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Translation guide from Mando'a:

aliit = "clan"
be'tal = "Kin" or "of blood." A synonym for clansmen or being part of a clan
beskar'gam = "armor" (don't worry I won't use this every time)
Cabur'alor = "Regent." Literally means "guardian leader."
ge'ver'alor = "aide"
Ja'hailid = "Watcher." A ceremonial and specialized role within Clan Saxon to tend to the Hall of Tyrants
Kando'al'verde = "Marshal." Literally means "important commander."
Laamyc'buir = "Patriarch" or "High Father." The head of the clan if they were male.
Mand'alor = "sole ruler"
oriya/e = "city" and "cities," specifically those that are domed on Mandalore
Ruug'verda = "Ancestors." Literally means "old warriors" but is more commonly used for the former
Solus'alor = "Councilor." Literally means "united leader."
Taakuir'tsad = "Horned Watch" (will only used when a character is speaking Mando'a)

XXX

Tiber Saxon

XXX

The Council was much more vibrant today, and a blind galaar could have deduced why.

"Why you did not consult with any of us is the principal issue here," Solus'alor Mareev Awaud all but snarled in Mando'a, her palms flat on the table as she rose from her chair. A tall woman clad in ancestral armor, she made for an imposing sight. "I think we're all dying to hear an explanation for it, Cabur'alor."

Bo-Katan looked unconcerned at the end of the table, and Tiber had to give her points for confidence. "Am I not able to make executive decisions when I deem them appropriate?" she asked politely.

One of Mareev's hands curled on the table. "You are," she said darkly. "But you have done so only twice before, both within the first month of your regency. We then asked that you refrain from doing so again, considering the people's responses."

The Cabur'alor's face twitched. Tiber smiled; oh yes, those had been memorable decrees alright. Kryze had first ordered any Mandalorian that had previously supported Maul's government be forced to swear a new oath of allegiance to her, the Provisional Council, and the Empire. Her second command had been twinfold: to reopen Mandalore to foreign trade and begin construction of a huge trade station in the planet's orbit.

Both had been extremely unpopular with Mandalore's culturally conservative inhabitants. Many of the oriye had made major protests and demonstrations, though nothing came close to rioting; there had been enough fighting for everyone, and that said something when Mandalorians loved to fight.

Tiber could see why she'd done it, though. Two weeks after her second proclamation, eight freighters filled to the brim with building materials and foodstuffs had arrived at Sundari. They had supposedly been stuck in administrative deadlock at Celanon for weeks, though exactly what the problem was had never been explained.

The shadowy approval of the Empire was obvious. In time, the citizens' displeasure disappeared as visible recovery began to be seen.

Still, the Council hated to not be consulted. Bo-Katan was the second-youngest person of their assembly, a fistful of years older than Sarri who had just turned twenty-two last month and yet over a decade younger than the next youngest, Quella Eldar, who stood at the end of her 30's. Looking at Quella's hair dyed a vibrant red—her vain attempt to continue appearing youthful—reluctantly reminded Tiber that he was only a year older than her. Age would catch up to him eventually, just as age would eventually mature Bo-Katan Kryze.

But it had not yet. And as much as Tiber enjoyed her cool confidence, it was also an easy indicator of her arrogance.

Mareev clearly felt the same way. "You would do well to consult those with much more experience than you," she said testily. "We seven are not here solely as your advisors. We all run important facets of your government. Kando'al'verde Saxon could have rejected your release of Taakuir'tsad prisoners, yet did so as a favor to you."

Tiber blinked his cold blue eyes at her. A favor? That was news to him.

"He should have rejected the order," Castor Wren bit out.

Oh, was everyone going to turn on him now?

Tiber cleared his throat. "I—"

"Why would he have?" Quella snorted. "Didn't you hear? He personally retrieved his dear older brother from his cell. He was probably so eager to bring him back into the light."

