Long before General Grievous came along, I fell in love with Poggle the Lesser and the Geonosians. And because I liked them so and got tired of waiting for other people to write about them, I eventually made up my own long background story about how Poggle became an Archduke and the leader of his entire planet and about how he met all his nasty little friends and colleagues along the way. I initially ran the story in ongoing pieces in a couple of forums on SW sites I was a member of at the time, but those were the sorts of casual fanfic forums that get time-purged and that was several years ago…I'm not sure if that counts as having ever been published or not and it for sure was never archived in any sort of complete form. In the hope that it didn't count (I can't find anything in the guidelines to the contrary) and because it bugs me (no pun intended) that it's still virtually impossible to find any sort of Geonosian fanfic, I'm going to stubbornly champion my favourite insectoids once again and hereby present a Poggle the Lesser story for anyone with a smidgeon of interest in him. Drama, for the most part, with some SF elements and action. Featured characters are Poggle, Sun Fac, Sun Rit, some original characters (all Geonosian), and later on, a couple of my favourite Separatists. I tried hard to give the Geonosians entertaining personalities without ruining their quintessential alienness and hope I succeeded. And if anyone knows of any other Poggle fics out there, for gawd sake's have some pity and tell me about them. I sure can't find them!

Disclaimer: All things Star Wars belong to the copyright holders. This is a nonprofit fanfic written purely for the pleasure of it.

CREAM RISES

Chapter 1 – The Petrana-ki

Poggle the Lesser turned his head and glared at the guard strapping the brail into place around the base of his wings.

"You don't need to do that," he snapped. "I won't try to fly."

"That's what they all say," the guard replied, gave the brail one final tug, then stepped away. He looked bored. Poggle could have cheerfully strangled him.

Several other guards moved in, caught up his wrists, and fastened them together with metal binders. Poggle trembled as he suppressed his homicidal impulses. A couple of the drones carried static prods and he was already too familiar with the agonizing jolts the deceptively small wands could deliver. One shock applied to his muzzle had taken him right off his feet. His mouth had smarted afterwards for hours. Better to conserve one's energy and wait for a viable opportunity, that was now Poggle's policy. But he never could keep his tongue still.

"Where are you taking me?" he asked the guards.

"For fun and games," one replied, and the stupid creatures tittered together.

So. His time had come. That he would wind up in the arena had never been in doubt. The only surprise was how long he had languished in captivity since his arrest. Geonosian justice was usually swift and efficient. Criminals were often marched to their doom within hours of being sentenced.

The guards led Poggle to a long flight of steps and he started up eagerly, glad of the exercise. The long confinement to a tiny cell had been hard on his restless nature. Harder still had been his keepers' refusal to bring him any news, although he had to admit to himself that they'd otherwise cared for him well, if not kindly. It was his Aristocrat status, of course. Even though only a Lesser, the very lowest of the low classes, he was still a member of the ruling caste, and the drone guards had respected that.

An incredible odour began to permeate the air as they continued upward. Stale animal smells; a mix of species, both familiar and exotic; blood, death, fear, and Geonosians—thousands upon thousands of Geonosians. Poggle breathed hard through his mouth and ran his tongue over the most sensitive receptors in the roof of his oral cavity, trying to detect the scent of his friends, his followers, anyone he knew. You couldn't smell a thing down in the cells. They were strongly ventilated to remove that comfort.

As Poggle expected, the stairs exited directly into the vast service area adjacent to the games arena and soldier drones were waiting to take charge of him. One snapped a chain onto the ring on his binders. They turned and tugged him along like a pet, refusing to look him in the eye. Poggle followed docilely, the very picture of submissive cooperation. Yet his head moved alertly from side to side as they trudged along, and he continued to test the air, struggling a bit to process the sudden surfeit of stimuli.

A hot pungent breeze began to waft over the little group. Poggle could hear the low stridulation of a vast throng of his own kind and he licked his mouth and steeled himself. The corridor they trod expanded suddenly into a large chamber filled with a flare of light and more Geonosians clustered together in several distinct parties. They looked almost black, etched as they were in silhouette against the brightness streaming in through a tall portal at the end of the room. And through that portal…

The soldiers pulled Poggle up before one of their more senior members, a sergeant of sorts, identified by the incongruously gay ribbons adorning the shoulder prongs of his harness. Poggle ignored him. He was looking for the execution cart.

