Ronderu spoke after a time. "Shall we commence with the vote?" The Khaganate raised their hands in confirmation.
"All in favor of Ronderu lij Kummar's promotion to Khagan of Kalee, raise your hands." The hands went up, and counting quickly, she logged the vote—unperturbed by how high it was.
"All in favor of Minee dain Dajin's promotion to Khagan of Kalee, raise your hands."
"All in favor of Uzen yaddag Khair's promotion to Khagan of Kalee, raise your hands."
"All in favor of Burkhan bol Aguu's promotion to Khagan of Kalee, raise your hands."
She stepped down so the Yamikhi woman could read the votes; she refused to read herself as khagan of Kalee. The khaneme spoke. "We have sixty votes favoring Kummar; twenty-four for Aguu; ten for Khair; and six for Dajin.
"With the power vested in me by the authority of the Kaleesh Khaganate, I now declare you, Ronderu lij Kummar, to be our khagan. The Khaganate will now hear your oath."
Ronderu walked to the center of the room and prostrated herself. The lady spoke. "I, Papalaya mula Kamatayan, command you to repeat these words after me." Ronderu nodded, pursing her lips.
"'I, Ronderu lij Kummar, have sworn myself to Kalee. I swear by the names of the holy gods that I will work to uphold the values we esteem. To pursue modesty, wisdom, protection of family, and piety with all my being. I swear to regard the Khaganate higher than myself and to do what is in the interests of truth—for better, or for worse.'"
Ronderu repeated these words numbly, keeping her face on the ground. My gods, what have I gotten myself into? Becoming the executive authority of Kalee?
Iye stood. "The Khaganate and I declare you our leader."
Tumultuous clapping sounded in the room, but Ronderu longed to curl into the corner. They wanted a second Khetsuu—that was why they had elected her. But she could not be Qymaen, for Qymaen was caring. He had been more than his duties.
His smell lingered on the sheets as she slept that night, that strange but beautiful combination of herbs and war, slugthrower powder and plants, which only served to upset her more. Dooku haunted her dreams. And the Krath droid. Always the Krath droid, with that horrid face—his skull like that of a mumuu's, to mock Qymaen's memory. Dooku was always taunting her.
She woke up in the middle of the night, tears slick on her scales. Her keen ears picked up footsteps at the end of the room. "Rón?" Ronderu whispered, squinting toward the door. "Is that you?"
The footsteps stopped. A hand crept to one of her sabers. She buried her face in a pillow, pretending to fall back asleep. The footsteps started again, but she refused to flinch. It's the assassin. Dooku's sent another lackey to kill me, hasn't he?
She forced her head to stay down as the rattling of the curtain being opened reached her ears. A foot stepped on the weak floorboard, making it creak.
A click: the sound of a blaster being cocked.
Ronderu, without thinking, threw her hand up and activated her saber just as a bolt of energy shot from the blaster. The bolt ricocheted off the blade, burning through the metal rafters. Her words were blanketed in pain as she choked out a single name.
"Shia?"
"Ronderu, I—"
"You…." she whispered. "You were behind my assassination?"
"This isn't what it looks like," Shia said. "Ronderu, please—"
Ronderu stood. Shia fired again, her expression scared. She blocked the shot quickly. "Stop firing!" Ronderu shouted. "I could hit your child!"
But Shia didn't listen. Her eyes glinted manically. Scowling, Ronderu rushed forward and seized the woman's wrist—her cybernetics were stronger than flesh.
She squeezed Shia's arm until a nasty crack resonated. The blaster fell to the floor. Ronderu's vice tightened, and Shia could not undo the hold.
I hate you.
You don't deserve to be a mother.
You don't deserve to be in this house.
You don't deserve to be the wife of my Qymaen.
A splash reached her ears. She dropped to her knees, her hands frozen. Shia tumbled onto the couch and wept as violet fracture marks began snaking along her wrist. She had let herself become captive to her worst feelings about Shia and induced the woman to labor.
Rón timidly walked into the room. "Ama?"
"Rón," Ronderu said. "I need your help. Get me a spoon from the kitchen."
Shia took a shuddering breath. "Ronderu—"
"Not now. I'm helping you."
"You just broke my wrist!"
"After you tried to shoot me!" Ronderu snapped. She took a deep breath. "Don't you realize what the penalty is for murder? Death. Death for you and your baby."
Shia cried out, writhing with pain. "Rón," Ronderu said, "come."
The little girl came, holding a spoon, and Ronderu tore off her linens to construct a makeshift splint. "Rón," she said, "Ama's going to have a baby."
