MUD
PART 1
Cassian's boots slipped more than a few times on the dewy, tough grass. The fog seemed to cling to his clothing and made his skin unpleasantly clammy. He wondered if anything on this planet was ever dry. The highlands weren't the most difficult terrain he'd had to navigate, but it wasn't the easiest either. And Vel Sartha seemed to make the rocky climbs and steep descents with the same ease as the native goats around them. Cassian was nimble on his feet, so he recognised that the adept way Sartha moved came from hard-won experience. He wondered how long she'd been on this planet. How long had she been living in the wilderness here? How long had she and Luthen Rael been planning their rebel resurgence? Every now and then Vel would snap at him to hurry up, or force them to stop while she surveyed the surrounding land for an imperial patrol.
"They don't often come up here," she told him, as they crouched behind a rock. "They think there's only a few shepherds left in the highlands. And nothing's less interesting to imperial officers than a bunch of stinking farm animals and their dim-witted herders. But -"
"- better to be safe than sorry?" Cassian surmised, raising an eyebrow.
She glanced at him. Nodded. "Right. Especially when we're this close to the mission...Come on." She added, apparently satisfied that the coast was clear.
Cassian double checked she was correct, then followed her. He was relieved that this woman had a level head, despite her prickliness. Many of the best-laid plans could unravel before the action started. People jumped the gun. Or lost their nerve. Or second-guessed themselves.
They hiked for another half hour until they reached a valley. Dense woods provided a good amount of air-cover, and there was a nearby river of clear water with a rickety, wooden bridge built over it. Cassian smelt the sheep before he saw them. They were cooped up in a crude, unstable pen and many were roaming free. Vel's people were lucky that imperial troops weren't able to tell one end of a sheep from another. A good farmer wouldn't be fooled by any of this - it was so obviously a front for something. Cassian was just relieved they'd had the sense to put the livestock down-stream from the drinking water.
Vel seemed to agree with him because she was instantly yelling at two men standing in the camp, telling them to get the animals back in their pen.
Cassian slowed down as he crossed the bridge, assessing the group of rebels Luthen had insisted he join. Immediately obvious were the two men, one slim and short and one tall. The shorter one looked merely surprised to see Cassian; he had the air of an intellectual, and curly brown hair. The taller one was well-muscled, but didn't carry himself like a soldier. Maybe someone used to manual labour? But obviously not a farmer. He was holding a pistol with his finger resting over the trigger. Two women emerged from two separate huts to see their new guest. One had brown skin and thick, dark hair. She had no weapon. The other was roughly the same height, a red-head, curvier than her more angular colleague. Good genetics, or did she have a better diet than her friends? Like the tall man, she also had a gun - another pistol - held at her side. Both women had identical wary expressions on their faces. Finally, another man emerged from the woods. He had dark skin and hair and carried a rifle. Cassian observed the way he stood and handled his weapon. This one was a well-trained soldier.
Three women. Three men. But Luthen had said they would be a group of eight. Where was the last person? Cassian couldn't see them, but that could mean they were hiding. Or perhaps they were behind him - had been waiting concealed at some watch post as he and Vel passed by before following them back to camp. By luck or by design, the group had moved in a pincer formation. He couldn't go forwards, or up or down stream, and he couldn't assume that the way back was safe. Not while there was another person in play he couldn't see.
He stopped in his tracks, eyes darting to Vel. Right now, his life depended on her convincing her friends that he was trustworthy. She'd adopted a business-like, relaxed posture, barely pausing as she brushed past the others.
"Who is this?" the soldier yelled at her.
"Clem," she replied. "I haven't mentioned him before now because I didn't think we'd get him here on time. He's fought his way out of an imperial prison to help us on our mission. We all know that we were a man short on this. Now, we're not. We're lucky he could join us at such late notice."
It was a poor lie. But Cassian thinks the dark haired woman and man, and the curly haired boy are sold. They seem to relax, just barely. Only the tall man and red-headed woman don't look convinced.
"Isn't it a bit late for surprises?" remarks the man, matching Vel's casual tone, although Cassian senses there's a hint of an accusation. "How the hell's he gonna be brought up to speed? This ain't teaching hop-scotch, and he's only got seventy-two hours to be perfect."
"I've been told he's a fast learner. His head's not quite as dense as yours," Vel shoots back, easily.
The humour works at dissipating a bit more of the tension. The red-head gives an amused snort, moving to stand next to the man. The others edge in closer.
"That's Skeen," Vel tells Cassian, pointing to the man, obviously keen to get introductions out of the way. "Elira -" (the red head, who's still grinning) "Taramyn -" (the stony-faced soldier), "Cinta" (the dark haired woman), "and Karis" (the curly-haired boy).
