Translation guide from Mando'a:
aran/e = "guard." "e" suffix indicates plural form.
Cabur'alor = "Regent." Literally means "guardian leader."
ijaat bal kote = "honor and glory"
Laamyc'buir = "Patriarch" or "High Father." The head of the clan if they were male.
Mand'alor = "sole ruler"
oriya = "city"
Ruug'verda = "Ancestors." Literally means "old warriors" but is more commonly used for the former
XXX
Gar Saxon
XXX
After snidely welcoming him back, Karro told him that his trial would occur next thing in the morning, and that he expected it to for certain be the last time he would see Gar's face.
His gloating subsided all of a sudden, to look upon the imprisoned man for a few moments with genuine disbelief. "I can't believe you managed to end up in here within two days. It must be a new record."
Gar said nothing, only glowering back at him. After a few moments Karro shrugged and continued on his patrol.
Leaving him in the familiar darkness of his cell, with only a few hours to plot how he would get out of this.
Damn that Kryze. Damn her, damn her lackeys, damn her arrogant courts—
He forced calm. He could not lose it at all now, not when he had only just begun to plan how he would restore Clan Saxon to the ijaat bal kote he had promised Father. It could not end like this; the universe could surely not be this cruel to someone it had already spat on so many times.
But by that same metric he was no stranger to cruelty and wallowed only briefly in self-pity. In a cosmic sense it was fair retribution; truculent acts had been a common enough tactic of Pre Vizsla's Death Watch. They had evolved into an almost encouraged norm of Maul's Horned Watch. Under both organizations he had accepted the methodology and done what was ordered of him. The pursuit of balance, though a word and ideal not typical to Mandalorian tradition, was something that he had personally concluded was prevalent enough an ideal in the rest of the galaxy that the hidden movements of the universe very well upheld it.
In which case, perhaps it was hopeless to try and fight against what was an exaction of that balance against him.
No, don't think that way. Don't forge excuses for yourself. Don't give up. He gave himself a grim smile. Maul would have my head if I gave up.
Ordinarily, thinking about the former Mand'alor got him upset, but here he found an odd comfort in it. How could he not? Kryze, the current representation of Mandalore, was obviously still an enemy. Sarri, his very own sister whom he had always been closest with, had not offered a word in his defense. Tiber, the one ally he thought he had brought to his side the other night, was nowhere to be seen. Aurelius, patronizing Laamyc'buir of Clan Saxon and Father both, was likely smiling himself to sleep knowing that his erstwhile offspring was practically disposing of himself.
The words and lessons they had all taught him over the years meant nothing within the confines of this cell. None of them had ever been a prisoner, all avenues of action cut off, their very person and life beholden to whoever held the key. They could be indifferent, maybe even sympathetic, but they could not fully understand his situation. Would not understand.
Maul had been imprisoned, many times. He had also betrayed Gar and all of Mandalore, and Gar hated him for that. But he also sometimes thought Maul had not done it as part of a long-standing plan. It had been a final means of escape, to save himself from the net of the Republic. It was only as the horned Sith had realized the battle was lost that he had decided to cut his losses, while Gar and his comrades foolishly fought on for some intangible goal they thought noble—
"Die well, and loyal." The dismissive final words of a masterful lord to their blind, loyal servant.
Gar had not had the strength of mind to see past his loyalty then, to see with clear eyes that Maul was ultimately in the game to preserve himself. That he himself had been a tool in the Sith's game, and a very manipulable one at that.
He cursed his old naivety, but not Maul. The former Mand'alor had played the game well and probably not expected Gar to survive. Yet he had, and if there was such a thing as a cosmic force begetting balance, then there must also be a cosmic reason for why he was still alive.
It was now his turn to play the game, not be one of its pieces on the board.
In the darkness, the smile became cold yet sincere. Thank you for the final lesson, my lord.
XXX
He had perhaps four hours of sleep before he was gruffly roused by two arane. They hauled him to his feet, slapped on a heavy pair of antique iron cuffs, then put him on an reinforced airspeeder.