"Is Ama okay?"
"Yes, but she's hurting."
She took a breath. "Okay."
"Go into my room and get my sleeping mat."
Shia let out a long scream, and Ronderu winced. "I want you to get on the floor. It hurts, but you must push past it for a moment."
Shia did not respond, and Ronderu gritted her teeth. "Lean on me. I'll help you."
Rón came out and laid the sleeping mat on the floor. Shia, leaning on Ronderu for support, fell onto the carpet.
"It's okay. I've got you. It'll be over soon."
Shia cried out again. Ronderu pursed her lips. "Rón, I've got it from here. I need you to go outside."
"No."
"Why?"
"Scary people."
"Well, you can't stay in here," Ronderu said. "You're too young."
Rón refused to budge. "I'm locking you up."
Ronderu picked Rón up and carried her to a room. "Stay here," she said, "or I'll spank you."
"Ama, no!" Rón sobbed, but Ronderu scowled and shut the door. Pounding and crying ensued from the other side, but Ronderu ignored the little girl and returned to her mother.
She took the woman's hand. "Push, Shia."
"What have you done with Rón, you witch?" she cried.
"That doesn't matter! Push!"
It was the crack of dawn, perhaps eight standard hours later, when the baby was finally born. Ronderu, her hands coated in blood, cradled the tiny screaming bundle—another girl. Such perfect little hands, a face contorted with tears, and soft skin untouched by scales. She leaned in and kissed the baby's bloody forehead, her trembling hand moving along her forehead to clean off the liquid.
This is Shia's child, not mine. She passed the baby to her mother, who took a long breath...and began to cry again.
"It's okay," Ronderu whispered, wiping sweat from the woman's face. "You're okay. It's all over. What's her name?"
"Que….Quemáy. Quemáy jai….Laarai…."
Ronderu chuckled. "Contrition? Why?"
A long pause. "I was thinking without empathy as you did so long ago."
"But why? Didn't you condemn me for that?"
"I saw how much pain you were in when Qymaen died," Shia said. "I thought that if you were killed painlessly….you could be with him again…."
A knock on the door. She rose and answered it….
To find the limping form of her friend, Bentilais san Sk'ar.
"You….you survived?" she whispered, a hand over her mouth.
"This isn't about me," Bent said, holding his side. He appeared injured—no wonder; she was surprised that anyone could have survived the Martyr's explosion. "What is wrong with your gloves?"
"A birth," she said. "Shia….she's…."
"Shia," he wheezed. "I have to talk to her."
"Come in," she said, allowing the northern giant to limp past her into the lodge.
As Ronderu washed her hands, the voices of Shia and Bent reached her ears.
"You came….back…." Shia murmured, almost too much for Ronderu to hear.
"Of course I did," he replied. "You know I wouldn't have left you alone."
Ronderu walked out of the washroom, noticing how pale the woman was. Shia leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
Shia coughed weakly, and Quemáy began to fuss. "It's okay…."
"She was still weak from the illness," Bent murmured. "Oh, Shia…."
"Ronderu," Shia whispered. "Take Rón and Quemáy. Raise them as Qymaen would have wanted. You know him….better than I ever did…."
Ronderu's voice was quiet. "I will." Her throat laced itself too tightly for her to breathe. "Tell Qymaen….tell him I'll see him someday. Tell him…."
"Shhh…." she closed her eyes. "I see Abesmi. But he isn't there…."
"What?"
"He….isn't….there…."
And with that last farewell, Shia jai Audrana breathed her last.
Ronderu stood resolutely. "I'm going to unlock the door and get Rón out of where I stashed her."
Bent nodded his hand on Shia's lifeless cheek. They were not people disposed to grief. "Prepare her for burial," Ronderu said simply. "I've been entrusted with her children. I will be their mother."
It would be pure duty that spurred her to motherhood, a task to Qymaen more than their mother. Perhaps she would grow distant from them, but she would not neglect them as he had.
Ronderu opened the door, with Quemáy in her arms, to find Rón asleep on the floor. Dried tears were crusted between her scales.
"Rón," Ronderu whispered. "Wake up."
Rón's gold eyes opened. "Where's Ama?" she mumbled, her voice stuffy from crying.
Ronderu stepped down. "I'm sorry, Rón. But your ama is gone."
The girl looked at Ronderu. "See?"
A pause. "I guess." She led the girl by the hand to the common room, where Bent began to wrap Shia's body in cremation linens.
