"What an incredible smell you have discovered." The Handmaiden rolled her eyes. "Where will our road take us next?"
"These are the coordinates Dala gave me." Tamai's scowl lurked within her helmet. She had refused to remove it since they'd left the enforcement office. Sure it made things even more awkward than ever, but right now the Echani's opinion and comfort were the very last things on her list of priorities. "Null is somewhere through there."
They stood above a roadside sewage ditch within the outermost barrier wall, overlooking a tube-like structure coated in moss and mold. The walls glistened with an ever-fresh coating of slime and a dark, yawning aperture served as the gateway into a bewildering maze of undercity tunnels. The sewer entrance itself appeared no different than any other such portal in the city — a bare hole cut into solid stone that led who knew how far below street level. Even from this distance the place stank with a concoction caught somewhere along a spectrum of dirty laundry and rotten fruit.
"This," the Handmaiden declared, "is a septic station."
"It could be a k'lorr slug den for all I care. Our only lead is in there." Tamai glanced at the assassin to her right. "Afraid of getting muck all over those perfect white robes?"
"Please. I am Echani. I fear nothing." The Handmaiden hesitated, then added, "And my robes are crafted of retardant material. Filth cannot affix to their surface."
"Is that why you always seem so obsessively clean?"
"You say that as if it is something worth looking down upon."
Tamai gestured down into the mire. "After you then."
The Handmaiden shot her a glare but didn't hesitate to vault over the safety rail and into the ditch. She landed in a splash of knee-high water and - to her credit - did not so much as grimace. She only cocked a smug eyebrow and looked up at Tamai to follow suit.
The Mandalorian's heavier armor created a larger splash in the sewage, but by then the Handmaiden was already approaching the station. As Tamai waded closer to her, the shorter woman gestured to the construct.
"This is new."
"Some kind of city renovation project within the last few months. Why do you bring it up?"
"I am not sure." Her eyes narrowed as she traced a gloved palm across the slimy surface of the ditch wall. Her voice was soft, almost distracted. "New constructs bring new problems. It suggests these sewers are under closer scrutiny than anticipated. Will this station have security?"
"In a back-alley dump ditch?" Tamai scoffed.
"I have heard tales of smuggling rings using tunnels such as these to transport spice. It may do us well to consider whose territory we seek to breach."
"All that matters," Tamai said as she approached the station, "is that we're getting closer to Null. The sooner we get information from him, the sooner we can get back on track."
The Handmaiden hesitated a moment longer, then followed. Tamai hoisted herself out of the water and knelt before the black iron grate that capped the output tunnel. A blue-white snap of fire burst from her wrist, followed by a shower of sparks as she set to work cutting through the barrier. Her flamethrower's blowtorch setting was powerful but slow.
The Handmaiden passed her fidgety fingers over the quarterstaff on her hip. Her wintery gaze raked the synthbrick tunnel as she tuned her senses to every strained scuff, every distant drip. Something about this place set her instincts alight but she could not put her finger on what or why. That fact alone was enough to disturb her - rare indeed was the danger that remained hidden from her. There were many horrors in the galaxy, some more terrible than others, but none so terrible as a lack of information.
Still, nothing out of the ordinary presented itself. The septic system was plain gray brick stained near black by months of offensive outpour. Moss coated the exterior and threatened to overtake the control panel. Thick creeper vines framed the waterway and strained for any source of moisture no matter how toxic. There was nothing - not the slightest hint - that the drainage ditch was anything but.
And yet something still pricked at her senses with infuriating insistence. With slow, quiet footsteps she drifted to the edge of the ditch and rested a gloved palm against the wall once more. She felt nothing but stone beneath her muted fingers, heard only the steady patter of condensation from deeper into the sewers. It seemed impossible that anyone could manage to conceal themselves in this cramped confine, amid the rush of water and the bustle of the city above. But she knew better than to discount any possibility out of hand. Her instincts screamed that there were eyes upon her. She would trust their judgment.
She glanced back at her companion. "I do not like this place."
"Yeah." Tamai grunted. "So you said."
"You misunderstand." The Handmaiden moved back to the Mandalorian's side and knelt next to her. "Something feels amiss. We should enter the sewers as soon as possible."
"Would you like to take over?" Tamai huffed and glared at her; the Echani could feel the irritable gaze even through a tinted black visor.
Though it made her skin crawl, the Handmaiden backed down. "Apologies. I will keep watch."
Tamai hesitated at the sudden acquiescence. It must have had the intended effect, for she returned to her work with doubled intensity. The Handmaiden rose to stand guard at the entrance. Sea-grey eyes narrowed and set to what they did best, diligently observing and cataloging everything before her. Her quarterstaff unsheathed with a hiss, twin beams springing from each end of her fist, and she planted one blunted end in the murky water at her feet.