His attention snapped back, however, as soon as the sergeant began speaking.

"Poggle the Lesser," the drone informed him, enunciating carefully, "you have been charged with treason and sentenced to the petrana-ki. You will be taken into the arena, placed into position, and provided with a weapon. Do not move and do not talk until your restraints are released. At that time you may pick up your weapon and prepare yourself. If you disobey these instructions in any way, you will be punished. If you try to remove your brail or run away, you will be killed. Do you have any questions?"

"Thank you so much for that stirring speech," Poggle remarked. He laughed when the sergeant looked perplexed. No drone was the brightest, but they were smart enough to know when they were being ridiculed. This one, miffed, coped by doing an about-face and turning his back. Poggle the Lesser didn't care about the drone's hurt feelings. He was too cheered by what the sergeant had just said.

A new soldier came forward and took Poggle's chain. More drones fell into place behind him, creating a little procession, and the lot of them moved to stand just inside the entranceway onto the vast enclosed playing field beyond. Poggle blinked repeatedly at the bright light and strained to hear what the amplified voice being broadcast in the stands was saying. And then the soldier ahead of him was pulling on his chain and Poggle was led out onto the sand floor of the great arena…

The arena! How he loved it, the only place that could distract him from his constant anger and dissatisfaction with his hated job. Every hive colony had its games coliseum and Stalgasin's was among the finest to be found on the entire planet. A huge swell of sound swirled about Poggle's head as he walked, elemental in its intensity, the voice of Stalgasin raised in gleeful anticipation; an outpouring of raw emotion that Poggle had often shared in as he cheered or jeered some unfortunate in the past, but which he'd never thought to hear aimed squarely and solely at himself.

Curiously, he felt no fear. The sound buoyed him. He looked around, astounded by the scope and true size of the magnificent structure about him, wishing he could have enjoyed his revealing perspective under rather better circumstances.

A sudden grunt of pleasure escaped him. He could see two other bound Geonosians waiting ahead of him and both sported the green-tinged colouring and distinctive faces of fellow Aristocrats. Their eyes opened wide with surprise as they saw and scented him in turn. They watched as Poggle was guided up and pushed backwards to stand in between them, his chain removed, all three in a row. Wisely, none of the prisoners spoke. Picadors on orrays had accompanied Poggle's party and they carried the long static pikes with which they controlled the arena beasts and, in a pinch, unruly criminals who could not keep their months shut.

Several drones came forward and placed a gleaming sword on the sand before each prisoner, then stepped back with careful measured strides, making a little ceremony of it. After a brief pause, all but one of the soldiers lifted up, hovered, and flew back towards the service exits. The picadors spun their orrays about and galloped back as well.

The soldier who had remained behind raised his hand to activate a small device and the binders on all three prisoners sprang open and dropped to the sand. The trio regarded each other soberly while the soldier flew away.

"The others?" Poggle asked.

"All dead," said the Geonosian to his left.

"We thought you were dead too," added the Geonosian to his right.

"Well, I thought you were dead," countered Poggle, and the three of them burst into laughter and began patting one another on the arms. The other two Lessers, Tarel and Enar, were his friends, work-mates, residence-mates; his staunchest supporters and now convicted co-conspirators. They touched muzzles affectionately. If they seemed nonchalant about their situation, it was less bravado than a certain resignation. All Geonosians lived with the knowledge that they would someday come to a violent end.

Said Tarel, "Did I hear right? The petrana-ki?"

"Yes indeed," Poggle told him. He bent to retrieve the sword left at his feet, a soldier's saber with a heavy curved blade. "They gave us good weapons, at least."

"Why this way? I thought we were going to be executed," said Enar. His plaintive tone made him sound almost as though he were complaining. Poggle regarded him with wry amusement.

