Star Wars: Passive Profile
Chapter 1: Rules of Engagement
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Author's Fore-note: I DO NOT OWN THE STAR WARS NAME OR ANY ESTABLISHED CHARACTERS, LOCATIONS, OR SITUATIONS IN ANY WAY, SHAPE OR FORM. I wrote this fanfic purely in the vein of entertainment and as a form of stimulating serious contemplation. Please, Mister Lucas, don't sue me; you made this specific universe. I'm merely playing in it.
22 years before the Battle of Yavin . . .
Jedi Master Magren Kayar stepped from the undercarriage of the LAAT/i, lightsaber snapping up to bat away blasterbolts as they streaked toward the armored craft. The Onderonian Jedi Master moved swiftly, holding his weapon aloft as a beacon to the clone troopers following, occasionally swatting the stray shots meant for him. Engine backwash kicked up sand that bit at his skin. Baking heat from the planet's single sun, Ea, brought streams of sweat from his brow, and still he ran.
The first wave of defenders rushed forth from the tunnels leading into the catacombs of the arena. Battle droids of both the B1 and B2 classification fell to his verdant blade by the handful; with an improvisational and aggressive variation of the Shien form to counteract the pressing attack of the robotic defenders, Kayar made it through the bedlam by the closest of margins. His clone troopers came swiftly after, shots taking as many droids down, if not more, than the Jedi Master had.
Whatever stock the clones had been grown from was apparently bred and meant for war. This revelation greatly disturbed him. Even as he fought, turning barely-sentient droids into scrap and avoiding being carbonized in the process, he could not help but ask himself how it was that all 192,000 clones had been ready, exactly when the Republic had needed them. What perplexed him more was who had commissioned such an army, how they had known that the Republic would even need one at all. But above all, what balked the Onderonian man more than anything was that all Jedi had been given the immediate rank of General; for the more-oft-than-naught peaceful Kayar, this rankled more than having his braids shaven from his scalp.
There were too many questions, hardly enough answers, and no time at all in which to ask them. The pressing matter of gaining entrance to the arena was of vastly more importance. The Low Altitude Assault Transport/infantry–or LAAT/i–could not have landed within the arena itself; if more than perhaps ten of the craft tried landing at once, more casualties would have been suffered. Kayar gave the only logical order; land outside the arena, and he and his troops would gain egress from without.
A small number of Geonosian warriors and Bee-Ones clustered within the recessed hollow Kayar and his squad was headed for. The Jedi-cum-general cupped his hand and abruptly lifted and drew it backwards, sending the insectoid aliens and androids alike flying. The Geonosians that were gifted with the good fortune of having been born with wings swiftly returned, firing sonic weapons at the advancing team. All thirteen clones in Kayar's group rushed in past the Jedi Master while he held their backs against fire meant to pick them off, even as they moved inside.
The tunnels under the arena were dark, but darkness proved no obstacle. It was more a question of what waited within the darkness that could prove fatal. Ambushes, booby-traps, death squads, or even a battalion of armored and blast-shielded droidekas could have waited for the invading strike-teams, and they would have no clue as to the danger until it was too late.
However, no matter the risk, there was a more pressing matter: getting to the center of the arena. Simply doing so to achieve the goal would test the mettle of not only the clones' training, but their gear as well.
Tested in all environments, save in actual 'true-to-form', person-to-person combat, the troopers' armor was state-of-the-art plastoid-composite alloy, capable of dispersing blasterbolts just under the energy output of an E-Web repeater as well as providing protection from ballistic munitions such as flechette and chaff; the Force alone was Kayar's armor. DC-15 blaster rifles could lay down a surprising rate of fire and force; a lightsaber was all the Jedi Master had needed for years in the way of protection. With an order from their commander, the clone troopers reformed on the general and advanced.
Sonic blasts and crimson bolts of energy lanced toward them and was returned with azure sprays from the clones' own assault blaster rifles. The corridor filled with the sound of exploding droids and whining energy blasts, the smell of ozone and carbonized metal, and the sight of fallen forms both organic and robotic. Clones and human rushed forward while Geonosians and battle-droids continued to fall in the onslaught that had begun outside.
Kayar himself went through the short, quick motions of his altered Shien form, sending what bolts came his way back to his attackers, shattering plastoid chassis and sending spindly limbs flying a spray of sparks when one ventured too close to the green blade of his weapon.
Though outwardly calm, Kayar felt death all around him. The Onderonian Jedi had always seen living beings within the Force as if a ribbon drew up from their heads, free-flowing as on a gentle wind. As if cut by invisible shears, each ribbon that was extinguished cut him straight to the marrow, regardless of which side they fought for. He had himself counted eight Geonosians that had fallen to his own lightsaber, another eight ribbons he would have to beg the Force forgiveness for willfully severing.
His ruminations were cut short by the half-circle of yellow light at the far end of the slightly curving arm of the corridor. The darkness-filled tunnel gave way to sunlit sand as the general and his entire squad–still alive to a man–broke upon the flank of more insectile warriors. For a moment, he stood rooted to the spot while his squad rushed forth, firing at droids and alien alike.
He stared down at a lifeless hand. Pale, ending in a ragged, wet stump of a wrist, the silver hilt of a lightsaber clutched tightly by lifeless fingers. Tears welled in the Onderonian man's eyes; he recognized the hand and hilt to whom both had once belonged. Shaggukk Ium had only recently been promoted to knighthood, and the Rodian had a promising career ahead of her. Now her life was extinguished, along with a swiftly-growing number of other Jedi.