All of them are dressed like sheep-herders, albeit even for farm-hands they all look distinctly shabby and dirty. Except for the soldier, who's tunic is somehow pristine. Only Karis welcomes him with a smile.
"Come on, Clem, let's get you settled in and Cinta can look at that wound on your arm." Vel tells him, leading him further into their small camp. "You can take Skeen's bed, he's been bunking with Elira since we got here, anyway."
Cassian glances back over his shoulder at the couple in question. He notices that they have their heads together, discussing something intently. They both look unhappy. Not surprising, given the circumstances. But something about the way the red-head quickly shuts down the conversation when she sees him looking makes him resolve to keep an eye on the pair of them. He watches Elira quickly stride back towards the closest hut. The man moves away to gather up some of the wayward sheep with Karis.
Later, Elira crouches over a shallow point in the river and splashes water onto her face. She feels the surface layer of grime, sweat and dirt slough off, but it will take a lot more scrubbing to get rid of the rest. Whoever Vel's contact is, the supplies they irregularly send into camp weren't that exciting, unless you liked flatbread and canned beans. Rarely do the packages include a good hairbrush, or a wash cloth. This is about as presentable as she's going to get. Huffing, her skin tingling from the freezing cold water, Elira sits back on her heels.
She, Karis and Skeen had spent hours rounding up those bloody sheep. Each of them blaming the other for letting them get free. While Vel had been gone, Karis had been busy working on his manifesto, Skeen had been taking a nap, and she and Cinta had been arguing over the final dregs of the coffee. As usual, Taramyn thought he was too good to herd sheep, leaving her, Skeen and Karis to do the dirty-work while Cinta patched up the new-comer. Clem hadn't seemed like the talkative type, but no doubt Cinta would find out everything there was to know from Vel later.
Twilight is descending, turning the sky a purplish grey. The stars above her head are brilliant and bright, like diamonds. She's visited eleven planets, including this one, and of all of them Aldhani has the best view. Too bad it didn't quite make up for the fact she'd spent the past few months as a farmer in a camp that sometimes smelt worse than the sheep.
Behind her, Elira hears footsteps approaching. She knows it's Skeen. You live with the same group of five people long enough, and you know everything about them. And she definitely knows everything about Arvel Skeen.
"You know what I would give for a shower?" she tells him, not turning around.
"You know what I would give to see you in the shower?" She can practically hear him smirk as he moves forwards to stand next to her. Elira rolls her eyes and pushes herself to her feet, her arm brushing against his. "I wouldn't worry about it," Skeen continues. "I'm not the kinda guy to get scared off by a little bit of dirt and goat shit, and I happen to think you look very cute in those little red felt hats. Really clashes nicely with your hair."
Skeen leans over and picks some crusted mud out of Elira's red hair and she wrinkles her nose. "You're an asshole."
He chuckles quietly under his breath and presses a brief kiss to her temple. His warmth, scent, and the feel of his lips are all so familiar. Safe. She feels the pent-up irritation start to melt from her body. "You know, I'm kinda impressed we managed to rough it in the wild this long."
Elira can't help reminding him: "There was one time I nearly gave up." She wishes it wasn't the first thing that springs to mind. It was her decision to stay, after all. All the same, she can't wait to get the mission done and have some kind of a fresh start. Skeen glances at her, something unspoken passing between them. He loops an arm around her shoulders, tucking her against his side. They're quiet for a minute, before he continues:
"So...the first thing I'm gonna do when we get off this crap-sack planet is find a decent cup of coffee."
Elira's mouth instantly fills with saliva at the thought, and she laughs at her reaction to something that used to be so ordinary. "Oh my God coffee!"
"And a proper bed. Sleepin' in a freaking hammock all the time's giving me sciatica."
"'Cause your an old man."
"Uh, it might also have something to do with the fifty kilo lump sleeping on my chest every night."
"Who the hell are you calling a 'lump', Skeen?!" she exclaims, elbowing him in the ribs hard. Their laughter echoes, reaching the rest of the group who are gathered round the evening campfire. Taramyn is somewhere in the hills, on watch.
"Will you two keep it down?!" Vel snarls. The valley is quiet enough that her voice reaches them. Elira stifle's another cackle with her sleeve. They could keep going and wind Vel up some more, but something tells her tonight is not the night to push their de-facto leader. Skeen glances back at the campfire, then back to Elira. He lowers his voice, all traces of humour gone. "Has she said what happens after we pull this thing off? Where we're going?"