"What's the matter, Enar? Don't you want to go out in style?" Abruptly, Poggle swung around and lifted his arms, holding his blade high over his head like some Gladiator already celebrating victory. The audience responded at once with good-natured jeers and creaks of laughter; even Tarel snorted, though Enar still looked unhappy. Poggle strutted on while his friends armed themselves. He looked for the archducal box high up in the stands and made a show of bowing to Archduke Hadiss the Vaulted, the object of his hatred and insurrection. Poggle and his comrades had been the ringleaders in a series of failed uprisings meant to unseat the hive leader. This, then, was the Archduke's revenge, to put them on display and see them struggle for their lives as long as possible. Only, Poggle had no intention of succumbing.

He examined the blade of his saber again, noting its well-honed edge. The crowd kept yelling at him. They wanted him dead—he was, after all, a treasonous felon—yet already appreciated his willingness to play along, to go out well, to provide the entertainment for which they hungered. It was not so bad, this being vilified by a bloodthirsty mob. Poggle could feel his own blood heating in response, his senses sharpening, and his spirit rising. He knew he would have to be at his very sharpest to survive the ordeal to come.

"Gentlemen, I believe our good Archduke may have made a tactical error," he said to the others in a low voice.

Tarel understood. He nodded. Enar seemed confounded. "You are NOT suggesting we'll win this," Enar exclaimed. "Are you?"

"Why not? People survive the petrana-ki all the time."

"Yes! Crazy fools who train for months!" Enar cried. "Poggle, I-I've never even held a sword."

"Neither have I. Learn fast," Poggle advised. He swung his saber experimentally. It felt good in his hand. "Just think, Enar, we could make history. Three criminals winning redemption together at the same time. Three Lessers winning redemption. The low-class redemption trio."

"I don't think that's funny," said Enar angrily.

Several Geonosians began marching across the sand towards them. The rules of ritual combat—the petrana-ki—had allowed Poggle and company their few moments of preparatory calm; now it was time to get serious. Poggle and Tarel eyed their approaching opponents closely. "Soldiers," Tarel concluded with satisfaction. "Look, Enar. Even you can take a drone."

Their fear had been that they would be matched against true Gladiators, other members of the ruling caste who were intelligent and skilled and who would have minced the Lessers in short order. But soldiers were a different matter and these would not be particularly good soldiers; no officer of worth would allow his best drones to be used up for mere arena fighting. The Aristocrats drew together protectively.

The soldiers advanced with equal caution. They were under death-orders, charged with killing all three of the criminals confronting them or be killed themselves. None of them had much experience using the archaic weapons of coliseum combat and they were fidgety and unsure of themselves as a result. To their advantage, they could still fly, and they still enjoyed the scant protection afforded by their soldiers' harnesses. Their adversaries had nothing but their own exoskeletal plating, and that plating only extended so far.

Poggle and the others were already acutely aware of their vulnerabilities.

"Watch your necks," he warned, meaning it literally. "And your joints—under the arms, your elbows. They'll aim at those."

"Is this why you and Tarel were always such maniacs for the games?" Enar mused. "So you'd know what to do?"

The other two exchanged amused glances.

"We just went for the bloodshed," said Tarel.

"Other peoples', preferably," Poggle clarified.

The soldiers suddenly rushed them, one on one. Poggle and Tarel managed to hold their own through sheer strength, but Enar was driven back. Their tight grouping broke up. The fight became a whirl of flashing blades crashing together, wild hacks and swings. Poggle was dinged on the upper arm, the skin scraped. Alarmed, he backed up. He and the others had fought, even killed before, but it had been with energy weapons and their own bare hands used on unsuspecting victims caught by surprise. This melee out in the open, with forward-facing, aware opponents, was new and unnerving.

Poggle parried several more slashes and looked for his friends, was slammed by an immediate terrific blow to his lower chest. The soldier, capitalizing on his momentary distraction, had tried to gut him and had aimed too high. Poggle's chest plating had barely saved him. Angrily now, he fought back and the drone gave way reluctantly.

