, luck-dependent wretch? I tell you, it is either flattery of the most dangerous sort, or some bureaucratic error.
I cannot recall my exact pace, did I sprint, did I stroll, did I levitate in? The memory collapses into blur. What I do remember, however, is the grand, soul-crushing scale of the Senate building itself. I have always found it to be the architectural embodiment of bureaucracy: vast, sterile, intentionally disorienting. Its corridors twist and stretch like the intestines of some colossal beast. I wandered through its bowels, ambling left, right, and occasionally in circles, until at last I surrendered my dignity to a particularly discourteous protocol droid, who confirmed,without even the decency of polite phrasing, that yes, the Supreme Chancellor was indeed expecting me. Thus reassured that I was not hallucinating, I was permitted to ascend toward the hallowed suite itself. My gallop upstairs was accompanied by a rising tension in the chest.
At length, I arrived at the fabled suite. I rapped my knuckles lightly on the door and pushed my way in, wearing the bravest, most counterfeit smile I could summon. Inside, the Chancellor sat at his desk, hunched and serene, every inch the picture of aged benevolence. My eyes, however, were quickly drawn to the supporting cast: Senator Padmé Amidala (glaring at me), Master Windu (glowering with his usual thundercloud intensity), and Grandmaster Yoda himself, perched like some green gargoyle.
“Come in, child,” the Chancellor said, his voice soft, almost meek. And with that single syllable, every half-whispered rumour about his gentle nature suddenly crystallized into reality.
“You called for me?” I asked, stepping forward, fiddling with my robes as though straightening fabric could fortify my spine. I nodded respectfully to Windu and Yoda, then cast the barest acknowledgement toward Padmé; an acknowledgement I assure you was more than she deserved, considering my lingering irritation with her.
“Yes, yes, come closer,” he said, gesturing with a hand that seemed casual yet precise, like a puppeteer tugging an invisible string. “Senator Amidala has told me a great deal about your skills as a pilot.”
I froze for half a beat, then glanced sidelong at Padmé, who wore the faintest pout on her lips, as though this were some elaborate prank she’d set in motion. “Has she?” I muttered, the words escaping me with the enthusiasm of a man discovering his name listed in the obituaries. “Well… if I do say so myself, I’m reasonably proficient.”
“Excellent, excellent,” the Chancellor nodded, his gaze alight with something uncannily warm. Almost paternal. He flicked his eyes toward the Council members, who betrayed no reaction. “Then, since your fellow Jedi also approve…” (Did they? I never heard them say so. But I am sure my masters enjoy being spoken for, particularly by politicians.) “…I have a small mission for you.”
He paused, the silence more dramatic than necessary, then asked: “Anakin Skywalker and Master Kenobi have pursued Count Dooku to Florrum. Have you heard?”
I shook my head, no. My eyes flickered from Yoda to Padmé, whose gaze was neutral, betraying nothing. Again, I shook my head. “No.”
“They’ve managed to capture the Separatist leader,” the Chancellor announced. “With the help of one pirate by the name of…”
At this, the holoprojector hummed to life, and out materialized a still-image of a figure I had not seen in over a year: a Weequay with a face like a boot left too long in the desert sun, dressed in the sort of flamboyant garments. His grin radiated the sort of entrepreneurial menace only a man both unscrupulous and wildly proud of his unscrupulousness could achieve.
The moment I saw him, I mouthed the words before the Chancellor could even finish: “Ohnaka Transport Solutions.” The syllables fell out of my mouth unbidden, like the recitation of a childhood trauma.
The Chancellor arched a brow at me, mild surprise flickering across his carefully cultivated mask of grandfatherly benevolence. “What did you say? You know this man?”
Immediately, my head swiveled around the room at breakneck speed scanning for reactions. Padmé’s face was caught somewhere between curiosity and mild suspicion, as though she were mentally drafting legislation to regulate my associations. Master Yoda radiated the same impassive neutrality that one associates with statues, while Master Windu’s brow was furrowed so deeply I was half-convinced he could store small objects in the folds.
“Yes,” I said at last, nodding sagely, as though the word itself was sufficient explanation. “Ohnaka Transport Solutions.” I repeated it like a scholar citing a dubious but memorable footnote. “He helped me procure a ship on Lothal after my, ah… injury.” (There is something deeply humiliating about referencing one’s brush with mortality in front of the Supreme Chancellor and having it sound like you’re making excuses for being late to dinner.) “Although,” I added quickly, “I was entirely unaware that he was, in fact, a pirate.”