"That's not—"

"Loyalty between members of the Collective die hard, apparently—"

"I would speak!" His words were punctuated by the heavy double clang as he slammed his ornate helmet down on the table. He kept his hand on the impromptu gavel for good measure as his piercing gaze traveled around the table. "I would speak," he said again, quietly this time.

There was a brittle silence. "Please do," Mareev said, gesturing him to go on.

"I received the Cabur'alor's order in the dead of night, just as I was finishing my review of the weekly check-ins of Sundari's patrols," Tiber said tartly. "It was unusual given the time, but the proper clearance codes were there to show it was from her. The royal seal for executive orders was also present."

He lifted the helmet up, drawing their eyes to it. "I am a Mandalorian. My ruler gives orders, I obey them." His eyes darted to Mareev. "No favors necessary."

Satisfied, he seated himself. The conversation started up again, once more targeting Bo-Katan again for neglecting to speak to the Council beforehand. But Tiber's involvement in the release was no longer being used against him. A quick glance at Sarri two chairs to his left also revealed how bored and exasperated she was becoming. Their eyes met and she gave him a tired wink before turning her attention back to the others.

Another day in power. Not quite what I was hoping for. I'd even let Gar spew more nonsense at me than hear them go at it again.

He almost snorted. As if. The drivel become gray noise and his mind wandered.

His appointment to the Provisional Council had been surprising. He had surely expected Aurelius to be asked instead, and of course he found out later on that the old man had indeed been called on, only to reject it. He complained of being too far on his age to take the job of Kando al'verde—Marshal, as Moore bitterly requested it be framed as on Imperial-facing documents—of Mandalore, as well as an unwillingness to leave the comforts of Castle Saxon on its high mountain. Then there was the fact that he did not want to balance being marshal against being Laamyc'buir for his aliit, and not wanting to be distracted from his position on the Elder's Assembly, or his duties as the premier phoenix instructor for the clan, or—

Aurelius had a gift for escaping unpleasant situations with either the most brilliantly woven words or an absolute barrage of them. Sundari's response was fatigued, but they persisted someone with a suitable war record was needed for the role.

Aurelius suggested his son and it was accepted with little wait.

Tiber fervently recalled when Gar had bade him and Sarri to join him in running to Pre Vizsla's little uprising on Concordia. It would be a turning point in Mandalorian history, it would bring about the return of the old ways, it would grant Clan Saxon premier status within House Vizsla, and it would present them all with plenty of political opportunities when the new government was established.

It was all rehearsed, of course. Gar's borderline giddy excitement leaked through the promises he was making, a script he had clearly received from Vizsla to cajole like-minded be'tal to his cause. Even Sarri, young as she was, had picked up on that pretty early into his persuasion. But she was a lover of myths, had spent much of her childhood in the library reading the stories transcribed by Mother. That she might have the chance to actually make a mark on history was too alluring for her to say no.

What about Tiber? Would he come?

Absolutely. Just not because he liked those fairy tales. He was much more practical than that.

His memories became muggy and bothered, and he could not understand why until he took in a sniff of air: body odor. He was sweating within his armor, and he had already not had the chance to give it a proper scrubbing because of last night's orders.

But what does it matter? This beskar'gam has had the blood of hundreds splattered on it inside and out. The thought of all that filth made him shudder. Who knew fairy tales and history could feel so rotten to the touch and smell?

Feels like I can never fully remove that stench of death…

"Kando al'verde?"

Tiber blinked. What could they need him for now? "Yes?"

"Do you have the full listing of names released by Decree 03?"

He drifted his hand over to his datapad. A few taps and he had them on screen; another quick movement over the table and the central display lit up. "Here," he said. "Every name of the Taakuir'tsad released last night. Exactly 4,531 of them."

"Thank you," Meerva said with feigned sweetness; now that she had no reason to be angry with him, she was back to her usual masquerade of being everyone's ally. "I forget how many of our people fought against us during those horrid days."

"Many more died, don't forget that," Jhonna Rau said somberly. "I find it disheartening how few survived."