A sudden squawk and Poggle glimpsed Enar staggering to one side, his sword dropping from his hand. Maddened, Poggle lunged at his drone, driving him aside, running straight through him to Enar's aid. Enar fell and the soldier who had struck him down startled at Poggle's charge and lifted into flight; the Lesser jumped up and caught him by one leg just above the hock. He hung on grimly, head ducked, as the soldier furiously kicked and buffeted him with his wings, the two of them spinning round and round like some drunken double top.

The soldier Poggle had been fighting ran up. Poggle deliberately let himself fall and his weight pulled the hovering drone out of the air and on top of both himself and the other soldier; the lot of them went down in a tangle of wings, lost swords and bony limbs. Poggle got his hands around the snout of one of the struggling drones and a foot on the nape of his neck. He heaved, straining, and the body under his convulsed. Seconds later he was fighting for his life again as the other soldier, quite recovered, wrapped his own hands about Poggle's throat and tried to throttle him. They wrestled together in the dirt, snarling, feet clawing, even biting; all vestiges of civilization flung aside.

A saber blade reached down between the soldier's neck and harness prong and made a small careful cut. A red stream gushed out. The soldier shuddered, then slackened, and the hands about the Lesser's neck went limp. Coughing, Poggle pushed the dying drone off himself and spat out a mouthful of blood. Tarel put down his hand to help him up.

"You could have taken longer to get here," Poggle said sarcastically.

"You're a mess," retorted Tarel.

A great roar rose and fell around them; the crowd, expressing its approval of the show. Poggle took stock wearily. Enar was dead, his neck sliced. Tarel had taken out two of the soldiers in the same way. Only the drone Poggle had tried to kill still seemed alive, but he was clearly fatally injured, with glazed, unseeing eyes. The picadors would put an end to him.

They gathered up the spare swords, then started walking towards four huge pillars set to one side of the arena floor. It was a calculated risk, what they were doing. They tried hard to saunter, even waved to the spectators to indicate that they were merely shifting position and not trying to flee. The two Lessers had personally watched only three Geonosians survive the petrana-ki and all three had finished up with their backs to the pillars, using them for protection; the conclusion was obvious. But those survivors had gotten there during the course of their battling, not taken a deliberate hike. Poggle and Tarel, breakers of rules and tradition, glanced nervously at the guard towers as they walked along.

No armed soldiers spilled out of the towers, nor did any riders come galloping after them. The only orray they saw in action was the one pulling a service cart out to the scene of their battle with the drones; the picadors, coming to gather the bodies and tidy the sand.

The crowd had settled into a muted rumble, obviously curious about the prisoners' intentions.

The two reached their destination with relief and took a breather. It was an irony that they were happy to be leaning up against the stone columns. A little earlier, both of them had fully expected to be led to the pillars and left shackled there for some arena beast to mangle; it was how most prisoners of worth were executed. Only the commonest, least interesting criminals were simply strung up. There was a hierarchy on Geonosis even among felons.

"What model, do you think?" Tarel murmured.

"Should be a standard Trade droid. I hope."

As if on cue, several gaunt humanoid-patterned battle droids appeared at a distant exit. Drones were aiming them the right way, issuing orders. Poggle and Tarel waited tensely.

The battle droids were products of the Geonosians' own foundries and well familiar to fans of bloodsport. They were often pitted against drones, and Gladiators liked sparring against them to show off their speed. They were relentless foes, but stupid. The two Lessers had their own ideas of how to beat them.

The Geonosians did a slow fade behind the pillars as the droids, four of them, marched up. The automatons stopped short, heads swiveling as they sought their targets. A sword poked out from behind a column and two of the droids blasted at it and clanked forward.

A pair of bony arms shot out, grabbed, and pulled the first droid down behind the pillar. The other was upended with a pull on its spindly legs and likewise dragged back. The Lessers hammered on the weakest joints of the downed machines with the heavy blunt edges of their weapons, working with frantic haste, finally yanking on the conical heads to snap the connections. The droids just lay there, almost helpless. It was difficult for them to recover from a spill at the best of times. With their two targets pounding on them, confused by their conflicting directives to recover yet attack, it became impossible, and they were quickly disabled. The Geonosians jumped up and ran for the cover of the next column just as the remaining droids got into firing position and began blasting away.