The Chancellor’s lips twitched in what might have been amusement. “Excellent,” he declared, seizing upon my words before the Council or Padmé could interject. His swiftness was suspicious; I had the distinct impression of being outmaneuvered in a conversation I hadn’t realized was a game.
“Excellent?” I echoed, blinking rapidly. That was not the adjective I had anticipated.
“Yes,” he said, folding his hands in the manner of a man who has just solved a puzzle everyone else is still struggling to see. “You know him. That makes this much simpler. Skywalker and Kenobi have already established contact with this… entrepreneur, Hondo Ohnaka. They have confirmed that he is in possession of the Count. Now, a ransom is to be delivered; spices, in this case, and since you are both one of our best pilots and, apparently, on speaking terms with our pirate associate, I suggest you undertake the delivery.”
“Of course,” I said, nodding dutifully, though the enthusiasm with which I answered was suspicious even to myself. The truth is, I was actually happy to be entrusted with something, which should tell you a great deal about how low my standards for joy have fallen this year. Only when my eyes flicked toward Padmé did I feel the sting of memory, the uncomfortable recollection that not long ago, I had allowed Nute Gunray to slip through my fingers. (Well, “allowed” is a cruel simplification. A chorus of circumstances conspired against me, and the slimy bastard just happened to be the one who benefited. But still.) So yes, perhaps I was absurdly pleased to be trusted despite my recent… less-than-glorious track record. It felt almost like forgiveness. I bit my tongue and nodded again, as though to reassure the room that this was exactly the mission I wanted.
“Excellent!” the Chancellor said, clapping his hands together with the enthusiasm of a man dismissing a servant. He made a little gesture that was half blessing, half shooing, as though I were both knight and errant fly. “I advise you to proceed to the hangar at once. Choose a suitable ship, ensure the ransom is loaded, and await the arrival of Senator Kharrus, whom you will be escorting.”
And that was that. No further discussion, no deliberation. I bowed lightly, forcing dignity into the motion, and turned toward the exit.
I have always fancied myself something of an amateur anthropologist. An observer of character, a classifier of temperaments, a taxonomist of the humanoid psyche. Give me five minutes and a cup of tea and I’ll compose a fairly accurate psychological sketch of anyone unfortunate enough to stand within my line of sight. Yet even I must admit defeat where Senator Kharrus is concerned. Not for lack of interest, for he had a marvelously rubbery brow ridge that promised great expressive potential, but on account of the simple, inconvenient fact that he simply perished before I could make any meaningful observations.
Our descent to Florrum had just begun when everything went awry. We were ambushed. Attacked. Bombarded with such enthusiasm that I suspect someone had been waiting for us. The ship buckled, clones shouted, alarms blared, someone (possibly me) screamed something, and then there was the impact.
I survived, naturally. The clones survived too, though “survive” is a flexible term when applied to men who routinely shrug off mortal injury like it’s a seasonal allergy. The senator… did not. I found what remained of him beneath a collapsed section of bulkhead: limp, cold.
“General?” a clone called out, his voice cutting through the smoke with the clinical concern of someone doing a headcount of the living before moving on to the salvageable.
“I’m alive, I’m alive,” I croaked, dusting myself off. “Unlike… our Senator.” Yes. Quite.
I knelt beside what remained of Kharrus. I attempted something vaguely medical, moving debris, checking for signs of life, whispering a half-remembered calming mantra as if that might coax his soul back, but I am neither a healer nor a witch, and the Senator was unmistakably, irrevocably dead. His limbs had that distinct post-mortem limpness, his expression that recognisable absence of complaint.
“What should we do?” another clone asked.
“I’ll think about it in a minute,” I sighed, gesturing vaguely at the rubble. “But first, give me a hand, will you?”
And thus we buried Senator Kharrus. I found it only appropriate, though Florrum’s geyser-pocked terrain is hardly a dignified resting place. Steam vents hissed around us like irritated spirits. The soil was the consistency of reheated porridge. Still, it felt wrong to haul a corpse back to Coruscant when we had no idea when we’d return, or if we’d return at all. And I lacked the refrigeration.