"They made their choice." They all looked to Kryze, and she quickly folded back into her chair and took on a leisurely lounge. But Tiber could still see some fire in her eyes.

You can't hide the anger in your soul, Kryze. So why did she want them released ahead of schedule, I wonder?

Outside, a galaar's screech distantly cut in over the group's silence. Probably not blind, but you still see it, eh?

Of course. The election.

But no one was going to call her out to her face about it. After all, her winning would ensure they all kept their well-paying and influential positions over the Mandalorian sector. Tiber had his own antagonistic grudges against the cabur'alor, but if working with her would ensure he could stay Kando al'verde of Mandalore…

The others felt the same. "Perhaps a public mourning for all those who fell during the Siege is in order," Jhonna suggested, totally ignoring Kryze's outburst. "The whole planet will become aware of the release soon, regardless if we make it public or not. We might as well try and turn this into a period of national healing."

A chorus of agreement went through them all. Tiber shrugged; the funding for that wouldn't come from his end of the political structure. If some of them wanted to waste it on the past instead of the future, he wouldn't object.

"Now, who wants to inform Commodore Moore of the prisoners' release?"

An uncomfortable hush fell befell the group. Sarri's look of exasperation had now become plainly unhappy. Even Kryze's casual demeanor seemed tighter, her body relaxed but bright green eyes sharp.

Tiber smiled and tapped his helmet for attention. "I'd of course handle that," he said smoothly. "I, after all, acted out the decree; I should be the one to also inform him of it. I doubt he'll have any negative commentary on it."

Some stirrings around the Council. He waited for the inevitable comments and pushback; few of them enjoyed his connection with the Imperial Navy's representative, whose ships had taken up post at Ordo Station. Yet none of them had grown the spine—or perhaps grown past their pride—to take up the very necessary role of being a liaison between the commodore and the Provisional Council.

"One of my ge'ver'alors can do it," Castor interjected. "They've done it before."

"Your role is Head of Agriculture," Tiber replied. "It would make no sense for your aide to go since foodstuffs are nowhere close to this situation."

Castor's eyes narrowed. "Any particular reason you choose now to insult this Council with an outsider's tongue?"

He blinked; he had shifted into Basic without even realizing. But it did not dampen his stride. "Merely indicating that I am also fully capable of speaking fluently and accurate with the Imperials," he retorted, switching back to Mand'oa mid-sentence.

The other hesitated, realizing that avenue of attack had been closed. "I can send a dispatch—"

"This is the third-ever executive decree to come from Cabur'alor Kryze," he interrupted. "The commodore will want in-person details for such a hefty order."

"Perhaps we—"

"Do we really want to waste time on this?" Tiber asked flatly, suddenly feeling tired of the game. Another moment with the badgering fools and he'd go mad. "Should we let one of you do it, spark a miscommunication, and then observe another incident like what befell Clan Darvwar?"

For the fourth time a curtain of quiet fell over them all, and with that Tiber triumphantly knew he had won. All of their eyes had drifted to the one empty chair at the table. Sarri and Meerva even looked watery-eyed.

"Then that settles it," Tiber said. "Good day to you all, and would one of you please send me the meeting recap notes if there's anything more discussed?" He stood and donned his helmet. The filters activated right away and gifted him fresh air free of the stale stench of the armor.

At least the set had one good use.

XXX

Festus Hark

XXX

"What do you suppose they're sending one up for this time?"

"Five credits says there's another blockage of durasteel they so badly need imported, and they want to see if the Commodore can get it through."

"You're on."

Festus Hark stirred. It had gone on long enough. "Hopefully not gambling aboard the ship, gentlemen?"

The heads of the two pit crew officers huddled at the sensor station snapped up. "Not at all, Lieutenant Hark!" the one on the right said hastily.

"Nothing of the sort," the other added.

Hark looked down at them with a stern look. Pretty much identical responses… from two identical looking men, with identical clothes and uniforms.