It turned into a game of hide and seek, with Poggle and Tarel darting in amongst the shielding pillars and luring the automatons on with exposed waves of their sabers. The battle droids, unable to think creatively, purely reactive in nature, were duped every time. Both were juggled into vulnerable positions and incapacitated in turn, and the Lessers got away with it all with only one crisped wing tip and a few singes between them.

The audience was not entirely sure of how to respond to the swift victory. Many spectators had had difficulty seeing what had actually happened and what they had seen had looked too easy. Some, the Aristocrats, who had the intelligence to appreciate the cleverness of the Lessers' tactics, applauded their success by fluttering their colourful wings. Most of the drones, less sophisticated, wound up muttering with disappointment over the speedy and bloodless resolution. They shifted and hopped about in their seats in the upper tiers, a rippling, disgruntled brown carpet of Geonosian-hood.

"Bloodthirsty little morons," Tarel remarked with grim amusement, observing the mixed reaction.

"They'll get their fill with the next part," said Poggle. He eyed his friend. "How are you managing?"

"Well. Surprisingly well."

"Well enough to stand this mob on its head and spit in Hadiss' eye?"

Tarel snorted at the image. "I think—yes. Yes. We can do this."

"Then let's get ready."

The two started dragging the droid bodies into a pile against one of the pillars, creating a barrier. "Enar was right," Tarel suddenly said.

"About what?"

"Us. We did always go to the games with the idea that we'd someday end up like this."

"You, maybe," Poggle replied. "You always did have that shifty way about you, Tarel."

The banter lightened the burden of stacking the heavy droids. There was no need to discuss what they were doing. They had indeed already deliberated at length upon every match and contest they'd ever witnessed at the games they'd so loved to attend, arguing and debating endlessly about how they would have handled themselves in lieu of the actual participants. Now here was their chance to put their expert fan opinions into practice.

The remains of the four battle droids formed a reasonable barrier and they next re-examined their weaponry. One sword had been blasted into scrap and another bent and damaged; Poggle kept it as a spare, laid next to his feet. The four good blades they kept in hand, holding them loosely as they leaned back against the pocked stone of the pillar, standing side by side next to the heaped droids. The weapons of the droids they ignored. They knew that the blasters had been modified to require an activating electronic pulse, a means of keeping living combatants honest.

They waited for the last phase of the petrana-ki to begin.

Four drones finally walked out onto the sand, accompanied by large quadrupeds restrained by harnesses. The animals, native massiffs, were squat and bulky, covered with leathery skin studded on their topsides with protective scutes and spikes. Their perfectly round black eyes stared in a blank, disarming fashion, yet they moved with the nimble, assured power of intelligent predators and minded their handlers obediently. The Lessers watched the drones halt and set the animals free; gesture their way.

"Four of them," Tarel muttered.

"Hadiss wants to make sure."

Poggle hated massiffs. He thought them skulking creatures, fit only to catch vermin, and begrudged that they were favoured by the Vaulted class, who liked to keep them as pets. He'd sworn that he would never allow any massiff anywhere near the interior of Stalgasin once he was Archduke. But these massiffs didn't care about his future directives. They were seasoned arena killers, well trained. Poggle was just another quarry they'd been sent to destroy.

The massiffs loped up, full of confidence, then shifted into a sprint. They hurtled at their victims, jaws opening wide to grab and pull them down.

And just as swiftly scrambled back to escape a hail of savage slashing blows, bumping into and stumbling over one another in their haste. There hadn't been room enough for all four massiffs to reach their objective. Channeled by the makeshift barrier and their own eagerness, they'd crowded together and hampered each other, slowing their attack enough for the Geonosians to inflict severe cuts and gashes. They regrouped and several of them shook their heads and licked their hurt chops as they prowled back and forth, growling steadily, grumbling out their anger and aggression.

One of the massiffs abruptly collapsed onto its hindquarters. It sat there in an almost comical fashion, its front legs spraddled wide, staring stupidly with surprise. Blood sheeted down its dirty white chest; Tarel's quick hands had scored again. It still wore its look of dumb surprise when it finally sank down, bled out. The other massiffs just continued stalking around the carcass, unconcerned and unperturbed by their loss.