Any challenge, visible or invisible, would have to battle its way through her.
On the walkway overlooking the drainage ditch, the air shimmered. It was a subtle thing, easily overlooked by all but the most insistent eyes. When such a stare flashed up from the drainage ditch the shimmer moved out of easy sight. Past a knot of cackling Deveronians, beneath the thundering footfalls of a binary load lifter hard at work, through a tangle of squid-faced Quarren mercenaries, the shimmer passed without so much as a passing breeze. It came to a halt within the shadow of a landed cargo transport.
The Echani was good. Damn good.
Gold flared within the shimmer like a mirage in the desert. It could risk no sound, not even within the anarchy of the city. Instead, it sent off a silent, text-only report.
ECHANI BETTER THAN WE THOUGHT. ALMOST DISCOVERED. WILL FOLLOW AT A DISTANCE. TRACKER BEACON STILL IN PLACE. FOLLOW AT YOUR LEISURE.
The gold glare faded. The shimmer moved off, back toward the ditch. The two women were crawling down the monster's gullet via a flash-melted hole in the drainage grate. The woman in white threw a last dubious glance behind, then hunched and vanished into the underground.
After they had gone, the ditch returned to its earlier calm. Then the water splashed twice. Nothing fell and nothing was tossed into the drain-off. It just splashed. Then some of the water shifted and seemed to flow backward, toward the dark entrance to the sewers. Only the most careful watcher could have seen the shimmer flicker in the air for the briefest of moments to reveal something skeletal and sinister. Then it faded, and the invisible footsteps faded with it.
In a strange turn of events, the Handmaiden found herself envying the Mandalorian her helmet. Shocking no one, the septic tunnels smelled horrific. She had stalked the dark paths of Nal Hutta swamplands, hunted a serial killer into the depths of Raxus Prime's endless trash heaps, and even more besides. And yet in all her far travels, she had rarely - if ever - encountered a locale as foul as this. Every breath was a fetid swell of heat in her chest, the air saturated with a tight and wet flavor of filth. She could feel the muck of this place seeping into her soul every bit as persistently as it seeped into her shoes.
Still, her pride would not allow her to voice her displeasure. Not when her only traveling companion was a Mandalorian. Of course, the Mandalorian was spared the worst of the grime, encased as she was in her ugly iron suit. Ranger Vasser sloshed through the mire with a dogged determination that would be impressive if not for her arsenal of ox-scrubbers and atmospheric equalizers and-
The Handmaiden paused, both in body and mind. She was being unfair. The Mandalorian had not forced any step of this journey. Despite her refusal to set herself to task with the mentality of a true warrior, she had neither demanded the Handmaiden's assistance nor held her in servitude. The only person to blame for the shit between her toes was Lesianne herself.
She scowled and continued on her path in the wake of her companion's ever-forward progress. Her hand had refused to leave the hilt of her quarterstaff since entering the sewage tunnels, and she refused to remove it now. The prickle up the back of her neck had similarly maintained its hold. Even now she could feel some great and formless other bearing down on them. But the source...
"So," Tamai's labored grunt interrupted her thoughts. "Have you ever done anything like this before?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"You know..." The Mandalorian gestured around to everything in general and nothing in particular.
"You cannot be serious."
"Just..." Tamai sighed. Her shoulders slumped the slightest bit. "Trying to make conversation, I guess. Never mind."
Too late, the Echani gleaned the other woman's true meaning. Thus far they had barely traded words beyond terse commands relating to their task. Here, the Mandalorian was extending an open hand after their earlier confrontation. Attempting to smooth over the worst of the awkward and angry silence that had come between them since their departure from the enforcement office.
And even when I was the one at fault for goading her into violence...
The Handmaiden looked at her shoes - or at least what she could see of them through the murky sludge. Then with a truly titanic effort she blurted, "Vulpter."
The Mandalorian stopped and turned to cock her head. The Handmaiden mirrored the woman's earlier motion, gesturing to the sewer around them. "I... once infiltrated a mercenary compound via the sewers. On Vulpter."
"Huh. And how did that turn out?"
"I was scrubbing stains out of my robes for weeks."
"You said your robes were made of resistant material?"
The Echani grumbled. "Well... they are now."
"Huh," Tamai repeated. This time, the note of a grudging smile colored her tone.
They set off again and the Handmaiden was glad to have Vasser's gaze move on from her. Though she remembered with perfect clarity the forest green of the eyes that lurked behind the visor, that particular battle helmet and its elegant curves still sent a shiver down her spine.