"Ama!" the girl cried, running over to her mother before Ronderu could stop her. "Wake up!"
"Rón," she said gently, "come here. She can't hear you."
"She's my ama!" She shook Shia's face. "Wake up!"
Ronderu reached out with her free hand and grabbed the girl by her collar. "You'll wake your sister."
"But Appa is gone. Ama is gone." Rón sniffled as she sat next to Ronderu on the couch.
"Don't cry," she whispered in her most comforting voice. "Here—don't look at her. I'll be your ama."
Rón's face lit up. "You will?"
"Yes," Ronderu said. "I will be, and I'll be Quemáy's ama. I'll always stay with you."
"Always?"
"Always," Ronderu whispered.
At nightfall the next week, Ronderu entered Shia's bedroom and down on the sleeping mat against the wall with Quemáy.
She had been feeding the baby with karabbac milk, brought to her from the Bos'wellia airport, but this practice could only go on for so long. The longer Quemáy went without natural feeding, the more likely she would have stomach problems when she was older.
Ronderu knew nothing about how to train one's body to nurse another woman's child, but it was possible. She had been trying, each day, for a little longer—to no avail. She had prayed, wept, and pleaded for the ability to be a mother to this child in the purest form.
"One last time, May-May," she said with a sigh, pulling off her shirt and linens and laying the child across her chest.
And this time, it worked when she lay in that bare corner with nothing but a blanket around her shoulders.
The baby found her cold fingers, and she seized one, giving a tiny sigh of contentment. Her delicate features mirrored those of her father.
I'm starting to fall in love again.
For the first week after the surgery, Grievous dragged himself from place to place amidst the Geonosian maze that became his home. The one mercy that the Banking Clan had given him was that nobody was around to see him as he weakly used his cybernetic hands to lug hundreds of kilograms of raw metal around the catacombs, his legs limp and useless.
The only thing that kept him from curling up permanently, giving up out of humiliation, was the fantasy of slaughtering the false khagan of Kalee, destroying the Order, and decimating the Republic.
Still, the image of Shia and Rón drifted to the front of his mind. But he no longer wished to return to them. They were nothing compared to his modifications and improvements.
Improvements that may never be used if I don't learn to walk.
But in the next few months, he slowly began crawling. By the fifth month, he had resorted to staggering, nausea gripping his disembodied stomach.
And in some strange way, he felt good. He had suffered from psychotic depression, and that issue had been fixed by getting the cybernetics. He could not be happier, lighter, or more at ease with his life and the world….
His life would be perfect if only the Jedi were destroyed and the false khagan killed. The memories of getting kissed on the cheek by Rón and nights of bonding with his wife wove their way to the surface of his mind, but who truly understands what flesh feels like when all they are is metal? All he wanted and needed was death.
On the sixth month, when he had learned to walk on hulking metal talons, he sat immobilized in his stasis chamber. The image of his blank faceplate stared back at him in the small window to his private quarters.
He closed his eyes, swollen from exposure to the Geonosian atmosphere, and waited for the pod to release him. I do not wish to go to Abesmi as but a droid. I am unique.
There must be something to do that I may be remembered among the galaxy.
His eyes landed back on his blank mask. Carvings. That's what I need.
He pressed the button so his medical droid would come because as strong as he had become, he could not cut metal itself.
He gazed at his reflection in the transparisteel after the droid had drilled out two long gashes in his mask, deepened cuts that resembled the two stripes of blood above the eyes of his old mumuu skull.
Shia would never accept him back now because he wasn't safe and aware of it. Even as he stood alone, he was close to snapping and lashing at any living thing that entered his chambers. He had never lived a life free of such a feeling, so this was only natural. Only what he was destined for: to kill.
In the com-link installed on his audio-receptor, the voice of San Hill spoke. "He has arrived."
He.
My trainer.
The commander-in-chief of the war.
"Yes, my lord," he said, clasping skeletal hands behind his hunched back as he walked with pride to the main catacomb chamber.
He entered the main chamber to find a tall, elderly human with a deactivated lightsaber. Memories of being trained in swordsmanship entered his mind, but no memory of his trainer or what he had been like surfaced. He must have lost that memory too.
The proper way for learners to greet their masters on Kalee was by bowing and saying, "To you, I submit." But submitting was what had caused the famines on Kalee, and he refused to make that mistake again.
The man spoke first. "You look well, my apprentice." His voice was silky smooth.
Grievous clenched a fist as the man fingered the lightsaber. Is he a Jedi? Is this some sort of sick joke?
