The Queen's Honor Guard
by Nyohah
VI.
Zhen opened his eyes and watched the yellowy-green syrup ooze from the girl's burn and gather into a little sphere hardly larger than a pearl. He had been hoping that for all his hard work he'd get to see something a little more rewarding at the end. It was such a bother that everything had to be constructed of such tiny molecules, and that the little pests had to be dealt with individually.
He just knew they were taunting him with their happy, sadistic frolicking, all bouncing off each other like they were having a little party. At least it wasn't a gaseous poison—those were enough to make him almost lose his mind.
He dropped the poison in a little glass and glared at it, thinking perhaps he'd methodically rip apart each and every one of the molecules, then realized perhaps even just this liquid poison was making him lose his mind.
Of course, the only other thing to look at in the room was the girl, and having so thoroughly explored her arm, looking at her wasn't doing him much good, either.
He frowned and walked to the door, leaning out and looking both ways down the hall.
Where had everyone gone? He hoped it hadn't been days. He'd worked for days before on a doomed case and when the patient had finally died he'd only succeeded in twisting his ankle when his legs gave out from underneath him from weakness on the way home because no one had bothered to tell him that it had been days or given him any food.
The girl moaned and when he looked back at her, her eyelids fluttered for a few seconds and opened.
"Are you all right?" he said.
"I can't move my arm," she said, then she looked around and abruptly tried to sit up. He pushed her back down.
"No, no," he said quietly. "You've been very sick."
"No, no!" she echoed, her words frantic. "Where's Chen Yi?"
Lian stepped away from the wall, shaking his head in disbelief and staring at the splinters that had once been a doorway. "The others are out there," he said. "Guess we should go. See if they need any help, and responsible stuff like that."
He began to walk in the direction of the door, but something closed around his throat and threw him back against the wall, his feet dangling. Before the others could shout a word of surprise, a man dropped to the floor where Nai Do Xian had fallen earlier, landing easily on his feet. He set his arms in front of him in a battle stance as a beam of light entirely too similar to that created by Yen Sa's life-force sword extended from the cylinder the man held.
Lian gagged, trying to breathe, and hoped he wasn't turning as blue as the man's blade.
Lan Yiao Nih cried something unintelligible but intimidating and jumped away from the wall, bringing his long, fat daggers into an attacking position.
The man with the light sword turned and caught the attack with a slash that soared through both of the captain's daggers and grazed his stomach. Clutching his wound, Lan Yiao Nih tumbled to the floor with all four pieces of his daggers.
The light sword was aimed for the kill, but a burst of fire pushed the man away and set his brown robe ablaze; Vendetta stood a step from the wall with his hands raised and prepared to unleash another blast.
The man quelled the fire without any apparent effort—it faded to a glimmer and died without external influence. He didn't seem singed or affected in any way, raising the glowing blue blade for another attack.
The last thing Lian saw as the black closed on his vision was a blade of glaring white meeting the softer blue in an eruption of sparks.
It was almost like a light show.
He guessed he'd miss those.
He could have laid there, in the cool, slightly murky pools for days. Maybe he had been—after all time always passed more quickly when he wasn't unhappy.
No, he'd be hungry if he hadn't eaten in days.
Although he was rather hungry. They probably had good fish. And none of those ridiculous green vegetables that humans insisted were the very essence of nutrition.
He should probably eat.
Later. The water felt so good across his gills—cool and smooth.
He heard footsteps—hard soles on the shoes, but probably moderately expensive.
Most Calyaar weren't too fond of shoes, but he supposed there were exceptions. The labored breathing in the humidity confirmed the arrival as non-Calyaar, and he listened for sounds of trouble, heard none, and wondered when any other species had begun to consider itself low enough to interact with Calyaar. Maybe Hutts, but they didn't walk, just kind of slithered. And who would have let a Hutt in, anyway? They may have been 'pond scum', but they had their principles.
The non-Calyaar visitor stopped a few steps from the pool and spoke. "Is there someone named Rictor Escard-Jerill here?"
Male. Human. That was an interesting development. And the name was certainly not a Calyaar. Some ignorant human was a little lost.