And with very good reason. What was she playing at, making nice with a Mandalorian? Despite the strides and surprises granted to her since her arrival on this planet, they were still beneath her concern in all things. She'd seen firsthand what they were capable of when pushed to an all-too-reachable extreme. They were barbarians beating their fists against the very many matters they could not understand. Vicious, bloodthirsty, uneducated and uncaring and-
"What did you use?" Tamai asked. Her boots squelched in the muck. "For your new kit, I mean."
The Handmaiden hesitated, then supplied, "It's... from a Corellian company. BolsterLeather. I had it made custom."
"No way! I once ordered a pair of boots from them! Held up a good long while down in the jungle. And that's a hell of a stress test."
The Handmaiden scowled deeper and fell stubbornly silent. Why was she still here? Wading through this filth, trailing after a Mandalorian and chastising herself for causing discomfort? It wasn't as if she stood to gain from this... fraternization. Nothing kept her upon this path beyond the distance she had already walked. She had sworn no oaths, made no vows to see this rogue hunt through to its elusive end. Aid she had promised, and aid she had given. Her part in this tale should be done.
And yet here she remained. There was no easy answer to the question. Even admitting such things drove her mad. But she felt compelled by that same strange determination to press on anyway. To find whatever answers lay at the end of this road, or else to simply keep walking until her legs gave out and she collapsed in the muck.
"May I... ask a question?"
Tamai's tone was one of ultimate surprise. "Um... sure."
The Handmaiden gritted her teeth, but her mind was made up. The Ranger was taking strides. She'd be damned if an Echani did not respond in turn. "How do you manage to live your life so effortlessly while encased in such a restrictive suit?"
"Beskar'gam?" She used the Mando'a parlance, a term translating to Iron Skin. "It's... it's expected of us. You can't be a Mandalorian without wearing the armor. It's part of the Resol'nare."
"Yes, your Six Actions. I recall. But... is it not maddening to touch the world only from behind a barrier of steel?"
Tamai laughed a little. "Well I'm not as zealous as someone like Cin. I take the armor off plenty. Sometimes I swear he likes to sleep in his kit."
"And yet my question remains."
"You get used to it. It's hard to explain. But Mandalorians are given their first suit at age six, provided they're trained for it. From that moment on it's supposed to be a part of your life. Certain pieces may come and go, and sometimes you retrofit the entire thing from scratch and start over again - I've changed plates, hardware, helmets, even paint jobs more times than I can count. But no matter what, it's always there. Always part of who you are."
The Ranger shrugged. Her voice took on a huskier, more contemplative tone. "Without my gam... who knows who I would be?"
Unbidden, the Handmaiden's palm once again cupped the hilt of her quarterstaff. A sudden sense of loss came to her, the echoing weight of history pressing down upon her heart. Like the armor her companion carried, those memories were forged in childhood. As a child, she had known no other path than the one set before her, heeded no desire beyond the duty she'd been expected to fulfill. Felt no greater pride than the knowledge of belonging to something larger and greater than herself.
But now...
Tamai's helmet flared with a mounted light that cut the subterranean gloom. She came to a halt at a junction and glanced first down one passage and then another. Several branching aqueducts led off into the darkness, each no more or less inviting than the last. She consulted her datapad for a moment to cross-reference their position with the coordinates sent by her Field Marshal.
"Damn thing," she muttered and hit the heel of her palm against its side. "Can't get a clear signal this deep. C'mon you piece of osik."
"What is your concern?" The Handmaiden waded closer.
"If I choose the wrong way we could end up miles from where we need to be." A helmet vocoder was not enough to mask the worry in her voice. "And we don't have the time to backtrack if we choose wrong."
She took two steps down one path, then stopped and muttered, "Maybe..." before turning on her heel and heading down the other tunnel. She barely made it further before she stopped, cursed, and returned to her earlier spot.
The Handmaiden watched the woman fuss for a moment, allowing the momentary pause to allow her a momentary pause in return. Perhaps this mystery did not require an answer, or at least not yet. Whether she understood the reasoning or not, she was here, on a mission of great and terrible importance to her unexpected partner. Yes, Vasser was far from even the most inept of Echani younglings. And yet she forged ahead in her task with a genuine earnestness that spoke to no hint of true ineptitude. She had shown the Handmaiden nothing but courtesy and professional regard since they set out together. The Handmaiden had not been so generous.
So much for honor. A very small part of her squirmed on the inside. A part that suggested - no demanded - that amends be made.
She grimaced, shuffled through the murk into place beside the Mandalorian, and gently offered, "May I be of assistance?"
"Do you know how to boost our signal?"