"Why?" He felt himself ask the question of a quartet of advancing Geonosians, only to receive the answer of four blasts from their sonic weapons. He rushed forth, evading the spheres of coherent sonic energy, caught up in the intensity of his emotions.
Now Kayar's count was twelve when he leapt into the throng of battle droids quickly surrounding a number of his fellow Masters. Master Sora Bulq was at the head of the grouping, a good sign. His tears had dried up, and a good thing, too. He could spare no more, even as a large blast engulfed the whole of his squad. One remained, rolling his body to put out the flames eating at the hard skin of his armor, calling out to the dead commander for orders as soon as he gained his feet.
The trooper at last spied Kayar when he could get no answer from his commander and moved swiftly to the Jedi's side.
"Sir! Trooper CT-1408, Mern Squad, communications officer." The trooper looked obediently to him for command, he knew, but for a long, numb moment, he felt nothing save a sense of irony.
The sum of the numeric segment of the trooper's designation is thirteen, Kayar thought. He's 'Lucky Thirteen.'
To some cultures, it was a very unlucky number, but to others it was the epitome of good fortune. Force willing, the latter would prove more a rule than an exception. But again he thought of the ragged hand of Shaggukk Ium, and his eyes again began to sting, and not solely from the smoke still rising from Thirteen's armor.
There is no emotion; there is peace.
He took a deep breath, centered himself within the Force, and let it envelope him like the current of some vast sea, leading from one moment to the next, to the words that must be spoken if he, Thirteen, and the rest of the Jedi were to get out of there alive.
"Trooper, get us a boat out of here, ASAP. If we get out of this alive, Thirteen, I'll see to it you get a promotion. Just get us out of here!" Again, Kayar felt the edge of hysteria threaten to overtake him, but again he fought back the tide of darkness.
There is no emotion; there is peace.
He had to believe that. He practically thrived on the idea that peace overrides all in the grand scope of things. But all the same, he silently cursed the battle droids even as he leapt at them, hacking at them with abandon, fully in the throes of grief, letting it take him against his better judgement into its harsh but empowering grip. Either way, it was far better that he take his sadness out on lifeless, emotionless droids, who could not feel pain or fear, as opposed to the aliens who did, that faced him.
The battle, however, was not going well. Kayar found himself encircled by the Trade Federation's automata along with what Jedi remained alive. Somewhere far above, the sounds of LAAT/i approaching and retreating rose above the din of battle. Vulture droids and gunships burst far above the arena, raining bits of shrapnel and detritus down on the dirty sand bellow. The dagger-shapes of Acclamator I-class assault ships drifted through the upper stratosphere, sending green spears of light coursing toward distant, unseen targets out upon the dunes.
Thirteen stood at Kayar's side, for all intents and purposes quiet, but that would have merely been an illusion caused by the sound-damping in his helmet. Thirteen was picking his shots; with the rapid rate of fire a DC-15 put out, they were bound to suck up energy-cells fairly quickly, and the Jedi Master didn't think it possible that the trooper had a limitless supply of ammunition.
Hulking Bee-Twos halted to a jerky stop, arm-mounted blaster cannons for the moment falling quiet as their captives, too, ceased all frantic activity. The scattered and piled bodies of Jedi, clone troopers, and the discarded remains of battle droids littered the arena like so many fallen leaves cast down in the terrible might of a storm.
Kayar felt oddly serene as the sensation of imminent death fell over him. While not the death he had hoped for, he was no less at peace with himself, the people around him, and the Force as the Bee-Twos again leveled their arms in their direction. What broke the feeling of utter calm was when the super battle droids erupted, one after the other, blown to shrapnel by the side-mounted E-Web cannons of the two descending LAAT/i.
"Thank you, Thirteen!" Kayar shouted over the thrum of the craft's repulsors.
Kayar himself, Thirteen, and a number of other Jedi and clones gained the bay of the gun ship, while the remainder climbed aboard the other. Both assault craft quickly lifted out of the arena. Magren Kayar dropped himself tiredly into a seat, clutching the back of it desperately. Battle was no place for an assistant librarian.
"Pilot, get us out of here, if you please," he called forward toward the cockpit. A lifted hand signaled the clone's acquiescence. The arena continued to fall away from them, and good riddance, Kayar thought. If he ever saw such a large engagement again, it would be too soon.
He had seen far too much death and destruction in one day, than he had ever in his life cared to see; all the same, in the deepest well of fear in his soul, he felt that the battle in the arena was just a precursor to a larger, more desperate conflict.
Opposite him, Thirteen pulled his helmet off with a sigh. Kayar looked at the mass-produced man, nodding to the clone his thanks.
"Good work, Thirteen," he said, voice raised over the thrum of the gunship's engines.
"Thank you, General. I take it that the promotion you promised is well earned." Kayar had to smile at the clone, in spite of the sadness and post-conflict stress.
"My word is my bond, trooper."
The reddish grey sphere of planet Geonosis fell away under them as the LAAT/i headed into the atmosphere.
Author's Post Scriptum, Repeating: I do not in any way own, nor do I make money off the names or situations herein mentioned. All names and characters, with the exception of Magren Kayar, Shaggukk Ium, and CT-1408 "Thirteen," is the sole property of Lucasfilms Limited; original characters' makeup and names are owned by me. Copyright laws apply where necessary for the protection of specific elements and their original owners.