He figured he'd never get used to seeing clone faces everywhere he turned aboard the fleet, but that didn't mean the uncanniness of it would earn them any other treatment. "I hope not," he said tersely. "The Commodore has banned gambling aboard the Contessa. If you were caught doing it on the bridge of all places, he'd likely chuck you out the airlock."

The first clone paled. "Just joking about, sir," he muttered.

"Didn't mean nothing by it…"

Hark looked at them a few moments longer, then gave them a sharp nod. "Of course. Just a reminder to be aware of your surroundings." He paused, catching a glimpse of the Mandalorian shuttle as it shot past the bridge's viewport for their hangar. "But I would've done 10 credits. Just saying."

The two men looked up at him, disbelieving. He shot them a wink then turned about, setting off at a fast walk off the bridge. The reception at the hangar for Marshal Saxon would take only a few minutes, and the turbolifts connected very efficiently. He'd have just enough time to get to Commodore Moore's office and get informed by the man on just what the Mandalorian wanted so badly to tell them about.

Festus Hark had begun his service in the Republic Navy in the final year of the Clone Wars, a graduate of the Carida Academy with a Sash of Valor to boot. His tan skin and brown eyes going so well with the olive officer uniform was at first a joke explanation for how he achieved officer so quickly, but his performance in the Outer Rim Sieges had shut that down pretty quickly.

He was proud of his career, proud of his comrades. The name change from Republic to Empire meant little if it still meant they were going to be protecting worlds from the violent and unscrupulous. They would fall before whatever ship he served aboard.

He also had a penchant for keeping himself and those around him on time. Saxon had landed in the small Victory-class hangar by now; seven minutes and twenty-seconds until he would reach Commodore Moore's office—

A needy ping came from the datapad kept at his side. He pulled it as he stepped into the turbolift and punched to go down:

Meeting location change: Redirect to Meeting Room 02.

Hark swore softly under his breath and smashed a gloved finger into the "up" key of the turbolift; too late. He was already going down.

Damn his pride.

XXX

He arrived at the door virtually breathless. He was in good athletic shape, but jogging the half-mile in tight uniform wasn't the sort of workout he enjoyed.

Hark took a few relaxing breaths and took off his cap to better wipe off the sweat that had build beneath his cropped brown hair. Satisfied he looked more presentable, he removed his code cylinder and inserted it into the door's control panel. The two clone troopers on either side gazed at him in silence as they waited for it to be accepted. A charming beep, a green light, and the door slid open. They both made an invisible shrug at him as they faced forward; he gave them a proper one before stepping in.

There was no time to wonder why the Commodore had abruptly chosen this room, though he had his private thoughts on it. The compactness of the ship—though already quite large and bristling for any warship of the period—meant the commodore's office was a little on the small side, especially since he had filled it with shelves of prizes he had both taken and received over his long career as both a boxer and naval commander. Even when it was just the two of them in there, Hark sometimes felt a little claustrophobic.

But space could not be the reason. Moore rarely cared about how others felt about his office, and seemed to in fact enjoy guests having to shrink themselves down on the other side of his desk.

Hark could guess why they were here. He was sure the Marshal would too, when he arrived.

Which at least meant he was early; probably Saxon had had to change course midway, too. It was just him, the Commodore, and his aide for the moment.

"I was almost thinking Saxon would beat you here, Lieutenant."

Hark gave another exhale before offering a salute. "Wouldn't dream of it, sir."

"Hehe. I like your sense of humor." The other turned to face him from the wide viewport he'd been looking out of. "Come catch the view before that pencil-neck oaf arrives."

Hark slowly approached the window. He'd served a variety of officers during the Clone Wars and first year of the Empire, some more colorful, others much more beholden to naval doctrine. The Jedi, he'd thought, were the most eccentric military leaders he'd ever meet.

Commodore Aghrim Moore showed him how wrong he was very quickly.

"Hell of a planet to get stationed on," the tall man said laconically. "It's already half-blasted to death. I don't know how those people live down there."