Then realization hit and Braeden breathed deeply, wanting to savor the feeling of cool water one last time before he had to revert to his secondary respiratory system. The message had to be urgent if Tascilo had risked sending one of his aides to deal directly with Braeden, even if under a false name bred from acronym.
But he didn't move, instead lingering on the thought that if the message were so important, it would be unbelievable fun to pretend he didn't exist and send Tascilo into a fit of panic, even if he couldn't be there to witness it.
No, something was wrong in the galaxy and it had begun to bother Braeden like an itch in the back of his throat—impossible to ignore, impossible to get rid of.
But foil the almighty human general's plans?
He exhaled bubbles from his secondary respiratory system as he climbed out of the pool. "That would be me," he said. "Rictor Escard-Jerill."
The aide handed him a datapad. "Here, sir," he said, then left, in a hurry, which Braeden almost didn't notice, reflecting on the 'sir'.
Military type. It was automatic. He dismissed the unusual gesture and flicked on the datapad. It prompted him for a password.
He clicked his tongue and tapped his dripping bare foot in a puddle for a few seconds.
He typed Committee.
The pad beeped—despicable sound—and replied, Incorrect password, then prompted him again.
Radical.
Incorrect.
Pond scum. He hoped Tascilo hadn't dared.
Incorrect.
Braeden fought the urge to throw the datapad against the wall and kick it a few times. Their efforts to be cleverer than the other were only going to end in them being so clever they were completely incomprehensible.
What had he called himself last time he'd spoken to Tascilo?
Mimic-sprite. Could he have gotten any more obscure?
The password prompt faded and the message appeared.
Trouble with the Ms. Attacked on the rim—not pirates, not misunderstanding. Republic fighters. Everything's in a fuss here. Squadron still missing. Typical pilots of those ships still missing. Scandal. Thought it'd lift your spirits.
Braeden grinned, typed a reply, and sent it immediately over the unsecured public frequencies.
Trouble with the Ms.? Thought you were married, therefore wouldn't it be Mrs.? Mistress? Scandal! And THAT would lift my spirits.
The troubled thoughts about the Mandalorians came only after sufficient trouble making.
Yen Sa felt the warm sparks sting as they sprayed across him. He dropped his life-force sword to block a two-handed swing at his knees by his opponent, the twelfth attacker.
The blades hissed together again, rejecting each other as firmly as tangible metal. The man with the blue sword stepped forward, continuing his offense with a series of small thrusts, which Yen Sa parried without much effort. The man fought in an unfamiliar style, one that seemed to lack the ferocity in movement of the styles the Mandalorians used. It was too civilized to be brutally effective, too predictable, with only a small array of attacks in use, to be any threat.
In a test, Yen Sa blocked a swing in the opposite direction as expected, pushing it too far in the direction it had been traveling and snapping his leg in a round kick into the now-exposed flesh of the side.
The man stumbled to the side but recovered quickly, as Yen Sa felt an invisible force wrap itself around his neck and begin to tighten. The man swung his sword in a middle blow again. Yen Sa held in the breath he had, hoping it would be enough, and ducked the blade with a low spinning attack aimed to cut off the man's feet. He jumped over the attack—jumping too high with too much ease to be entirely normal—and kept his sword in a blocking position in the front.
Yen Sa rolled under the man's feet as he jumped, and when he landed, he impaled himself on Yen Sa's white blade. The man fell with a gurgle and the pressure on Yen Sa's neck disappeared immediately.
Yen Sa let the white blade dissipate and rolled the man onto his back, seeing the smoking hole through his heart. "That was easy," he remarked.
"That was amazing," said the queen.
"No, that is amazing," said Lan Yiao Nih, still lying on his back, but taking one of his hands from his wound to point at the device on Yen Sa's hand. "I want."
"How are you?" asked the queen, kneeling beside him. "Is it bad?"
"I'm not bleeding," Captain Lan said. "My poor daggers."
"He's not bleeding either," Rah Cai Yue remarked, nudging the dead man with his toe.
"The heat cauterized the wound," said Vendetta. "It's worse than you think."
"What about Lian?" asked Tieh Chen Yi, pointing to the sprawled body on the floor.
"Oh," said Rah Cai Yue. "I think he's been livelier before." He took two steps forward then cringed. "Bad choice of adjective."