It was my first funeral. Most casualties I’d seen were left where they fell, swallowed by rubble, sand, vines, or the gaping maw of a war beast I would rather not remember. Removal of bodies had never been listed among my responsibilities but I suppose today I expanded my résumé. I lingered for a moment after the others finished, giving the Senator a brief, silent acknowledgement.
“We’ve been betrayed,” I announced once I rejoined the clones, as though the crater and the corpse were insufficient indicators.
“The question is why,” one replied, ever pragmatic.
“I intend to find out,” I said, hands on hips in what I believed to be a very authoritative posture. “We still have a Dooku to collect, and Anakin and Master Kenobi must be somewhere on this blasted rock. Unless, of course…”
A movement caught my eye. Not the shifting steam of Florrum’s geysers, not the scuttling of those rather enthusiastic lizard-rodents the locals seem so fond of roasting, nor the skalders near us.. Something more deliberate and less geological.
“General!” a clone barked.
“I see it,” I said, climbing the nearest mound of rock for a better vantage. “Men, be on the lookout!”
They had barely raised their rifles before the Weequays arrived, half a dozen of them on speeders, tearing through the haze. Blasterfire screamed toward us. Instinct took the reins; my lightsaber was in my hand before thought caught up.
We were forced out of our position, some raiders corralling us while others headed straight for the wreck; our wreck, mind you, not theirs. I vaulted up onto the nearest speeder, lightsaber ignited, locking eyes with the beady-faced Weequay. His blaster hit the sand with a clatter, fear or the realization that I did not have the patience for finesse today. I knew what I should have done, and still… I felt another gunman locking onto me from behind, so I disengaged, leaping free just in time as the speeder accelerated away with its rider and his courage.
“DANK FARRIK!” I announced to the universe, succinct, eloquent, and accurate.
The clones stared at me. I stared back, counting limbs, checking for obvious perforations.
“All right,” I huffed. “Everyone still alive? Good. Somebody get to the wreck and find out what the hell they were doing to it!”
“General, they’ve taken the spices!” a clone finally called out, after several minutes of rummaging through the wreckage. I pressed both hands to my face and rubbed vigorously, half stress, half exfoliation.
“That’s amazing,” I muttered, staring into the distance where the raiders had vanished in a glorious trail of dust. “Absolutely fucking amazing. Do you know what this means?”
The clone hesitated, as though trying to phrase his answer in a way that would neither inflame my temper nor undermine military decorum, which was an dmirable effort, though doomed from the start. “I suggest we wait for reinforcements, sir.”
“Hell no,” I snapped, lowering my hands just enough to glare at him through the gaps in my fingers. “That is the worst idea proposed so far, and I have proposed some terrible ideas today, so you should appreciate the magnitude of that statement.”
He blinked. I gestured grandly at the battlefield, which was really just a geyser-riddled wasteland pretending very poorly to be a battlefield. “The situation is, as you may have noticed, less than ideal. One: we’ve been attacked. Two: Anakin and Master Kenobi are somewhere on this forsaken globe. Three: if we’ve been attacked, then they’re probably in danger. Four: if they’re in danger, then either they’ve been captured, or they’re working with Dooku, which is theoretically possible but is it really? Five: Dooku might also be in danger, which means the entire delicate political arrangement I was entrusted with is now fucked.”
I paused for breath, hands on hips, trying to look authoritative instead of frenzied.
“In summary: everything is a complete and spectacular mess. Complicates my fucking life beyond measure. All right, here’s what we’re going to—”
“Sir,” another clone interjected, gesturing to the horizon, “they’re too far. We can’t go after them.”
“Oh, can we not?” I asked, arching a brow with such hauteur I briefly felt like a Coruscanti aristocrat. “Look around, soldier,” I said, sweeping my arm in a grand arc. “Open your eyes. Engage your observational skills. Do you not see those behemoths?”
Several skalders, Florrum’s infamous, bulbous, grass-chomping mammalian disasters stood a short distance away. Their large eyes blinked vacantly. Their sides wobbled with every breath. Their entire existence radiated the energy of creatures whose greatest achievement was not rolling downhill while sleeping.