It was a fast journey up. The Hall of Judgement still lied in its own bombed out ruins, one of the few remaining structures Kryze's government had not had the chance to resuscitate yet. All judicial matters now occurred within the Royal Palace of Sundari itself. Its beautiful cream architecture, the pinnacle of Middle Mando Cubism, showed no signs of wartime damage now, practically glowing in the sunlight even with the protective dome overheard. It was, in Gar's morbid opinion, a fanciful show when the rows of blue-and-gray cells holding the decaying dregs of civilization were just below it.
But it clearly made getting the imprisoned to court easy. Within two minutes of getting in the speeder they were landing at a landing pad raised high above the general city. Everything from the views, armored Mandalorian escorting him, and ride were familiar enough to be nostalgic.
What wasn't familiar were the four clone troopers waiting behind the bay's main door.
"What is the meaning of this?" one of the Mandalorian aran asked.
"We are to take over escort duty," a clone replied.
"On whose authority?"
"Commodore Moore, with the approval of the Regent."
Gar suppressed a snort. If he had five credits, he would wager Kryze was absolutely livid at the outside interference.
But it also threw a wrench in the sequence he had foreseen occurring. The Imperials were here to supervise his trial, and on such short notice? The bombings were understandably too huge of an event for them to ignore, but he had never considered the commodore would have to get directly involved as well.
As his mind raced for alternatives, his Mandalorian escorts exchanged disgruntled looks from within their ornate helmets. "Very well," the lead aran said. "But we will hold rearguard position."
The clone shrugged. "Whatever makes you happy, Big Blue." He beckoned to Gar. "In the middle of us, prisoner." He obliged the order and fell into step with his now six bodyguards. He briefly imagined himself taking them all down and escaping, but it was solely for the sake of humoring himself into a positive mood. The much more potent battle was destined to need only his words.
They walked through the almost sterile white halls, the stained-glass windows occasionally showering them in multi-colored light before again exiting to the outdoors, walking past a garden of carefully trimmed boxlike hedges and young trees. A flight of gray steps led them to a clean white double-door ornamented with what looked like a homage to Mandalore the Uniter's famous speech to his people that had earned him his title. Gar grimly realized he did not recognize the decoration itself; it was a new installation. The old must have been destroyed during the Siege. He mouthed a quick apology to his Ruug'verda before the door primly split in half for their entrance.
Into the Sundari Palace Throne Room.
It was so familiar and yet so different. The architecture was the same, the high-ceiling inspiring awe while the simplicity of the room and its windows naturally brought one to the center-rear, where the throne proudly stood. Only he noticed the stained-glass frescos were different: no longer did they bear the image of the Duchess Satine Kryze, but instead one of Bo-Katan. The frescos were not meant to change with transitions of rulership; before Satine it had shown Mandalore the Dissenter, founder of Sundari and its palace, for millennia. It was only with the Great Clan War, when Gar himself had been but a teenager, had the palace and its ancient panes been ruined in the fighting. That same civil conflict had concludes with Satine's rise to leadership, and with her radical new policy of peace and neutrality she had deemed it appropriate to not remake the warlike Dissenter but instead include herself in the fresco.
Clearly, Bo-Katan felt Mandalore was now turning over a new leaf under her as well. Her piercing gaze from the throne as they entered the room all but confirmed that she felt she owned the room.
Several more seats were lined up on both sides of her. A few faces he recognized: Mareev Awaud and Castor Wren had both been members of Death Watch, and Mareev had even made herself more memorable by wearing her armor to the trial. The rest were in nobility's clothes and unmemorable to him, save for of course Kryze, Sarri, and Tiber. His sister was determinedly looking at the stained-glass visage of the Cabur'alor, seemingly unable to even look at the condemned.
Tiber waved. Gar fought back a smile; it was meant to mock him, but the absurdity of it almost made him laugh.
Below the fresco stood three people he did not recognize by either clothing or appearance. They were each human, dressed in olive-colored uniforms with colorful red-and-blue badges upon their breasts. Two looked vaguely middle-aged, the third with brown hair peeking beneath his cap and tan features looked slightly younger.