"Domed cities and a strong sense of pride, sir."

Moore sighed. "That was rhetorical, Lieutenant. Any more stiff-backed and you'll be in competition with Verideon."

Both men casually glanced to the room's third occupant. The commodore's aide was a small and wiry thing, dark skin encased by his uniform. Glasses precariously stood on the edge of his nose, but otherwise Hark thought him a tidy and collected individual. He certainly put up well with his officer's eccentrics, especially after five months of service.

The only thing that sometimes bothered him were his eyes. Hard to read the beady things as they looked at you, which was the case now as he looked up from his datapad.

But after a moment Verideon gave a sheepish smile. "Fulfilling my duties comes before all else," he said with deep yet surprisingly gentle voice, as if a combat boot was coming softly down upon glass. "When my tasks are done, I'm sure you'll find me more tranquil."

Moore waved him off. "Nonsense, Verideon, loosening yourself up is important. If you're buried in etiquette every hour of a planet's spin, you'll have no energy for when you actually have to be active!"

"Perhaps you can discuss that philosophy with Marshal Tiber."

The door slid open just as he was finishing his sentence. Hark and Moore turned about, but only Hark gave a genial nod. "Pleasure to have you aboard, Marshal."

"Always a joy to be aboard a fine ship like this," the Mandalorian replied in a worthy imitation of Core-accented Basic, and by the way his visor traced all corners of the room one could tell he meant what he said. Hark had noticed that about him; Tiber seemed to absolutely adore every aspect of the Contessa, and even had a grudging respect for the efficiency of the clones. It was amusing in a way, seeing the armored warrior so captivated by something Hark was so used to as to almost consider it boring at times. He partially wondered if the marshal sought the commodore's presence for the chance to marvel at the vessel up close.

Then again, Hark didn't mind. He loved getting to look at Mandalorian armor up close any chance he got.

"Well? Moore said with an almost casual tone. "What do we owe the pleasure of having you here for? Hopefully not some update with the election."

Saxon's helmeted head reluctantly took his gaze from the meeting room's large holoprojector. "Not at all. Though I would think you'd like to know progress on that anyway?"

Moore snorted. "Local politics are unimportant until they affect Imperial logistics and designs for the Mandalorian sector. Have your people elect a Gungan if you want, Saxon. Just make sure the trade routes stay open."

"If you say so, Commodore."

"I do. But you said that's not what you're here for."

"No." Saxon's chin lifted, his back straightened. Apparently, his news would be substantial. "But the Regent just released over 4,500 prisoners taken during the Siege of Mandalore. Executive decree number three of her rule."

He paused expectantly, and Hark felt a twinge of second-hand embarrassment for him. How little he understands the Commodore, and the Empire.

"Maybe I didn't make myself clear a moment ago," the commodore said bluntly, walking over to him. "So, I'll let you explain it in case I'm wrong. How will Kryze's decree affect Mandalore's trade?"

Saxon immediately faltered. "I don't—"

"The Duchess Satine's policy of neutrality severely disrupted the Republic's economy along the Hydian Way. MandalMotors stopped exporting their ships, and your people stopped buying food and luxuries. Celanon's huge agriculture industry in particular plummeted and stayed on life support for about 20 years, until the Clone Wars finally resuscitated the need for foodstuffs." Moore bent forward and looked directly into the visor, a few inches away. "Tell me Marshal, are the Clone Wars still going?"

"No."

"No," he agreed. "Therefore, Celanon needs a nearby system that will purchase its farmed goods. Because if there isn't one, that sector's economy will once again tank. Then Celanon's inhabitants won't be able to buy the trinkets and fancy arts from Serenno, and Celanon's local defense fleet won't buy military hardware from Ord Cestus. Then Serenno and Ord Cestus will fall into a slump, which—"

"I think I get the picture, sir."

Wrong time to interrupt, Saxon.