“I am willing to wager,” I continued, “that those creatures can muster a pace exceeding our current, pitiful options. And before you say they look slow, yes, they do.” A clone stared at the nearest skalder, expression caught somewhere between skepticism and prayer. “They’re not ideal for riding,” I admitted, hands on my hips. “They’re fat, they’re lumpy, they smell like fermented… fermented something, and I imagine their spines are about as comfortable as a sack of broken astromech parts.”
The creatures stared back at us blankly, chewing grass. “But,” I said, “I cannot think of a better idea. Therefore this is now our plan.”
Thus, we rode the skalders, as in voluntarily mounted those wheezing, bulbous slabs of Florrum wildlife and entrusted our lives to their questionable stride. It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t even particularly safe. But since the entire plan had been my idea, I was morally obligated not to complain, lest I appear hypocritical in front of the clones, who already tolerate more of my improvisation than any military unit reasonably should.
We lumbered across the cracked terrain toward what I optimistically guessed was Hondo Ohnaka’s base. The landscape was unwelcoming. Geysers belched steam like asthmatic giants. Bones of previous “visitors” poked out of the ground in a decorative manner,
I must keep this part short, dear reader, because the endless parade of ambushes is beginning to bore even me, and I lived through them. Suffice to say: tanks. Several tanks. Large tanks. Tanks bristling with weaponry and ill intent.
There was no other choice. (Well, there were several, but all of them ended in “and then we all died,” so I dismissed them.)
I dismounted the skalder and instructed the clones to get behind cover while I handled matters personally, up close, and with exactly the amount of recklessness Master Fisto had warned me against not some hours earlier. It was not a suicide mission. I cannot stress this enough. It looked like one, yes, but intention matters.
I sprinted through the hail of blasterfire, deflecting bolts, redirecting others, cursing colourfully at the ones I couldn’t. Together with the clones, we managed to torch a few approaching tanks. Then came the tank whose pilot I recognised, a Weequay with a face like a wrinkled boot. The very same one I had encountered earlier. I leapt atop the vehicle, grabbed him by the scruff, and knocked him out with the back of my lightsaber. It was almost tender, in a violent sort of way. Then I redirected the tank so that, with a satisfying shriek of metal, it toppled into its neighbour.
That left five more.
That first tank went down relatively easily, if you consider nearly being pulverised “easy.” After knocking out my disgraced Weequay acquaintance and sending his vehicle crashing into its neighbour, the rest of the incoming armour decided to get creative. One of them, clearly eager to make a name for himself, lobbed a thermal detonator in my direction. I very politely declined the gift by sending it straight back down his own cannon. The detonation blossomed like a flower, showering the landscape with flaming shrapnel and what I assume were the remains of… him.
Another tank rolled toward me, completely oblivious to the fact that the geyser beside it was beginning to grumble. A few well-placed Force nudges encouraged it a little closer. When the geyser erupted, the entire tank went hurtling skyward in a magnificent arc, spinning once before slamming back down. In the midst of this chaos, two more tanks attempted to coordinate an attack. I say “attempted” because after I sliced off one’s communication antenna in passing, they immediately lost all sense of teamwork. The first swerved left, the second right, and the result was a thunderous collision that sent both machines skidding across the dust as if in some demented rodeo.
The fourth tank, to its credit, had managed to maintain both aim and dignity, until it positioned itself a little too close to the edge of a ridge. I could practically hear the Force whispering, Go on. You know you want to. And who am I to ignore such sage advice? One gentle push, and gravity did the rest. The tank hesitated then tipped, tumbled, and rolled down the slope.
The final tank, stubborn and singularly dedicated, came barreling straight toward me. Its cannons spat fire until they overheated, whining pitifully. I vaulted over its last desperate shot, landed on the hull, and plunged my lightsaber straight through the top plating. The metal parted like hot butter with a temper, sparks erupting as I carved through its insides. It sputtered, shuddered, and finally gave up with an exhalation that sounded suspiciously like defeat.
And just like that, the battlefield fell quiet again. The geysers kept hissing like angry kettles, the wind harassed the dust into nervous little spirals, and somewhere behind me one of the skalders was coughing up something that sounded suspiciously like a shoe. My own breathing, ragged and triumphant, filled in whatever silence remained. I must concede, with the utmost academic honesty, that this had been something of a workout; far removed from the deeply personal brutality of duelling a single opponent, and galaxies different from cutting through battalions of droids whose greatest existential crisis is whether or not to announce “Roger, roger” before being bisected.