He was also looking back at him. Gar quickly faced Kryze and her Council. Those must be the Imperials. His eyes briefly flitted around to the numerous clones stationed along the walls of the throne room. The important ones, anyway.
His escorts brought him to a halt before a cushioned chair and black table positioned a few feet in front of the raised throne. Gar took his seat and looked up at Kryze, waiting for her to speak.
The ornamented helmet of the Nite Owls was off and by her boots. The green eyes continued to peer down at him, beautiful if it were not for the hatred, distrust, and disgust shooting out of them. "Gar Saxon," she said contemptuously in clipped Basic. "So nice to see you again."
He did not reply to the bait. She continued. "Your fate has been decided. Your sentencing is—"
"What?!" He had not meant to shout or blurt like a child, nor had he meant to bark in Mand'oa, but the indignity—no, the audacity—of it had struck him as if it were a slap. "No trial at all?"
"None needed. Your guilt is plain."
"Guilt, what guilt?!" he demanded, hastening over to match her Basic. "I had no hand in the destruction, I demand to see the evidence—"
"Just stop talking, Gar Saxon. With a tongue like yours, it'll only get you into more trouble."
No, this couldn't be it. His mind whirred: if there was no trial, then why was the whole Council present? Why were the Imperials here? Just to make the whole thing look official? He looked at Tiber, got nothing but a shrug, looked desperately to Sarri, but she was still glaring at the fresco—
Glaring at the image of her beloved Cabur'alor, who she had served faithfully for years? Did she not agree with this pre-determined outcome? He squinted. No, she wasn't looking at the fresco but at the Imperials, who were talking in hushed tones to each other.
It hit him. Politics. Always politics.
Kryze was still dismissing his request when he spoke up. "Why convene a court at all then?" he challenged.
"I already told you this is not one." Her words were dismissive, her face holding a tight grin of satisfaction at having orchestrated his downfall.
Not yet you haven't. "Why waste the time of your Council? Or that of the good Commodore, his officers, and his troopers? Did you really summon them just to hear my sentencing?"
Kryze's lip curled in annoyance. "Irrelevant to the point, Saxon—"
"I think it's very relevant. Why don't you display your evidence for all of us to see it? I doubt the honorable Commodore has had time to review it in the limited time since this trial was officiated." He swallowed. "You brought him here to see me sentenced and hauled away so it can appear you have the situation controlled."
"It is controlled," Kryze said coolly. "And when you're locked away in the deepest of Sundari's cells, I'm certain we won't see another terrorist act for decades."
"You didn't even ask me any questions down there!"
"Saxon, if you don't—"
"Regent Kryze." All heads went over to the Imperial with the most colorful insignia upon his chest; the Commodore, Moore. "The accused makes a salient point, for I have yet to see this evidence you speak of. It would be a disservice to Imperial justice to let this man sink into the depths without seeing this."
"Perhaps I can model the Mandalorian justice system after the Imperial one at a later date," Kryze said with forced calm. "As it is, our custom and law states the acting Mand'alor has final claim in court."
"Yet I see before me only a regent. Thus I would like to see the evidence. Now."
His words were brisk and polite, but the quiet insult and order had the effect of lowering the temperature of the room a few degrees. Kryze stared icicles at him a moment longer, then slowly turned back to Gar. "Councilor Castor, kindly bring up the projector," she said at last.
There was a word of acknowledgement, some awkwardly loud tapping on the datapad in the yawning silence of the room, and then a large blue holoprojection of Keldabe filled the space between the Council and Gar. Another tap and the projection swiveled in the air to present an aerial, two-dimensional view of the broken oriya. Kryze pointed at a specific spot and the projection enhanced, showing an clearer view of District Five. "We apprehended Gar Saxon here, at the Hall of the Graced, approximately fifty minutes after Bomb Eight occurred, the last of the day. No bystanders recall seeing him until he chose to appear in the district—"
"What was I doing in the district!" Gar cried, furious. Was the woman really going to spin this part of the story against him, after she had praised him on the scene?