"He's still breathing," said the general, "so your description is only bad, not really bad."
"I didn't think. Honest."
"He'll be fine," said Tempest. "He's already waking up."
Lian kicked a leg out straight in a spasm, then managed to roll himself onto his back. He opened his eyes and blinked them several times as he looked around.
"Am I dead?"
"Yes, and I'm the Angel of Death," said Rah Cai Yue.
"I always knew there was something odd about you," said Lian. "So is this heaven? Because I never really connected all of you with happiness and paradise. Nothing personal."
"What makes you think you deserve heaven?" asked Lan Yiao Nih.
"Oh, I know that voice," said Lian. "What did I do that was so terrible, Cai Yue? Why am I in hell?"
"Get up," said the general, offering his hand.
Lian took it and pulled himself up. "Oh, light-headed," he said, leaning over and covering his eyes with his hand. "I always hated it when the black stuff surrounded my vision before; now, it's like reliving death."
"You're not dead. Get over it," said Lan Yiao Nih.
"I see you're, unfortunately, not either," answered Lian. "It seems you've come awful close, though. Maybe you'll get infected!" he finished brightly.
"Somebody pick him up," said the general, waving his hand in the direction of Lan Yiao Nih. "Let's go."
Rah Cai Yue watched the other ships take off from the viewport of the Templar's bridge, standing not far from Nai Do Xian, who was waiting for the others to clear the canyon before piloting the queen's ship off the planet. They'd left planets in fear numerous times since their arrival in the strange galaxy, but this time was more than just another repeat.
This time they left in war. Against whom, they didn't know. To what extent they would have to fight, they didn't know. They only knew that they couldn't tolerate the aggression any longer, and that something was wrong with this galaxy—something involving clones and someone powerful that they could not allow to continue.
He didn't suppose they'd ever go home. It wasn't that he was a pessimist, just a realist. Maybe he'd been an optimist in years past, but life had taught him that things didn't always have a storybook ending—the outnumbered protagonist didn't always defeat the evil just because he was the protagonist. Neither did he always go down in a burst of glory that tore the hearts of feeling people everywhere.
Reality dictated what happened to people, and reality said that a small group of people disliked by everyone would find themselves being attacked by everyone if they attacked even just the one.
He wondered how Kei Sa couldn't feel the impending failure and destruction. He wasn't psychic and he could feel it. Perhaps her baby was distracting her from the dire plight they were creating. A baby girl, named Hua Ching Sa and collectively adored. Red and crying. Maybe it was better that he wasn't married; he didn't see the appeal of infants.
He felt bad for Hseh An, who he was sure would be marrying Tieh Chen Yi some day, even if neither of them realized it yet. She felt better every hour, but she was still weak, her arm still viciously burned, and she was still unable to move it.
Probably it was better that she didn't know that Zhen didn't think she ever would again.
Zhen was returning to his senses, after they had found him acting bizarrely and speaking almost unintelligibly of strange things such as swarming little yellowy-green fiends and the ritualistic slaughter of molecules. Lian—also feeling better—had explained that poison-cleansing did that to him, comparing it to mixing a handful of black sand in a tub of white sand and then separating out all the black sand grains one by one, by hand. It drove him a little crazy; he'd be better after he slept; make sure he ate something.
Was Ming out of her mind, too? Was there something so terrible in just admitting they were out of their league but had accomplished their original goal, and then leaving? So they had found a way to protect their ships indefinitely. So even the weapons of the galaxy were no longer undefeatable, the honor guard with their Vyrenchi shields and the devices Yen Sa was making them all, and even the normal troops with their confiscated laser guns and heavy armor. So Kei Sa was able to fight again.
A different power lurked in this galaxy. Something called the Jedi, that wore brown robes, frowned a lot, used light swords, and were able to push people off rafters, hold them off the ground, and choke them without any sort of physical contact, and consisted of undoubtedly large numbers. They could argue with him that they didn't have proof the man Yen Sa had fought was a Jedi, that he could have been a fluke, like Kei Sa.
Call him a pessimist or call him a realist, he doubted this galaxy had flukes. It was too scientifically advanced, too scientifically structured.
And much too large.