Elira sighs. Over the last few days, she'd been thinking the same thing, too. But no matter how many questions she asks Vel and Lieutenant Gorn, there's never a straight answer. "No. She's being cagey on the details. As usual."
"Then how the hell are we -"
"Shh!" Elira quickly hushes Skeen, instantly tensing. "Not here."
Skeen looks frustrated, but bites his lip.
The campfire emits a warm, orange glow. They all gather around, wrapped up against the cold in their farmer's outfits.
Karis has made the stew tonight. The kid's crap at cooking - the worst out of all of them. Ranking just below Elira, who burns everything, and Taramyn, who's cooking is so bland you kinda wished for one of Karis' creative concoctions. Cinta's the best, but seeing as she's been tending to the new guy all afternoon, and Karis clearly felt he had to regain favour with Vel after the lost goats, they're stuck with the brown mush.
"Well, this looks better than the sick-stew you did us last week, kid, so that's an achievement" Skeen says, clapping Karis on the shoulder as he helps himself to whatever is in the pot hanging over the fire.
"Please, no one remind me of that. Ever," Cinta gags, tearing one of the tough, grainy flatbreads into pieces. Next to her, Vel's lips twitch in a smile.
"It wasn't that bad!" Karis protests.
"It was inedible."
Clem is sat on Vel's other side and Skeen sizes up the guy as he pretends to focus on Cinta and Karis's bickering. Clem is quiet and mostly watchful. He's obviously been through some shit in his time, no doubt about it, but Skeen can't decide if Vel's story about the Imperial jail is just that - a story. It didn't surprise him that Vel hadn't told them Clem was coming. It was beyond obvious she hadn't been involved in the decision. She'd been fanatic about the group being crystal clear on the mission plan from the start, and then little-Miss-rule-book was suddenly cool with bringing in an unknown dude three days pre-mission? Yeah fucking right. Whoever was really running this show had shoved this Clem guy on them. But why? The suspicious, worried part of him wonders if someone's sensed there are traitors in the group, and Clem's been sent to weed them out. He and Elira would be totally screwed. But he's not convinced their cover's blown. Much as it sticks in his throat to admit it, this group of people are his friends. Well, Karis and Cinta are. And Vel and Taramyn aren't bad when they occassionally remove the sticks from up their butts. Lieutenant Gorn doesn't count; he hardly acknowledges any of them exist except for Vel. If none of them have been suspicious over the past six months they've all been living together, it's unlikely anything would tip them off now.
So is Clem who he says he is? Just a wanna-be rebel very late to the party? Skeen tilts his head, thinking, until he feels Elira put a hand on his arm. He looks at her.
"You're thinking hard about something," she smiles. When what she really means is: you're being obvious. And then she'd probably call him an idiot. The corner of his mouth lifts at the thought.
"Just tryin' to figure out what Karis put in this shit," he deflects, looking down at his stew. Karis throws his hands up in the air.
"I thought we'd moved the conversation on from my culinary skills!"
After a while, Taramyn starts grilling Clem on the Aldhari language, and Skeen and Elira take that as their cue to turn in for the night.
They'd inherited two, sturdy huts from the brainless shepherd who used to live here. Originally one had been for the women, and the other for the men. But Skeen had started bunking with Elira as soon as Vel and Cinta hooked up, turning the men's hut into a bachelor pad and the women's hut into a hellish no-man's land of sexual tension. Cinta had wisely installed a makeshift screen, dividing the cramped room, but if either couple truly wanted privacy, they kicked the other out to sleep in the neighbouring hut, which was basically a gigantic announcement you were going to have sex.
Skeen mentally added privacy to the list of things he was looking forward to when they got off Aldhari.
The hut has a low, beamed ceiling and elevated wooden flooring to keep the endless mud and rain water out. The fabric screen has been painted a cheerful yellow, with little white flowers. A gas lamp illuminates a hammock, a small chest of their belongings, and a tiny side-table with a wash basin. Skeen pulls off his shirt and kicks off his muddy boots and climbs into Elira's hammock with a groan.
"Jesus, my back -"
Elira looks at him, her hands on her waist. "Wow, this is sad to watch."