"Silence until the Cabur'alor has finished, or we will find a muzzle for you," Mareev Awaud snapped in Mand'oa, glaring at the marshal for not speaking first. Tiber for his part rolled his eyes, looking otherwise detached from the proceedings.
Gar suppressed a grimace. "Very well."
"Thank you," Kryze said with feigned relief. "As I was saying, Saxon's appearance was sudden. He managed to not be present at any of the previous bomb locations, and not only that but was close enough to the eighth to not be harmed by it and yet react to it. His placement is suspicious, as if he knew where the detonations would occur and the radius of the blast so he knew how far to stay away from it."
Her finger jabbed again and the projection zoomed in an image of some ruined clothing; his ruined clothing. "The bombs have since been identified as blazers: high-radiation incendiary explosives that saw mass production during the Clone Wars. Some of their key ingredients include potassium chlorate, rytholate, and magnesium: all of which had pure traces upon the fragments of his clothing. Samples taken from his hands also reveal more potent traces of rytholate." Her jade eyes found his through the haze of blue. "There is little mystery to me or my Council that the bomber sits before us."
Gar's fists clenched underneath the table, straining his wrists against the binders. Of all the dirty, low-hanging accusations…
"That is your full report?" Moore asked, his tone thoughtful.
"It is," Kryze replied smugly.
"Interesting. Then let us hear Gar Saxon's defense."
"Defense?" Kryze actually stood up from the throne. "A defense is unnecessary when—"
"When the evidence is this circumstantial? Please." Moore's voice dropped an octave. "This is not a court of Imperial law, but I will speak my mind when I see stupidity so plainly before me. Your evidence is shallow, Regent, and requires counter-analysis. Anyone with an independent mind would agree; indeed, some of your own councilors seem to."
Gar frowned and scanned the assembly. All seemed either uneasy or disgruntled at Moore's intervention, but—
"He was… found at the Hall of the Graced saving those within it," Sarri said timidly. Her eyes were staring straight down at the table, avoiding the dumbfounded gaze of Bo-Katan. "Our lab technicians… further summarized that the bomb material found on his clothes likely came from him repeatedly going in and out of the burning structure."
I love you, Sarri. Ancestors guide your footsteps forever.
"Is that so?" Moore pointedly looked to Gar. "Is this true, defendant?"
Gar nodded, doing his best to look unfettered. "It is. I was just leaving my interview for a new job at Kellor Refinery on the other side of the Home of the Graced when the explosions began. The size of the initial bomb caused panic in the refinery and caused the owner to put an emergency shutdown in place, sealing us all within for the next hour and a half despite our protests."
"There are records of this interview?"
"… perhaps not," he conceded uneasily. "When the shutdown lifted, I immediately left to see what had happened. Shortly after that… the refinery detonated."
"As in that was the source location of Bomb Eight?"
"That would be my guess, yes."
Moore appraised him a moment, his face alight with the forgotten blue glow of Kryze's projection. He whispered something inaudible to his aide, who began to work at his datapad, before looking back at Gar. "Very well, continue."
"The building was virtually vaporized when I turned about, and I figure it would have killed me if its structural integrity was not so strong. The refinery manufactures fuel for vehicles and was briefly turned into an ordinance depot during the rule of Pre Vizsla. It was consequentially reinforced to prevent any internal explosion from wrecking the entire block."
"You know this how?"
Gar did not blink. "Because I oversaw those improvements myself when I served in Death Watch."
There was a snort from the throne, but nobody paid it any mind. "We'll confirm that in a moment," Moore said smoothly. "But you must acknowledge your desire to leave as quickly as possible the bomb site, only for it to coincidentally detonate soon after you leave, is quite incriminating?"
"I agree," Gar said, swallowing again. He had not concluded Moore was an ally for a moment, only that the other had a strange code of honor or motivation that had brought his intervention on his side. But he was still the accused on trial. "I have no defense for that, but I still believe my actions afterwards represent that I had no desire to cause damage or destruction to my planet, only to soothe it once it came under attack."