"Such a limited point of view," the man murmured. "I left the Order many years ago when corruption began to take root in the hearts of the Council. But the memory of my training is still fresh in my mind. I will pass on my prowess to you."
Having seen humans of all ages while on the Banking Clan planets, Grievous guessed he was in his eighties—old for his species. "What is the name of my lord?"
The man let a deep chuckle break free. "Do you not recall me from the stories your third-mother told you about Bitthævria?"
With great effort, Grievous pulled forth the names of the historical figures from the war to the front of his mind. "Count Dooku."
Dooku nodded. "You are brilliant for one so young." He tossed a lightsaber to him. "The weapon of the same Jedi Master whose blood flows through your pipes."
He caught the cylinder, running his hands over the metal. His heart raced with pleasure as he regarded the beautiful, handcrafted material. This was his now?
A long red glow streamed through Dooku's hilt. "Attack."
The man blocked his parries surprisingly well. As they sparred, his voice shouted orders. "Stop using standard attacks. Use the unorthodox!"
Fine then. Forsaking the carefully-executed Lig combat procedures, he used both arms to launch an offensive. At this, Dooku shrank back slightly but did not relent in attacking altogether.
They spun around the catacombs, their sabers clashing. "You're holding your saber too tightly," the man chided. His blade came flicking toward Grievous' metallic hand, and in fear, he loosened his hold to avoid getting skewered.
With the Force, Dooku caught the falling saber. "Now, too lightly."
He hid his clenched hands beneath his cloak. Dooku continued. "You enjoy the feeling of the lightsaber in your hands."
More than anything. Memories of sword training with a faceless instructor in a nondescript room blanketed his mind. Those memories then took him to a dark place, in a round room where nine masters rejected him because he wasn't Force-sensitive.
Never mind the grueling hours of instruction, submission, and fatigue. Never mind that a man like him could serve the Order well. No….they rejected him anyway, based on something he couldn't control.
"I should have carried one of these."
"Good," Dooku intoned softly. "Let your anger out. You deserve to. Every person in your life has slighted you."
Red filled his vision. He did deserve to. He couldn't control his tendencies, his emotions, or his lack of real connection to the Force. So he would embrace it. He would embrace his desires and use them to eradicate the wickedness that had landed him here.
And he attacked.
Seven months passed, but Qymaen's death made Ronderu's days gray. It left her in physical pain when she woke. It distracted her from her duties as a khagan and as a mother. She wanted to cry when playing with Rón in those moments when she saw hints of his smile in hers.
But she continued to endure each day to prepare for the conclave next year. And on an excellent spring day in Kaleela, as she pulled off her shirt and prepared to nurse Quemáy for the morning, her com-link buzzed.
She turned it on audio only. "Sain uu?"
A crisp Mandalorian accent spoke into the audio. "I heard about what happened to Khetsuu. I'm sorry."
She froze. "Arna? Why have you contacted me?"
"Yes, well…." Arna sighed. "Are you okay? I heard you became the khagan of Kalee."
"Stop stalking me."
"Stalking?" he echoed. "The Huk System reports these things to the HoloNet. Why, did they lie?"
"You can't just call me after what you did and expect everything to be better."
He sighed. "I know. I'm afraid I won't be able to stay in contact anyway—I'm already breaking the rules. I came to say goodbye."
"Why?"
"There was an attack on Geonosis. It turns out Dooku's started playing with his droids."
He continued elaborating on an incident that occurred a month ago. Senator Amidala from the Naboo system had had an assassination attempt put on her. Through a series of visitations and aggressive negotiations by Master Kenobi and Padawan Skywalker, they discovered the droid armies' location. A bloody conflict erupted, leaving many Jedi and their cloned soldiers dead, and Dooku managed to escape.
That conflict had now erupted into a full-blown war.
"Any sign of the Krath droid?" Ronderu asked when he was finished. "I'm due to appear before conclave today."
"The Council doesn't believe in the creature you describe," Arna said gently. "They say you might have been talking about their destroyer droids."
"I do not pity them," she said icily. "They'll learn the hard way."
"I believe you. There were Jedi who fell into the catacombs on Geonosis. They were brutally murdered—often decapitated, stabbed through the stomach, or sliced up the thighs. All with a lightsaber blade."
She took a breath. "Dooku's doing, perhaps?"
"Dooku was watching the whole battle," Arna replied. "He couldn't be the culprit. Besides, what kind of old man can crack bones?" A sigh. "None of these victims' lightsabers were ever recovered. It seems almost as if the perpetrator….collects them."