"No. But if I may offer an alternative..." She held out a hand. Tamai stared at the proffered palm, as if weighing the sincerity of the words, then handed the device over.
The Handmaiden glanced at the fuzzy readout as she took a few waterlogged steps deeper into the maze. She consulted for a few moments, observed her surroundings for a few moments more, then closed her eyes and concentrated. The great machine of her mind set to its task. A tremor of tense quiet passed and the tunnel filled with nothing more than the rushing water.
The water...
Her eyes snapped open. She nodded down the tunnel ahead of her - the stream leading to the right. "Our destination lies along this path."
"You got a signal?" Tamai glanced over her shoulder at the pad.
"Not every answer can be found on a viewscreen." The Handmaiden gestured to the slop beneath their feet. "Water - if this can be called such - flows downhill, yes? And this water flows to our rear, toward the septic station entrance. We entered the sewers on the southwestern side of the Keldabe fortress hill, which means this water flows south downhill from the Kelita River Falls."
She pointed to the coordinates on the screen. "According to this data entry, our destination lies to the general north. Meaning we must walk opposite the flow of the water. Hence-" she pointed up the passage, where the water indeed flowed toward them, "-this direction."
Tamai pondered in silence for a few moments, then nodded. "That's... actually pretty brilliant."
"Observation and logical deduction." The Handmaiden held out the datapad. "Something not found within tangled wires and holo-screens."
Tamai tucked the device back into her belt. "I'll keep that in mind." She hesitated and added, "Thanks."
The Handmaiden gently inclined her head. It was subtle as apologies went, but far from inadequate. It would suffice.
They continued on their way. They spoke little, but the angry silence between them had lessened; the Handmaiden could feel the weight ease from her chest like the air quality had finally cleared. She didn't know why it comforted her the way it did and had neither the time nor the interest to ponder it further. She resigned herself to enjoying the sensation while it lasted.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath of muggy, stench-foul sewer. It churned her stomach, but she refused to allow it to further grasp her senses. Calm seeped through her soul like an ice flow in spring, like the first breath after a snowfall. She had accused the Mandalorian of being too soft in this hunt, but the Handmaiden was beginning to realize that she too was far from the norm in this matter. From the start she had proved herself stubborn, emotional, and far too easily influenced by the world around her. Her harmonies were out of balance.
It was unacceptable. It was embarrassing. And from this point forth it would be different.
Her eyes opened again and she followed her unlikely companion with a newfound confidence in her step. She wasn't sure how long it would take them to reach their destination. It was a long slog of twists, turns, and deceptive double-back passages. The streets of Keldabe were a mad nightmare of new hodge-podge constructions built upon the tangled remnants of the ancient. That chaos did not end at ground level. They passed several signs of life - and more than the ever-present squalor and squeaking of the native ki-hut'uun rats that called this awful place home. There were graffiti-strewn walls, maintenance rooms with impressive security systems, and shoddy encampments of hard-looking homeless beings taking refuge in roadway undercrofts.
These last usually gave the two a wide berth - rare indeed was it to have visitors in their kingdom. But rather than be threatened by the intrusion they seemed content to shrink back to the shadows and let them pass in peace. Nothing but trouble could come from impeding their progress. Still, the Handmaiden did not appreciate the sudden influx of eyes upon her - not when she still felt the shiver of suspicion rise up her spine with every fresh glance over her shoulder.
"You still sense something off?" Tamai eventually asked.
"Yes."
"What do you suggest we do about it?"
"For the moment," the Echani growled, "I do not believe there is anything we can do. But I grow more certain with each passing moment that there are decidedly unfriendly eyes upon us."
"Is this smart, then?" Tamai came to a halt. "Tracking down Null when we're being tracked in return?"
"Perhaps not. But what other choice do we have?"
Tamai mulled over her words, but the Handmaiden could sense the unease in the set of the woman's shoulders. The Echani hazarded another glance behind them, then stepped closer and lowered her voice. Tamai tensed up as if sensing the presence of sudden secrets.
"When the time comes," the Handmaiden murmured, "leave this phantom to me. Your focus must rest upon Null and the information he can provide."
"But-"
"Without fresh leads to follow," she pressed, "our hunt is at an end. Your mission will be a failure. Great harm will befall your people."
"I know, but-"
The Handmaiden did her best to hold the helmeted woman's gaze. Despite the churning in her stomach, she looked into the depths of that bottomless black T-visor. In it she saw the fires of countless atrocities past and countless more still on the horizon. And yet despite the righteous unease that swelled like nausea in her gut, she still felt no small amount of compassion as well. This was no faceless mercenary chasing a paycheck through rivers of blood. This was a young woman slogging through literal rivers of filth for no great glory or acclaim, but rather because she feared for the safety of her people. The Handmaiden could not respect the self-proclaimed honor of a Mandalorian. But she could respect that.