"A commendable spirit. There are of course means of proving this to be true?"
Gar stood up and, with some difficulty, peeled back some of his prison uniform to show the burns he had received. "Yes, sir. I further rescued nineteen occupants, and a small crowd later gathered to help tend to them, who also witnessed my actions." His eyes flashed to Kryze. "Ladies Kryze, Awaud, and Saxon were also present at the end and saw me extract two of them."
"Indeed. You may sit." Moore held out a waiting hand to his aide, who furnished it with his datapad. He walked into the center of the projection; a few seconds later and it was deactivated, the light from outside allowed to funnel in once more. "I have here a communications record showing the exchanges between you and Koran Rodarch, who ran the refinery. They do point to you acquiring an interview there." He tapped something else, and then all the datapads of the councilors were squawking to life. "I also have here an instruction guide for interviewers of Mandalore refineries, which includes a trial of a skill in handling equipment. This would further explain Gar Saxon's skin samples showing residues of chemicals usually found in fuel as well."
Gar bit his lip. He hadn't even thought of that.
"I find whatever sentencing you had in mind for him—seems to me life in prison for treason and terrorism—a pointless exercise in breaching one's authority." Moore put his back to Gar, instead facing the throne. "Any explanation for your behavior, Regent Kryze?"
Throughout the whole ordeal, Bo-Katan's face had gone from its cool pale tone to a burning red. It now began to purple. "You accuse me now, Commodore Moore?" she asked tersely.
"I only wonder why you tried to shuffle this man into your prisons so quickly, when your evidence crumpled under the slightest pressures. It seems to me Gar Saxon's assumption of you just putting on a show for me and Lieutenant Hark was correct."
"That wasn't my only assumption, honored commodore."
Surprised, Moore returned his gaze to him. "Come again?"
"I said that was not my only assumption." Gar fought back a smile; the disaster had been averted. There was no way he would face prison now.
Which now meant it was time to go on the offensive.
"What other reasons do you speculate?"
Gar held his back straight against the chair. "That Lady Kryze was also trying to silence political opposition to her in the coming election."
Dead silence for a moment. Then—
"What absurdity is this?" Castor Wren scoffed.
"Ludicrous," Jhonna Rau hissed.
"Liar," snarled Bo-Katan Kryze.
"It's true," Tiber Saxon said calmly.
Heads again swiveled in unison. He shrugged. "On the night of Gar's release, he came to me in and confessed that he planned to run for viceroy in the coming election," he said. "I have it on audio recording here." He placed the device on the table and leaned back in his chair, content.
"Absolute nonsense," Kryze spat. "That's ridiculous, I would have had no idea he was planning on running."
"I didn't know if there are recorders in my Patriarch's home," Gar countered, feeling some sweat form on the back of his neck against his best intentions to exert confidence. "Nor elsewhere in our clan home. My conversation with him could have easily leaked or overheard."
"Why record it in the first place?" she demanded.
"To have it on record?" he replied innocently enough. "This is a big step in my life and I wanted whatever advice he had to give me easily accessible if I needed it again."
She spluttered, darted her emerald eyes to Moore. But the commodore now looked quite bored, even annoyed. "A political scandal, then?" he inquired of Gar.
"I think so, sir."
"I take it you were also in Keldabe to see the late Cleitus Kast speaking so you could get some political pointers, having just emerged from prison?"
"That's right, sir. The remnants of my ticket were also visible in the Regent's projection of my clothing. I left his rally early to attend to my job interview."
"Which would mean all witnesses who would have seen you beforehand are equally dead. Hmph." The bold eyes looked him up and down again, but they were now dismissive instead of energetic. "I have no further opinion on this squabble; I'll let you Mandalorians sort that out yourselves. What I do know is that you are innocent on the charges of terrorism, and there is no reason to have you detained a moment longer." He snapped his fingers to two of the clones, who approached with a key to his cuffs.