A flash of lightsabers wielded by metal streaked her mind. Quemáy shifted away from nursing and fussed, and Ronderu wrapped herself tighter in the blanket. "Be careful."
"I will, and you must fortify Kalee," Arna said. "You must keep your people from getting involved in this war. Dooku….he's a commander, unlike anything we've ever seen."
"I will do everything I can, Master Jedi," she said smoothly.
"Good. I will always care for you," he said. "I have to go. Be safe, my friend."
"I will be. Goodbye." She cut off the link and alerted the rest of the khans. They had to have an emergency session of conclave. The issue was much more severe than she had first imagined. They had to prepare for the coming of the Krath droid.
She dressed Quemáy in her linens and called Rón in. "Rón, listen to me," she said gently. "I'm going to drop you off at the childcare place at the Kaleela hall. Be a good girl. When we end conclave, I'll get you, and we'll go swimming."
"Swimming?"
"Well, I can't swim. But I'll teach you how."
She pointed to the edge of the violet pucker that Quemáy's thumb didn't cover. "That's why?"
"That's why, flower," Ronderu said, leaning forward and kissing the girl on the forehead.
"How I miss your father," she said aloud to Rón, stroking the girl's headscarf. Shia's words came back to her like a beating drum. He's not at Abesmi.
What are words from the dying? "Let's go," she said, walking toward the door.
She dropped Rón off at the childcare room at the Kaleela hall, then held Quemáy's sleeping body against her own as she walked into the auditorium and took her seat at the raised podium.
How would the khans react to the tiny bundle in her arms? Many traditionalists saw her as an adulteress due to her past; others knew that Shia had died and that Qymaen would trust no one more than her to raise them well. But she did not have time to ponder as the khans entered the room, filing in and chattering to one another as they took their seats.
Many of the khanemes smiled at Ronderu from behind their masks, gazing at Quemáy briefly or making little cooing noises to her. Scowling, she pressed the baby close to her. She's off-limits.
The khans and khanemes sat down, and Ronderu stood. "Welcome, all, to this premature conclave. I apologize for calling you all so soon, as we still have two more months before our formal yearly meeting. But we must discuss a serious threat that has struck the galaxy and bring to the floor measures we can take to stay neutral."
She relayed to them the information Area had given her, referring to the conflict as Davkhar-Araatan Dain—the Clone-Droid War—including Dooku's supposed plans to rally them to her side. When she finished, the room was oddly quiet.
A khan whom she had served with early in life, Khai laas Osson, spoke. "Why must we remain neutral? Isn't this our chance to get revenge on the Republic?"
"By committing offensive war," another khan pointed out. "That is what Khetsuu—ter khundetge—did, and look what it cost us."
Ronderu lowered her gaze. Ter khundetge. May he be respected—ironic that he would say that while denouncing him.
"If we refuse to support this movement, we will lose support from the Banking Clan, and Kalee will fall."
Ronderu bit her lip, wondering if it would be better not to bring Quemáy into her political drama. "Khaganate of Kalee, order!"
The khans who had been arguing stopped, and she spoke. "You will speak one at a time. Khan Osson, you say getting revenge on the Republic is good. Your opinion….has been noted." She looked at the second khan. "Khan Mini, you say that we should avoid getting entangled with the Separatists because of what offensive war cost us. And Khan Chin, you say that we must ally with the Separatists, or else all is lost."
"What is your opinion, Khagan?" Mini asked.
"My opinion is of no importance," she said coolly. "I simply moderate the debate."
A woman in the back raised her hand. Ronderu gripped the sides of the podium. "Khaneme from Sakhal," she said. "Speak and be heard."
But before she could, the door burst open, and Bentilais san Sk'ar marched in, followed by his apprentices and pages of the militia. "My lady," he said, bowing. "Khaganate. I have dire news."
"What?" Ronderu asked, instinctively gripping Quemáy. The girl made a slight noise of worry, but her mother hushed her, rubbing her back as she regarded the general.
"We report three ships coming in—and a large cruiser hovering over us."
Her breath was caught in her throat. "Visual?"
"Escort ships bear a strange octagonal symbol—they're the spire sort of transport. Starfighter's a one-seater and devoid of any symbol." He paused. "All three're gunships. None carry life forms."
Ronderu swallowed. Immense trembling gripped her. He's arrived.
"Let them pass," she said. "Make no hindrance. I know who it is they want."
"They're Separatist gunships?" a khan cried. "So you're with them?"