"I have given you little reason to trust me." Her stance did not waver. "But I implore you to rely on me for this much, at least."
The woman behind the faceplate held her eyes - she could feel it in the way her skin crawled when caught in that masked stare. There was suspicion in that stare, and disbelief. But the Handmaiden meant every word she said. Why, she could not say for certain, but her words were as true as words could be.
Tamai nodded with a low sigh.
"All right," she said. "What's the plan?"
"Continue to make progress toward our contact. I will lure out our pursuer. When the time comes, do not concern yourself with my well-being. Find Null, and I will rejoin you when the time is right."
"Rejoin me? What do you mean?"
The Handmaiden unslung her quarterstaff and moved for a side passage. "Keep to your path," she called. "I will not be far behind."
"Wait," Tamai insisted, "we really should stick together-"
The Echani threw her a hesitant but genuine smile - the first Tamai had ever seen from her.
"Keep to your path," she repeated. "I have faith in you. Returcye mhi."
Then she turned and was gone.
Damn that woman. Damn her to all seven Sith hells. And all nine of the Corellian ones while they were at it.
Tamai fought her way through the labyrinth with little more than her fuzzy datapad and headlamp to guide her. She'd been on her fair share of slogs in the past, in both urban and jungle territories. This wouldn't qualify as anything more than an afternoon stroll for her on most days.
Then why was her damn heart hammering in her throat? Why were her hands sweating within the constricted confines of her suit?
No maneuverability, her instincts screamed. Too enclosed. Sitting duck for an ambush. Could come from behind, from the side... there'll be nowhere to go. Nothing to do except...
Tamai Vasser was a Mandalorian Ranger. There wasn't a beast or bandit on this planet that could strike fear in her heart. No threat of death or harm could stay her feet. She had endured torment before and would do so again. No, what set her nerves alight here was something far closer to her heart than simple self-preservation. Something that she lay awake dreading at night, something that struck fear into every Mandalorian in the galaxy - man or woman, young or old.
Failure.
Thinking of it sent a twist down her spine, so she shoved such rumination far from her working mind. The nervous trembles could come later. For now, she had to focus. Anything less would only make a terrible fear an even more terrible reality.
Her hand never drifted far from her sidearm as she slogged her way deeper and deeper. The soundscape around her, even separated as it was by a protective layer of beskar, seemed like something out of a low-budget horror flick. Dripping water, rattling chains, chittering tunnel creatures. Something rumbled deeper inside the tunnel, big and low and large enough for Tamai's brain to scream, dianoga! before she managed to shove that thought aside as well.
Kriff, girl, she thought as her breath fogged her helmet readout. It sizzled away a second later. It's not like one of those things is going to jump you in what, shin-deep water?
But dianoga could attack and kill in shallower depths than this, she knew. Didn't someone get pulled out to sea last year after a flash flood of only a few inches? In fact -
She gritted her teeth. Even if a damn dianoga reared its ugly eyeball, she'd just blast it and keep going. No point knocking knees about something she couldn't control.
Her boot hit a rough patch of what she hoped was mud with an audible splat!
Null. He was the priority. Everything else - even her own well-being - was insignificant in comparison. Her uncle had entrusted her with this assignment and she wasn't about to let her private inner fears brand her as the very public family disappointment. She was of Clan Shysa, a daughter of a long line of Mandalore's best - even if today no one knew or remembered their names.
The path shifted into an uphill climb with no clear footholds. She took a deep breath and looked up at the incline. It was steep and slippery. Undeterred, she dug her boots into the mud and began to climb. Her muscles burned with the effort, but she forced herself to focus on the task at hand. As she climbed, she could feel her heartbeat thumping in her chest, matching the rhythm of her labored breathing.
Her heart sank when she reached the top to discover that it wasn't just a tunnel; the incline ended in a low ceiling, with a single circular pipe leading up into darkness. It vomited water into the passage below, down the incline and into the passage she had taken to get here. The walls and floor lay beneath a carpet of thick green moss that glistened in the dim light of her helmet lamp.
She gritted her teeth and muttered, "Kriff." The vertical water dump was the only clear way forward. The only other option was to turn back and find another path. It was wide enough to fit a person. Maybe...