They tried attacking again. Massiffs were courageous animals, in their way, and they knew their duty. But the attempt only garnered them disaster. One of them went howling away with a ruined eye and its muzzle slashed half off, and another was left gagging and frantically pawing at a blade lodged deep in its gullet; Poggle's doing, this time. The remaining massiff, the only one still untouched, had again been crowded out and unable to reach the Geonosians. It paced before them, rumbling, a little hesitant now that it was alone.

Poggle and Tarel watched it warily. Both were winded and their arms ached from fending off their immensely strong attackers. They were almost drained and knew they'd have to be very careful with their remaining strength. The wounded animals were a concern. Left alone, they might recover somewhat.

"We should go after those two. Kill them while we can," Poggle said.

"What about this fellow in front of us?"

"He should move for both of us. We can guard each other's backs."

"All right, let's try."

Poggle stooped to first pick up his spare sword. Tarel shifted his gaze to watch him for one second and as quick as that, the massiff they'd thought demoralized was in the air, springing at them. Poggle was knocked down and Tarel had just time enough to fling up one arm before the brute was on him, rearing on him, crushing him back into the pillar with the full weight of its body. But the same stance that immobilized one prey left it vulnerable to the other. Poggle finished snatching up his second weapon and plunged both blades into the massiff beneath its loin. It let go of Tarel's arm with a strangled yelp and actually backpedaled a few strides on its hind legs before keeling over and thrashing violently. Poggle pulled Tarel aside, away from the spasmodically snapping jaws.

"Are you all right!" he cried.

A crushed, useless limb was as good as a death sentence for a Lesser. Tarel, shaken, moved his wrist and hand, bent his elbow. "It works," he breathed with relief. "It didn't have time to clamp down."

The two of them moved away from the column. The massiff that had bitten Tarel had rolled onto its side and was still feebly moving. Poggle aimed a vicious kick at it as they passed.

The animal with the saber jammed down its throat was crouching a short distance away, still scratching at its lacerated mouth and heaving desperately for air. It was a piece of mere butchery to dispatch it. The other massiff had more fight left. Unable to bite effectively, half-blinded though it was, it nonetheless charged as they approached, making them jump smartly for their safety. Tarel did the distracting and Poggle managed to hamstring the beast, and together they fell on the cripple, hacking away in a final flurry of violence. And then, quite suddenly, there was nothing left to kill. The Geonosians stood there, panting, gawking at each other, the only two creatures left alive and whole on the arena floor, while the spectators all about them erupted in shrill jubilation.

"We did it!" Poggle exclaimed over the noise.

"Must you always state the obvious?" Tarel chided, and threw his weapon down. Poggle did the same. Laughing, they embraced this time, pressing their long lean bloodied heads together, and found the energy afterwards to even caper a few steps, bouncing with delight at their victory. Had they been voluntary participants in the petrana-ki, there would have been a great celebration for them, with a lap of triumph in a decorated cart and much adulation and praise. As criminals, they were granted life and a pardon, period, which was just fine by Poggle and Tarel.

They began their slow tired trek out of the arena, waving occasionally. Poggle made an especial point of flapping a hand at the archducal box; in your ugly face, Hadiss, he thought with glee. The Archduke was no doubt steaming over the outcome of his little scheme. The only thing that could have angered him more, Poggle thought, was if poor Enar had survived as well.

The crowd had fallen into a happy, steady chant. Their collective voice held an air of odd expectancy. Troubled, the Lessers exchanged glances. Really, what more could the audience want of them? Even if they were felons, there should have been some respect and recognition due their rare accomplishment.

Several mounted picadors came into view, guiding an acklay between them.

The two Aristocrats halted. "What's this?" Tarel said uneasily.

"Setting up for the next event, I guess. There must be an execution scheduled."

"I don't see any prisoners. Poggle, I don't like this. It isn't right."

"I know. You'd think they'd wait until we left the arena."

"No! Just—listen."