"I am not allied with any part of this war!" she shouted. "We will let the ships land and enter. Perhaps we can work out negotiations." Or 'aggressive negotiations.'
She stepped down from the podium, unwrapped Quemáy, and gave her to Bent. The enormous man clutched the child in a single hand. "Take her and Rón somewhere safe," she said. "I will meet you there."
By somewhere safe, she meant the canyons. Underground, where the Krath droid and his soldiers hopefully didn't know they were there.
He nodded. "Be safe, my lady." He left the room, and she returned to her podium as if nothing had happened.
Clanking footsteps resounded from outside. Of course, they would have chosen the Kaleela spaceport—nearest the hall, where all the Khaganate's ships were parked. "Nobody fire," she commanded the Khaganate. "If anyone has weapons, hide them immediately."
"We are not cowards, Your Grace," Mini pointed out.
"And neither are we fools. Conceal now."
The clanking grew louder. Flashing in her mind was the vision that had tormented her for so long: the Krath droid, its ugly face touching hers as it lifted her by the neck, her mouth inhaling water, retching under its stony gaze.
Sweat dripped down her neck as the clanking rose to a crescendo. And then….it stopped.
"Hold," she said to the Khaganate, balling a fist.
And two long blue beams of light seared a circle in that old wooden door.
Ronderu counted eight beings as they stalked along the hall of Khaganate seats. Seven MagnaGuards—she had been right about Banking Clan involvement in the Separatist plot. But the creature whom they flanked….
She stood, hiding her hands in the pockets of her regalia. Please, Bent, get somewhere safe. Get my girls to the canyons.
It was two meters in height. Cruel metal talons screeched and clicked across the ornate floor like a thousand Yam'rii making a choir to mock her personally. Its hands were hidden, clasped behind its back. A long black cloak cascaded down his shoulders….
That bore the symbol of Kalee.
A large chest—hiding circuitry and wires, no doubt. The face was a mask carved into the image of a mumuu skull. Two glowing orbs, sparkling yellow, looked straight at her. The khagan of Kalee. The only real threat.
She spoke in Basic, her ribcage colder than the vacuum of space. "What brings you to Kalee?"
An animalistic chuckle, one that had haunted her dreams for over a decade. The creature straightened as much as it could, then returned her words. "The war. Or were you not aware?"
"If we were not aware, we are now," she said coldly. "I assure you that we have everything under control."
Its eyes were glued to her face as it stepped up to the podium next to her. The Khaganate held its breath. It moved close to her on that platform—slowly. A hand drew beneath her face, icy cold metal against her hot flesh.
"You're the usurper."
Usurper?
"Why have you come?" she asked, a tiny waver entering her tone.
Its other hand flew out toward her. She smacked the floor. Blood stung her eyes, and she wiped it away, gritting her teeth. "You may dispense with the pleasantries," it snarled over her. "This planet—my planet—is now the property of the Separatist Alliance."
Through the stars that blossomed in her vision, the sharp pain in her head, her ears picked up a sound—marching. Marching.
Marching. Marching.
The Khaganate stood. Years of war had hardened their lot, and they were prepared to defend her, even if it killed them.
Her hands went to the dual blades concealed beneath her robes. She pulled them out and staggered to her feet. The Khaganate already had their weapons out, and the brave senators who loved their people and their freedom began to attack the khaki battle droids that poured into the hall.
Disgust wavered in those strange, sparkly orbs as it scoffed at her. "A Jedi. You insult me further."
She scowled. "You mistake me," she whispered and ignited the blades.
She had been right about the mystery killer on Geonosis; it reached beneath that cloak of betrayal and took two silver cylinders of its own.
The first strike nearly knocked Ronderu off her feet, but her cybernetic leg was strong and cemented to the ground. The blades clashed in a brilliant array of white against blue. The droid pushed down, and she was forced to obey.
She backed up. Traditional Lig swords-work, she reminded herself. The motions sang into her muscles as she attacked. Parried, attacked. Blocked.
But she had not been a warrior for nearly three years, and her mind was already beginning to shut down. She needed more air, but she could not work against her regulator. And it was using unorthodox attacks, going all-in, not caring to be honorable.
An escape. She needed an escape.
It swung a foot toward her, but she ducked and ran. She ran as quickly as she could manage. Coldness and nausea swam in her mind. She was almost at the door….
Droids were everywhere, and her people were falling, just as foretold in her dreams. But she would not give in as she had at Jenuwaa. She was strong. She was….strong….