She scowled and half-crawled beneath the ceiling until she could stand in the vertical passage and look up. It was like stepping into a shower, but less of the warm and steamy comfort of home and more of the disgusting sludge of the underworld. Her headlamp couldn't cut through the gloom or the downpour that accompanied it. No ladder, no lift, no handholds. On a normal day she'd just blast her way up on her jetpack, but said pack was currently sitting on Vhetin's kitchen table half-disassembled - it had needed maintenance. Until this morning Tamai's schedule only involved target practice.
That meant the only way was the old-fashioned way.
Stupid, she thought. Still, she wedged her back against the wall behind her, then planted a boot against the wall ahead. It was slick as footholds went, but if she jammed her toes in just right...
A heavy hoist and her other boot slammed into place, wedging her into the tight tunnel. She grimaced at the awkward positioning and the way it jammed her backplate against her lower spine. Then with a scrape of her backplate against brick, she began her ascent.
Stupid, stupid. She took a step, rising only slightly. Cin wouldn't be caught flat-footed like this. Another step. He has a plan for everything. Not like me. Not like-
"Shit!"
Her boots slipped in the slick and she fell. Her armor crashed when she hit the bottom, a loud and echoing clamor that rang back to her like mocking mechanical laughter. Brown-black water gushed up and over her body as she lay still for a moment, her hollow breath rattling in her ears. She pushed off from the ground with one arm while the other tried to find purchase on some surface to pull her up. All she managed was an awkward grab at nothing before flopping onto her back with a pained groan.
Damn it. Stupid, stupid!
For all her indignant rage, the problem remained. The water poured down around her, a dark brown storm that clouded her vision through her visor. The smell of rot and decay filled her nostrils despite her suit's environmental seals. She coughed and sputtered and rolled onto her side.
"On your feet," she ordered herself. The command emerged more like a pained whisper. Her arms trembled. "Come on. Up."
I shouldn't be here.
She ignored the tiny, whimpering voice and again demanded, "Get up!"
Her fingers curled against the soggy stone beneath her.
I can't do this.
"Get up! Bat gar cet'are! Vaabir bic jii!"
You're going to let them all down. Again.
With a groan, she rose back to her feet and began her ascent again. This time she planted her thick boots firmly against the edge of the incline and the start of the tunnel wall. Her hands rested on the pipe on either side; a stretch to be sure, but it was a small comfort and an even smaller stabilizer. With a grunt she hauled herself back up into the pipe.
Try and try again.
Her climb was slower this time, every motion carefully measured. Up and up she went. A quarter of the way. Almost halfway. Over halfway. The water that fell around her hit hot and slimy against her plates and she grimaced to feel it drench her flight suit. She'd need several hot showers to wash this level of filth from her body, not to mention her kit.
No. Plenty of time to think about that later. Now she needed to focus on putting one boot atop the other and slithering her way up this tunnel before-
Her grip faltered. Her boot slipped, then came free of its perch. She fell with a scrape of beskar on stone.
"No!" She twisted in a frantic mid-air dance. Instinct kicked in and she threw out an arm. A second later her gauntlet whipcord fired with a puff of air and hissed up into the dark. The line went taught with a crack, the fired dart made contact with old stone, and her fall halted. The tunnel walls slammed against her back, the rebound crashed into her hip. In the dizzying span of a moment, she suddenly hung by the wrist like a fresh-strung piece of bait.
The water continued to fall. Her world was empty save her own strained breath and her racing heart.
"Kriff!" She gasped, then cursed again. She looked up, half-expecting the whipcord to dislodge at any moment. But it didn't. It held, and she held with it.
"Okay..." she panted. Her MedHUD blared a silent warning that her heart rate and cortisol levels were far above norm. She dismissed it and licked her dry lips, then looked up again. "Okay..."
A titanic heave brought her other arm up enough to grasp the whipcord line. A marginal improvement - now she could at least hang without worrying about dislocating her shoulder. She looked up into the cascade, but couldn't see any end to the passage above. Still, the whipcord wasn't a bottomless resource. It had to have hit something within range.
"Come on," she hissed between gritted teeth. "Come on!"
And so her climb began again. Hand over fist she dragged herself up the channel. Each jarring ascent tore a groan of effort from her throat. And yet her earlier reservations were gone. This was no test of fortitude within the confines of her mind. This was a test of muscle and bone, and such tests were as familiar to Mandalorians as the sunrise and sunset. She didn't know if she was tough enough to see this mission through to the end, but she damn well knew she was at least tough enough to climb a kriffing rope.
Up and up she climbed, planting her feet against the walls where possible to give her a boost. The whipcord wobbled in her hands, but she ignored it. All that mattered was her ascent - putting one fist over the other and tugging herself up another meter. She muttered with every yank up the rope, a fresh curse or word of encouragement.