"No, I don't think you do, Mandalorian." Moore abruptly pulled back and went to the viewport he had first been standing at. Hark felt his throat tighten and cautiously shadowed over.

"Come here." Saxon followed. "Look out the window, Marshal. What do you see?"

"I see Mandalore, sir."

"Yes. Now, I'll be very honest with you: I don't care about Mandalore's politics, nor do I care about its economics. What I do care about is that someone at Coruscant does care about these things and has charged me to ensure… how would you say, the hyperrails run on time? Do you have hyperrail technology on your planet, Saxon?"

"I do." A little bit of a bite with that response, but with the helmet's digitization Moore seemed to not notice it.

"Then you get the analogy. Therefore, you should also get that I don't care about anything you have to tell me unless its going to affect Mandalore being an open and willing trading partner on the Hydian Way. So, unless you have a connection to draw between the prisoners or decree to Mandalore's economic viability, you have nothing to inform me of."

"… I understand, sir."

The lieutenant wrinkled his nose. Mandalore's economics were certainly important and one of the chief reasons why the fleet was here, but Moore was neglecting to bring up the most important motive for their presence.

Or is he being intentionally obtuse? It was hard to tell with the man.

"Good," Moore commented drily. "But if you need an example reminder for an incident you should tell me of, all we have to do is look out the viewport at that big black stain on your planet where Clan Darvwar used to be."

"Think about what got them to become a glass puddle like that."

Hark winced. The Contessa's orbit of the planet made it so that the viewport of this meeting room had a stunning view of the whole planet, but it also offered a straight shot towards the equator, along which the blemish lied.

He looked at the back of Tiber's helmet, wondering about the pain and guilt that must be going on inside it—

The helmet came off. The slim face of Tiber Saxon appeared in the reflection, his sharp eyes glancing down at the disfigurement of the planet. "I see it," he said simply. "Yes, Clan Darvwar learned its lesson. You forget I was there when it happened?"

Hark tensed. If Moore decided to take offense at the other's casual candor…

But the Commodore only stared imperiously at the Mandalorian, much the way Verideon usually looked at others. "You have an excellent face for sabacc, Marshal Saxon," he said suddenly. "Not even an ounce of emotion on you about your people. I would've gotten a livelier reaction out of your helmet."

"Why would I care about what happens to traitors?"

"Because everyone cares about what happens to their planet," Moore snapped. He had clearly intended to put a bit of fear into Saxon, but the other had readily met his challenge and even exceeded it. There was no amusement to be had and the Imperial officer was done.

"I will care when the Empire wants me to," Saxon replied coolly. "That's what you need of a marshal, correct? Then I will do so."

Hark shifted uncomfortably. The energy these two had sometimes was just too much for a room this small to contain. He longed to return to the bridge, maybe take a gamble or two with the clones anyways…

Moore sniffed impetuously. "Verideon!"

"Yes, commodore?"

"You have this conversation logged?"

"Yes, commodore."

"Good. Then I believe we're done here."

Tiber dipped his head, replacing the helmet upon his head. "I'll keep your words in mind next time something arises. Perhaps I'll just send a comm to your aide instead."

"That would be preferred," Moore said unhappily. Hark rolled his eyes. He knew that tone.

Another thing he had learned about his commanding officer: he hated to lose.

"Just keep Kryze and her band of misfits loyal and mindful of the planet's place within the Empire," he bit out. He leveled a finger out the viewport again, demanding their attention down to the planet once more. "I could care less for this little democratic experiment going on below, but if it at all interferes with what we talked about, there will be trouble. I'd hate for Sundari or Keldabe too—"

The end of the commodore's finger began to glow a bright orange. Hark blinked. No, it wasn't his finger turning orange, it was—

Moore caught it to. "What in the scrag is…" he began, stunned.

Verideon stirred to life and inserted himself between Saxon and Moore. "By my calculations, that's coming from Keldabe," he said, his timbre hard.

"And if we can see it from this high in the atmosphere, that explosion would justify your language, Commodore."