The crowd was screaming for blood. Poggle and Tarel shrank together, snouts jerking as they sought for some reason for the frenzied outcry, some bout or contest that they were about to get caught up in by error. The acklay was a magnificent predator and a great fan favourite, but its appearance alone would not engender such manic response. There had to be something else, behind them, close to them…

The acklay accelerated with sudden stunning ease and the Lessers, numb with fatigue and disbelief, let it run right up to them. Too late did they realize their mistake and that the acklay had been meant for them all along; that they'd been deceived and the petrana-ki made a mockery of; that it had all been a sham, just a sham, and then the enormous creature was on top of them and stabbing down with its slashing forelegs.

Pure chance favoured Poggle and it was Tarel who was impaled and driven into the ground. Poggle staggered back, moaning, in a state of shock. He stopped and stood drooping, transfixed with horror, and watched as the monster devoured his friend.

The acklay finished and lifted its head and fixed its beady-eyed gaze on Poggle with profound interest. More food! it seemed to say. Poggle started, shaken out of his deadly trance.

It was the only time his courage failed him. Instinctively he tried to fly, was brought up short by the painful jolt of the restraining brail. He whirled and took to his feet instead, grateful that he was still young enough to be fit and slender, that he still had sound, powerful legs that could propel him over the sand like the wind. He used those legs now and fled for his life, and the predator behind him gave enthusiastic chase.

Back towards the exit through which he'd entered this nightmare and here came one of the attending picadors, riding out to turn him. Poggle skidded to a halt, then dashed to one side. The picador cursed as she tried to switch her pike to her rein hand while maintaining control of her excited orray. Poggle leapt up, catching her off guard, crashing into her, and the two tumbled together to the ground, already grappling and fighting. She was game, but Poggle was desperate. He managed to kick her in the face, half-stunning her, and scrambled back up on his feet. The orray was long gone, but no matter. It was the pike he was after.

He ran to snatch it up and spun to confront the monstrosity bearing down on him. He set his hands fast on the pike's insulated grip, raised it into what he hoped seemed a threatening position, and the acklay—

—the acklay swept past him and bent over the downed picador, killing her with one crunching bite to her chest.

Poggle, panting with fright and effort, stared at the feeding beast. It had ignored him. Its backside bobbed as it busied itself with the picador, pausing once to steady the small body with a claw tip before lowering its head again to tear away the meager flesh. Poggle edged closer and still the acklay disregarded him, so contemptuous of his presence that it felt free to show him its vulnerable belly.

Poggle suddenly shrieked, the thin nerve-shredding shrill of a Geonosian about to erupt in fury. He lowered the static pike and charged, flinging himself forward under the creature's stomach.

The pike slid in with shocking ease and struck something solid. The jar shook Poggle loose and he fell. The acklay went straight up in the air. In later days, the height of its leap would grow with each retelling; some spectators in the stands would swear that it had reached the base of the first tier. Down it came, almost trampling Poggle, then stood for a moment, shuddering convulsively. The violent spasms pushed the pike back out of its body. The long rod fell square on Poggle's head, which caused him to roll up on one haunch, swearing and sneezing. He'd gone face-first into the dirt and his nostrils were clogged with sand. He sat there under the monster's belly, pawing beneath his eyes, spitting mad, oblivious to the appalling danger.

The acklay abruptly staggered away. It had had enough. Never had it felt such agony, been attacked in a way it could not comprehend. Moving made it feel sicker and it slowed to a crawl. It dragged itself towards the nearest arena exit, towards the only refuge from pain and confusion which it knew.

Poggle shot up. "No!" he screamed after it. "Stop!" The acklay kept going. Poggle snatched at the pike—luckily, it had shorted out in the wet guts, for he never noticed that he was grabbing the wrong end—and now it was the prey pursuing the predator, shouting at it, ordering it to halt, growing angrier with each refusal. It was crazy behaviour, but Poggle was not thinking sanely. He raced after the wounded animal with murderous intent, the precious pike clutched in one hand.

Geonosians were prodigious jumpers. Poggle sprang up onto one of the acklay's rearmost legs and then over onto its body, climbing with his free hand and with his long footclaws, which could fasten vice-like onto the slightest projection. The acklay, immersed in its pain, paid no attention to his clambering. It wanted only to find a quiet place where it could rest and suffer in peace.