"We can release one of our own, Commodore Moore," Kryze all but hissed, gesturing to her two guards. They got to Gar first and twisted off the binders; he rubbed his wrists gratefully. He stole a glance at Tiber, who had a vaguely smug look on himself.
Fine, you can gloat about it this one time.
"Gar Saxon," Kryze said with barely contained venom, her fists trembling with anger on her lap. "You are released from custody with all charges dropped. Congratulations."
"Now get out of my palace."
XXX
Festus Hark
XXX
"Animals," the Commodore muttered as soon as the shuttle ramp had closed behind them. "Damned animals trying to play at being civilized members of the galactic community. They nearly condemned that man to life imprisonment. One who had apparently just been released from said jail, as well."
"It was rather disappointing," Hark agreed, and though he felt the remarks against Mandalorian civilization were extreme, he otherwise meant it. He had heard so much about Bo-Katan Kryze as the liberator of her people, had expected her to be just as great a leader for them. She had been adequate enough during the 97th's tenure in her sector, but this had thrown all his building respect out the window.
Moore barked a laugh. "Disappointing is underselling it. Kryze has the political sensibilities of a mynock asking a ship if it can eat its power cells. Her judicial skill is nonexistent… at least when she thinks she can get away with it. Her and her people are much better suited to fighting than holding a respectable core."
His tone had gone from disgusted to musing. Hark wondered at that, but he had more pressing thoughts on his mind. The day's excitement was quieting down, and the other seemed to be in a verbose mood. "Commodore, a question if I may."
"I'm hardly in the mood for questions with this nuisance to deal with, Hark." But the words did not match his face; he was tired of talking with the Mandalorians, but not tired of talking itself. "Oh, very well. Speak."
"Your talk with Marshal Saxon, before we noticed the explosion from the Contessa. I thought it… odd you left out some information."
"That information being?"
Hark resisted the urge to avert his eyes from the other's animated gleam. "Loyalty, sir. High Command stated that the Emperor personally requested the 97th Task Force be sent here to monitor the Imperial occupation of the Mandalorian sector and to ensure the Mandalorians stayed loyal to the Empire."
"Ah, that." Moore smiled slightly. "Do you like war, lieutenant?"
"Sir?"
"War. It's straightforward: do you like it?"
Hark finally broke eye contact, the intensity of it and the tension of the day's occurrence finally getting to him. "I… to a certain extent, I suppose I do, sir. I loved strategy simulations growing up and at the Academy."
"Excellent, I very much did as well.""
"But… I'd be hard-pressed to say once I got into the field that I loved it."
"Ah." Something almost immeasurable changed in the commodore's expression, but he continued in the same content tone. "A measured answer. You did not join in the fighting of the Clone Wars until its final year, did you?"
"That'd be correct, sir," he answered hesitantly. Where was this going?
Moore nodded sagely. "I participated in it from the very beginning. I was a captain in the Kuat Sector Defense Fleet before that, putting down local piracy and occasionally acting out orders that came from the Kuat of Kuat. Sometimes messy things, but you get used to messes when you're running a ship. Now running a fleet…"
He trailed off for a moment, the recollected himself in a more formal guise. "My primary charge as head of the 97th is to utilize it how its needed by High Command. My second duty is to use it how I best see it being used to get results and minimize Imperial casualties. Keeping the Marshal and the rest of Kryze's government in the dark on our real motive has its function. For example, they do not think we will intervene in their local affairs."
Hark nodded slowly. "So, if they make a wrong move…"
"Then we will be ready for that moment, lieutenant, and they won't. Now, that's all I'll say on the topic."
Hark hesitated. He shouldn't keep speaking, but… "But," he said, the words impulsively leaving his mouth. "If we became transparent on our objectives with the regent's government, we could avoid that sort of bloodshed."
We could avoid another Clan Darvwar.
"That assumes she's not in this conspiracy any more than the Saxons or anyone on her advisory board is." Moore retreated into his more common moody irritation. "Leave the strategic thinking to me, lieutenant. Return to your duties on helping run my ship."