Then, in a breathless moment of discovery, the end was in sight: the lip of the pipe above her head, promising solid ground on the level above. She redoubled her efforts and yanked herself the final few feet before twisting to catch hold of the ledge. One last hoist brought her up and out of the drain and onto flat stone once more. She collapsed onto her back as soon as she was able. The whipcord, sensing its deed was done, detached and spooled back into her gauntlet with a whine.
I did it... she thought with a happy but exhausted smile. I did it!
When she opened her eyes again, she was staring down the barrel of a blaster rifle.
All sense of exhaustion evaporated from her mind and body like a spray of water in the deep desert. Under normal circumstances she would have immediately scrambled to her feet and into the fight. No use here - the gunman had her dead to rights. All she could do was inch her hands into the air.
The gunman stooped low into her helmet light, to reveal that he wasn't a man at all. Sure, he was built vaguely humanoid, but instead of a human head what stared down at her was a bulging, glandular face with chitinous orange-brown skin. An ovular respirator seemed implanted into the center of its face, and large compound eyes were sealed over behind silvery atmosphere shields. The creature had draped itself in filthy, ragged robes with three-fingered gloves.
It chittered at her in an insectoid language she couldn't begin to comprehend. Then a synthesized voice rattled out in Basic:
"Who the fuck're you?"
Kelborn strode to the edge of the drainage ditch and peered inside. The putrid backblast of the city underworld was palpable even from this distance, enough to force her to pull a face behind her mask. But sure enough, the grated entrance into the sewers had been burned away with enough room for someone - or a pair of someones - to slip through. Shoddy work, but not from any lack of pride on the part of the culprit. It looked like they'd been in a hurry.
She scowled and rounded on the two fellow Kelborns flanking her. Each bore their clan armor with pride: crimson red and grey, in the style of the deep wilderness scout of old who had granted the clan its name. Torval, her second-in-command for this operation, looked ever the soldier. A heavy pauldron protected his right shoulder and neck, and a bandolier of cylindrical blasting grenades was slung across his broad chest. A dark half-cloak was flung over his shoulder, a symbol of his high status within the clan. Faente's armor was more stylish, her belt adorned with a set of hanging pturges in an ancient style that predated modern kamas. She was an old soul, and a poet at that.
On the frontier the pair would have stood out among the rag-tag settlers who would be lucky to have a single plate of traditional beskar let alone a full suit. Here in the heart of the capitol, they were no more than three more Mandalorians among hundreds.
Kelborn's path led her away from the ditch, back into the city. They were in the southwest quadrant, an area of Keldabe that had been left to the rats over the past decades, leading to greater dilapidation than usual. The streets buckled under a veritable sea of trash and debris, and a nearby building had collapsed upon itself into a twisted ruin of forgotten former glory. Despite the dismal surroundings, the trio moved with purpose.
Her companions seemed confused by the change of pace. Faente glanced over her shoulder at the singed sewer grate and ventured, "Clanmaster... are we not going to follow them?"
"They may have a head start," Torval added, "but the tracker is still operational. We could corner them in the tunnels and-"
"I have no quarrel with Shysa's lapdogs," Kelborn interrupted. "And I didn't plant the tracking chit only to gun them down without cause in some underground ambush. ZZ will handle them soon enough."
"Then why-"
She brought the trio to a halt at a holo-terminal - old and damaged, but still functional if only barely. The blue-white map shivered to life before them and Kelborn manipulated the three-dimensional readout with a pair of fingers. A quick tap popped a beacon of their current location.
"The real question isn't where they're going," she said, "but why. It's a strange fallback plan, don't you think? Investigate the suspects of the assault, and when that fails disappear into the undercity?"
She traced her finger up, along the path the tracker had marked - distorted as it was by the distance and the sewer stones. It led north, toward the Kelita River falls, as straight and determined as a bolt loosed from a sling - or at least as much as could be managed within the maze of the underground.
"They're looking for someone," she muttered. "Someone they know has information. That is what we need."
"A few more hours with the suspects at the enforcement office-"
"The suspects are useless." Kelborn dismissed the notion. "Torq Vindo and Talazar Cren are cretins who operated alone. Even if their clan wasn't trying to protect them, those idiots locked up by city law enforcement have nothing of consequence for us. But here..."
The path of the two in the sewers continued its projected trek to the north. Their progress was slow, but the destination was clear to Kelborn even if it wasn't to the two wanderers: a subterranean rotunda in the industrial sector. According to the map, it was a purification center for polluted river water - an old and half-abandoned construct like most in that part of town. The perfect place for someone to hide - provided no one was actively looking for them.
"Come," she ordered and stepped away from the map. "We have our target."