The Kaleela jail cell awaited her when she woke up. In the three years she had known Qymaen as khagan, he had never sentenced anyone to this horrible place. It was reserved for committers of treason and serial murder—nothing more.
An IG-100 guarded her cell. It spoke in the strange, garbled tongue the Banking Clan had given it, not noticing her. "I am merciful to you, traitor," a voice spat to her from beyond the wall, and she jumped. "Be glad you are not a Jedi, or your life would be over considerably more quickly."
She spoke. "I'm not afraid of you. And you should be glad the Republic repaired me, or I should say the same about your existence."
A low cackle. "There's ample time to fantasize." Clanking ensued; the droid general was gone.
Kaleela's prisons were not foolproof. She searched her linens for something, anything that could be useful. But first, she had to figure out how to deal with that MagnaGuard — which had been trained to fight Jedi.
She took a rock from the floor and threw it at the IG-100's head. It turned to look at her with those robotic metal eyes. "Hey, big guy," she said, trying to imitate Bent's playful drawl.
The MagnaGuard honked deeply at her, then turned back to work. What did she have? Her linens. Two cybernetic hands, a metallic foot. Over a decade of war experience, experience fighting Huk, who were almost always taller than her. Rocks and pebbles….
She pulled off the linens wrapped around her arms but needed one more strand to make a braid. What could she do without? She unwrapped the linens around her metallic foot. Then she braided the strands.
She had one shot at getting this right. It was hazardous, and if executed wrongly, it would end her life. But if she succeeded, she would have her freedom and a weapon that could stand against lightsabers.
She picked up pebbles and began pelting the great beast with them. The MagnaGuard turned its ruby eyes upon her, opened her cell, and ignited its staff.
It jabbed the crackling violet blade. She ducked. The knife hit the wall. She raced to the other end of the prison to escape.
A shock spun through her body, and she nearly bit her tongue off, trying to avoid a scream of pain. Burning raced up her wounded shoulders. She sank to her knees, clutching her stomach. Through the pain, she stretched out to grab the silken braid from her linens. She lassoed it as tight as she could around her opponent's ankles and used every last drop of strength to pull.
The MagnaGuard, with its top-heavy shape, dropped to the floor with indignant grumbling. She tied the MagnaGuard's feet with the linens—the most robust component of Kaleesh dress—and staggered to her feet. The electrostaff lay in the corner of the room. She picked it up, wincing at the roaring headache from the droid general's blow, and activated it.
She could have given a speech of grandeur to the beast, but it would not have benefited anyone—she would have left the drama to Qymaen. Taking the staff in her metal hands, she raised it and put every kilogram of her weight on it as she jammed it into the guard's face.
Zapping and crackling reached her ears, along with a corrosive odor. The droid's arms straightened; it let out a screech of agony and became silent.
She deactivated the electrostaff, dropping it against the wall. Sweat stuck her hair to her neck. Only now did she touch the focal point of the pain in her head, drawing away sticky liquid. She had to find a back exit from this prison to get it patched up, but how did every MagnaGuard and droid know who Khagan Kummar was?
Her eyes landed on the khaki cloak of the MagnaGuard. With great difficulty due to the numbness of her shoulders, she pulled it off and fastened it in a cloak-and-cowl style around her body. She slipped the electrostaff beneath her cloak and pressed the key into the door.
Finding the underground waste system beneath the prison, she climbed in and secured the lid. The rancid smell overwhelmed her almost instantly. These sewers had been her home once in the days when she'd fled the traditionalist khans that wanted her flogged for immodesty.
Particular in her mind was a time she'd bargained with her body for food. At night, the khan had called her in for the duties she'd promised him, but upon seeing what she was—frail, deathly thin, and with peeling scales—he'd cast her out of his house with nothing but a thin sheet over her cold body.
They'd been planning to lash her then until they'd been called to the temple for prayer. Dizzy with shame, she'd considered slitting her own throat in front of the traditionalistic people, who could not fathom the possibility of a little girl caring more about her life than her honor.
The biggest irony was that they claimed to be holy. Rather than saving those they should have loved, they decided to let their acrimony affect their actions. She was determined not to make the same mistake with anyone who chose an alliance with the droid. There had to be an explanation for their actions.
Eventually, she collapsed on the stone out of exhaustion. There was little hope of finding her children and Bent again, especially if the general had locked down internal communications.
Her heart sank into her stomach. "Quemáy," she moaned softly, burying her face in her cloak. Her body was racked with chills, and heat blazed against her forehead—especially from the cut and concussion. Infections. I should have bound it before I fell here...stupid, reckless…
"I will find you….Quemáy…." She staggered to her feet.