This time, instead of elegant, mindless clankers, my opponents had been actual living, sweating, swearing creatures, sentient, aggressive, and now very much ex-sentient, smoking within the crushed husks of their tanks. To preserve my fragile grasp on sanity, I have decided to catalogue this affair not as “six men killed,” but “one tactical loss for us, six for them.”
“General, good job!” one of the clones called, slapping my back as though congratulating me for a successful spar instead of a small-scale massacre. I gave him a nod, pointing toward the looming structure not far ahead, a round, rust-coloured edifice that appeared to have been designed by someone who loved circles and hated windows. “Quite reckless, if I can comment,” he added.
“You may comment,” I sighed, wiping soot from my cheek. “But I won’t listen. Come on, we need to find our Jedi… and the Sith Lord.”
Nothing encourages cardiovascular activity like the possibility of a Sith hiding around a corner, so I jogged ahead. At the door, I paused only long enough to draw a breath, adjust my robes to give the illusion of composure, and then executed a magnificent kick that sent the door flinging inward.
“Ohnaka Transport Solutions!” I bellowed, igniting my lightsaber with a flourish far too dramatic for someone as exhausted as I was. “You’ve betrayed the Republic!”
The scene inside was a spectacle of absurdity. Hondo Ohnaka, wrinkled, smug, and flamboyantly dressed as ever, gawked at me with a startled look. Around him lounged a ring of Weequays, and in the centre, as if offered up as sacrifices, lay Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi. Their complexions were a study in opposites, Anakin red as a boiled beet, Obi-Wan pale as bleached linen. Limp-limbed, rope-tied, and clearly recently tortured, they still managed to lift their heads when they heard me.
Hondo’s men sprang to their feet, raising their weapons. My clones matched them instantly, blasters at the ready. It would have been tense if it weren’t all so… tacky.
“Betrayed the Republic?” Hondo echoed, affronted. “You came with an army!”
“Does THIS-” I gestured at myself and my pitiful handful of soot-covered clone survivors “-look like a blasted army to you?” I didn’t wait for an answer. “We brought the ransom. Then your people stole the ransom. Off of me.”
“There has been a mistake,” Hondo said, rising with diplomatic solemnity, as if he hadn’t just been presiding over two Jedi marinating in pirate hospitality.
“I very sincerely hope so. For your sake.” I deactivated my lightsaber with a snap-hiss that conveyed both restraint and irritation. “And what exactly were you doing with…”
My question died when I noticed a limp hand protruding from behind a side door. I marched over, nudged the body with my foot, and rolled my eyes. “Where’s Dooku?” I demanded.
“He’s-” Hondo winced and attempted to look innocent. It did not suit him.
“He escaped,” Anakin croaked, valiantly attempting to stand despite wobbling like a dehydrated foal. Two clones jogged towards him and Master Kenobi, helping them to shaky feet.
“Good job,” I muttered.
Hondo crossed his arms defensively. “He was a traitor anyway! He told us you came with an army.”
“And that justified torturing these two?” I snapped. “By that logic, I should toss you in a cell and return the favour until you learn about honesty. But alas,” I continued, pinching the bridge of my nose, “I am a Jedi and not a pirate. And unfortunately, I owe you one.”
“Very honourable, Master Jedi,” Hondo said, narrowing his eyes at me. “Owe me one?”
“Do you not recognise me?”
“I fear I should.” He squinted. I angled my face toward him like a museum exhibit. “Oh! Are you…yes! That kid. On Lothal! My my, you’re a Jedi now.”
“Your memory does work,” I nodded. “Mine does too. You should also remember that Count Dooku does not share our sense of honour.”
I stepped back, toward the ship, gesturing for the clones to escort the battered but breathing Skywalker and Kenobi. Behind me, Obi-Wan added in that infuriatingly serene tone of his: “And he knows where you live.” I groaned.
With what remained of our dignity, we shuffled onto Anakin’s ship and departed the dust-yellow wasteland of Florrum, leaving behind one escaped Sith Lord, several destroyed tanks, a mountain of missing spices, and Hondo Ohnaka, who, for reasons unknown to me, always manages to survive the consequences of his own incompetence.