"Yeah? Well why don't you c'mere and take pity on me," he raises his eyebrows, a smile hovering over his mouth. She looks beautiful. She's tugged the tie from her hair and it falls, a light copper colour, around her shoulders. He loves her hair, but out of all the costumes he's seen her in, the bulky, shapeless layers of her shepherdess gear is his least favourite. When they'd first met, in a bar, she'd been wearing this stunning green dress, another man's arm around her waist. He'd thought the guy had been her boyfriend. Some middle-management small fry at the Imperial Bureau of Security. Turned out he'd just been a mark and later that evening she'd walked away with a holo-recording of him admitting to a few trade secrets. Skeen had been the security at the establishment. After a few, less than smooth transactions, she'd cut him in. She'd needed someone with contacts who could find her buyers. And there was always a buyer. Journalists. Rival corporations. Gangsters and cartels. Easy money, when you knew how. But after a year even he could admit they became reckless, burning through his list of contacts before he had time to blink. They began to deal with increasingly dangerous individuals. It was the craziest stroke of luck when Elira had bugged this back-room in a bar on Coruscant and they'd stumbled on Vel. They'd thought she was just another rich bitch on the planet, good for extorting a few hundred credits. But then they'd overheard Vel's insane plan to steal a quarter of the Galactic Empire's pay-roll off Aldhari. An infiltration team would have to slum it on the planet for six months, but when he and Elira already had a target on their backs, who cared? It would give them a chance to lay low. Take some of the heat off. And when the payload was that big, you'd do just about anything. Include pose as rebels against the Empire.
Elira strips down to her oversized tunic and climbs, shivering, into the hammock. She wedges herself in next to him, her lithe body pressed firmly against his warmer one. He tucks the blanket around her quickly, aware that she's cold.
"We need to talk tomorrow. In the woods. Where the others can't hear us," he mutters in her ear, wrapping his arms around her.
She opens her mouth to respond, but they hear Cinta and Vel approaching the hut. They listen as the two women walk inside, floorboards creaking. Silence. Suddenly, Elira rolls on top of him and kisses him in away that makes him forget his own name. The hammock sways, the hinges protesting. He feels his lower back give a flare of pain and lets out a muffled groan, as Elira giggles.
"Cut it out, you too!" Vel calls over, in exasperation.
"I couldn't get much out of him," Skeen tells her. "But he recognised my jail tattoos. He's done time."
Elira leads them through the woods. It's a fresh, cold and clear morning, the frost on the overhead branches starting to melt and drip. There's a rustle every now and then as birds flit between trees. Elira finds the quiet unnerving. She's used to the bustle of cities. Technology. Lights. Music. Noise. When it's this quiet, anything can easily be overheard.
That morning, Skeen had stolen Clem's bag, rifled through his stuff and tried to lure him into talking about his past. Apparently the bag only contained weapons and a few tools. No ID. Nothing to indicate where he'd come from.
"But we still have no clue how this could play out?" Elira surmises, an edge to her voice. "We still don't know why he's here?"
Walking behind her, Skeen brushes some low hanging foliage out of the way. His tone is dry as he answers: "Bingo...Clem is a bit of a clam."
"You're hilarious. My sides are splitting," she snarls.
Skeen catches the obvious stress in her voice. He places his hand on her shoulder reassuringly, stopping her in her tracks. "Hey. We'll be fine."
"The last thing we need right now is another rebel true-believer! If he's a mercenary, he's only in it for the money, and he might actually help us."
"You're considering cutting a third person in?" he asks her, sulkily, removing his hand from her shoulder. This doesn't surprise her - Skeen isn't one for sharing. "Last I checked, eighty million doesn't split three ways as neatly as two."
"If he's in, when it comes down to it, it's three against five. Rather than two against six. I like those odds better."
He rolls his eyes, folding his arms. "I gotta be honest with you, honey, I think the imperial troopers are gonna level that playing field. We just need to stay alive until the end."
Her voice finally cracks. "We need this money Arvel." It's the stress of the upcoming mission, and the implication that not all of them will survive it. It's the unexpected arrival of an additional man. And it's the fear of finally leaving Aldhani, where they had benefited from being hidden by the rebels. It's the stress of wondering what will happen if they fail to secure the money. How Monroth's people will hunt them down the moment they step off-planet. It's how much they've sacrificed, to get to this point.
Skeen reels her back in as she starts to spiral. "I get it, Elira. I do. Trust me. But all I can do right now is watch him. That's it. An' when the opportunity presents itself, if it comes down to just you and me, then it's just you and me." He steps closer and lowers his head, his nose brushing hers.
She takes another shaky breath and presses her hands against the warm solidness of his chest. The fabric of his tunic is worn and stained. She's not completely reassured, or convinced. But they have no other choice, and she's wasting valuable energy second-guessing. They're two days pre-mission...at this point, she's going to have to trust that they will be OK.
Elira realises ruefully that this is probably how Vel feels right now. Despite their differences, the two women finally have something in common.
A/N I don't think this story will be longer than 2 or 3 parts. But I was so intrigued by the dynamics between the rebels in episodes 4,5 and 6, that I had to right a story about it.
If you're interested, please leave a review!
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