Now would have been the time for nursing—for the girl to take her mother's finger in a dark hand and close her eyes as she nourished herself. It would have been the time for her to curl ever so gently against Ronderu's body, trusting her completely to feed her.
"I will find you," she said even more emphatically, beginning to walk—using her electrostaff as support. She continued down the corridor. "I will find you, my Quemáy," she continued saying like a mantra because it was all she could muster to stay moving. Her body was wracked with cold and heat all at once. "I will find you."
It must have been hours later that the first hallucinations set in from her fever. Hallucinations of MagnaGuards where there were none; dreams of Qymaen, urging her to fall asleep because of how sick she'd become. Stop exerting yourself. Rest in my arms. I'm right here.
Those dreams hurt the worst of all. She was too sick to block out her emotion. The buried sorrow from his death came out in tears—loud, hysterical sobbing that was sure to give her away.
But she forced herself to sort out reality from dream, spoke the words through parched lips, even as she grew dizzy and her walk turned limp. "I will find you, Quemáy. I will find you."
She finally found a computer—beaten-up and cracked and powered off, but a computer.
Taking her staff and activating it, she shoved it into the port on impulse. Trembling hands dialed Bent's com number, and she prayed that something would happen—that he hadn't been caught and escaped Kaleela before the droid general arrived.
"Who?" his voice called.
"Bent…." she gasped, collapsing on the ground and weeping out of delirium. "I'm here. I'm alive."
"Mapait," Bent murmured—the Yamikh analog of her name, in case anyone was listening. "You are? Where are you?"
"Kabisera," she gasped through crying. "Kabisera."
"Ama," Rón whispered, kissing Ronderu on the cheek. "Ama, wake up."
She found herself in a homely little room with a tiny hearth and several cots clean. "Where's Quemáy?"
"War bunker," Bent said from across the room. "Kept here from the days of Bitthævria." He cleared his throat and passed Quemáy to her. She breathed in as tears began to fill her eyes. Her daughter cooed softly in return, clawing at her sternum with chubby hands, and Ronderu hugged the baby tightly—filled to the brim with affection for her child. Oh, my love. My Quemáy.
She frowned. "Won't the general be able to track us down here? Dooku fought in Bitthævria. He probably knows the secret bunkers."
"Should've studied war history, my khagan," he chuckled, letting Rón scurry up his shoulder. "We didn't give out our locations to the Republic. Khan Jai Shurga wouldn't allow it."
She nodded. "How many other khans survived?"
Bent sighed. "Don't know. I fled the incident. The majority's dead, either from the general himself or the battle droids. My estimate's probably that the ones who survived are heavily injured. Heard from no one."
"We can't stay down here," she said, letting Quemáy take her finger in a hand. "We'll be cornered if anyone traces the location of the call."
"Assuming the leader's that smart. Seems like brute strength t'me. And you're in no condition to move, Ronderu. You were the sickest I've ever seen when I found you."
Then he medicated a new bandage and placed it over her head. "We'll move to the underground tribes when you're well again. Somewhere we won't be found."
"I can pretend to be your daughter. I went by Ru san Jinn when I was on Mandalore."
"Don't think I'm that old," her friend said with a chuckle. "I'm only five years your senior."
"Then you can be my brother," she said stubbornly.
A nod. "And we can't let our new dictator know we have Qymaen's kids." He paused. "But I will always recognize your rule, my lady."
"I'll just have to get my mask over," she said. "Paint new markings on it. There's no way I can just toss it aside."
"Very well, then," he said. "I'll scratch the blood off your mask for now."
She closed her eyes. Time to disappear. Time to fade….until the Republic comes to bait us into the war.
Did you know….
● Grievous carving those designs is in almost every piece of Legends lore that references Unknown Soldier. However, I didn't put it into the book until a very late stage of writing.
● The reason that Grievous never outright mentions Ronderu (not even in his thoughts) in Legends is because he doesn't remember her. The Banking Clan tampered with his head to remove traumatic memories since he was sliding into insanity because of them.
● Ronderu's backstory is shrouded in mystery in canon, but some rumors caused her to be marked with a name meaning temptress. Because I had to expand on her story, I decided to make it a story about people who refused to give grace to a desperate young girl.
Tell me what you think….
● Is Grievous right in wanting to stand out? Does this come from a place of fear or vanity?
● Since bynames are supposed to reflect who you are, do you think you would have believed the rumors about Ronderu?