Poggle swung the pike and hit the acklay as hard as he could on the side of its head. Shocked anew, it jumped forward. Another blow, even harder, sent it scurrying, the fire in its belly momentarily forgotten. It was too hurt and confused to fathom the source of this fresh attack. All it could do was try to get away and that meant running as fast as possible.

The Geonosian clinging to its lower back kept lashing it with the stinging pike, punctuating every whack with an inarticulate snarl. Poggle was deep in bloodlust, no longer fully aware of what he was doing. He beat the hapless animal in a fit of rage, raining upon it all his malice and fury; his bitter resentment of every slight and snub; his vexation, his disappointment, his frustration at the injustice that kept him mired in servitude to people he hated. The acklay careened back and forth, seeking relief from the relentless blows. It began to whine, and the audience in the vast arena hushed and grew still, aware that they were witnessing something unprecedented.

A tremendous jolt broke Poggle's grip and threw him sprawling over the armored back. The acklay in its blind pain and terror had run headfirst into the arena wall. Dazed, it turned weakly away and Poggle slid off and fell to the ground. He landed on his back this time, which knocked the remainder of his breath from his battered body, and lay there, gasping, while the acklay finally made good its escape from its tiny tormenter.

Poggle swam in and out of consciousness in waves. I am really rather tired of all this, he thought during one lucid moment. During another, he thought that he could see a great sculpted cliff rearing skyward above his eyes. A little Geonosian head seemed to be poking out of the rock partway up. Even upside down he recognized the distinctive outline of a snout, although this one was augmented with cheek flares and long wattles which—

The acklay had dumped him at the base of the tower containing the archducal box.

The realization that Hadiss was looking down on him cleared Poggle's head instantly. He struggled to turn onto his side, then sit up. The watching throng, murmuring excitedly back into full voice, urged him on. He managed to get up on his feet, tottered a bit, then stood firm. Again, they shouted encouragement. The audience loved him now and they fed him their strength and their comfort. Poggle drank the sound in, supped on the rich thick scent of support. Refreshed, he started forward.

Five soldier drones dropped down into a semicircle before him, barring his way. They aimed their blasters at him. Poggle stared back, defiant. Dimly, he was aware of the instant change of mood of the crowd, the low growls and hisses of disapproval that swelled second by second into a steady sonorous drone. The soldiers began glancing nervously at one another.

An officer, member of the Royal Warrior class, fluttered down into position before his squad. Poggle's vision was starting to waver; the officer's face seemed lopsided somehow. Yet his manner remained crystal clear. He studied Poggle with cool professionalism, noting the multiple oozing dirt-caked wounds, the hanging shreds of scraped skin, the expression of fierce indomitability that had no business appearing on the face of any mere Lesser.

And then the officer was stepping back and the long head was tilting in a gesture of dismissal. The soldiers, still hesitant, looked to their leader for explanation. "The petrana-ki is over," he told them. "Let him go." Relieved, they stepped aside in turn, opening a path.

Poggle stalked through the group with immense dignity, snout held as high as he could manage. The wild exaltation of the crowd swirled about him, beating at him with almost palpable force. He knew that Hadiss must be staring at him, no doubt open-mouthed with astonishment and anger, and, although it half-killed him to do so, he refused to look up and even acknowledge the Archduke. He simply walked, placing one foot resolutely before the other, aiming for the only exit he was familiar with, heedless of those closer to him. He walked across the entire floor of the arena and the Geonosians waiting for him scattered at his approach and stood aside in awe. Through the long corridor and out of the service area and still people scrambled out of his way, frightened by his reek of gore and bloody visage. Past the agricultural sector, past the industrial complex—he was stumbling now, his steps faltering—and through the familiar passages close to home and past a clique of startled drones at the entrance to his residential cell, where he finally released the terrible hold he had on his body, staggered to his own little cubicle, and collapsed on his resting platform, too exhausted to even try removing the brail still strapped around the base of his tattered wings.

TBC