Torval and Faente fell into place at her side. She paused for a moment and scanned both faces. Faente wore a frown, which she tried to mask with an encouraging nod. Her eyes were tired; she hadn't been sleeping well since an argument with her husband several days prior. Torval stared ahead, his expression grim even from behind the faceplate of his helmet. He held his left arm close against his chest, and every so often would pause and hazard a glance at his gauntlet readout - checking and re-checking for updates from ZZ.
They were good people, two of her best, and she was glad to have them at her side. They would be solid backup for what was to come, but she could tell that this task - hunting a fellow Mandalorian like so many aruetii targets in the past - weighed heavy upon them. Like her, they knew how dangerous their present situation was and, like her, knew the cost of failure. More than honor, more than duty, that ever-present fear of failure drove them forward. It was a fear their leader shared.
They couldn't fail. Not here and now, so close to when everything was about to change. This was about more than Ranger Vasser. It was about more than the two rogues they hunted in parallel. Hell, it was about more than Isabet Reau and her clandestine crusades. It was about the future. The future for the Kelborns, for Keldabe, for all Mandalorians. That was a beastly burden to carry, even for warriors of their caliber. Kelborn, ever the reluctant savior, would not let them carry it alone.
"Do you trust me?" she asked. Her masked gaze turned from one to the other.
"Of course," came Faente's immediate reply.
"Bal'ban," Torval added.
"Good." She nodded and they set off into the city together. The sun was setting over the rooftops and Kelborn's instincts told her this wasn't a place she'd want to be when night fell. "I'll need you two on top of your game when we get there. No one else is coming to back us up. I'm trusting you as well."
"Of course, Clanmaster."
Kelborn shot Faente a glare, and the woman's cheeks colored. She muttered a hasty apology and corrected, "I meant, Sola."
"I know there's nothing I can say or do to set your worries at ease," Sola said as they walked. "And I know you have worries because I have them too. If this mission goes sour, we'll burn together with my boots right next to yours. But so long as we can stay one step ahead of the Mand'alor's lackeys, we have a chance to be in and out of this cesspool of a city before anyone is any the wiser."
"But..." Torval looked ready to bite back the reply. A glance from his leader was all it took to convince him otherwise and speak his mind - his Clanmaster demanded little of her subordinates, but open honesty was non-negotiable. "Sola, we're out of our depth here. This isn't our city. And as you say, we have no backup and no intel beyond what we manage to steal from these interlopers."
"We've faced worse hunts in the past," Sola pointed out. "But I understand your point. We're in a precarious position, and we can't rely on local support like our competitors can."
"What makes this intel so important?" Faente asked. "Why does Reau want basilisks when we have more than enough troops to-"
A trio of battered-looking stormtroopers marched past, forcing the Mandalorians to drift into a shadowed alley lest their conversation be overheard. Kelborn glared at the soldiers as they moved on, hand resting less than casually on the butt of her sidearm. When the Imperials passed onto another side street, she turned back to her friend.
"Ours is not the place to wonder why," she quoted the old proverb with ease, though it did little to soothe any of their nerves. "Isabet has plans within plans within plans. Our job is to make sure we don't kriff those plans up and put the Reau-Viszla Coalition in jeopardy."
"But-"
Kelborn held up a hand. "I don't have an answer for you. But you have my word that when I do, that information will pass to you. I ask again: do you trust me?"
The woman chewed over the distasteful answer but nodded nonetheless.
"At the very least," Torval grunted, "I don't trust basilisks in the hands of Shysa alone. I'd feel better if the playing field was even among the clans."
Faente nodded again. "But... can we trust Reau to honor her word? She's made a lot of promises to the family."
"Of course not." Sola gestured them into motion again. "Isabet Reau spins lies with every second breath. The trick comes when you learn to parse empty promises from statements of fact. She claims we all will share in the riches of Shysa's downfall, I say that's so much flowery language. But she says the Kelborns will return to glory and I see that as a promise she can't help but keep."
Her eyes narrowed behind her mask. "And the first step is claiming those secret plans for ourselves."
"You mean for the Coalition?"
Kelborn's silence spoke volumes.
All things considered, Tamai should've been glad her hands weren't bound. That said, being led at blasterpoint through the undercity wasn't her idea of a fun afternoon. Her sudden captor wasn't physically imposing in the slightest, as the bug-man barely stood high enough to brush her shoulder and he stank like a Hutt who'd barely emerged from a three-week bender. Still, the rifle clasped in his tri-clawed hands wasn't for show; despite his ragged appearance, it was maintained with the careful attention of an expert. He was a being who knew what he was doing.
So he wasn't some random undercroft hobo. But he couldn't be Null either; she'd asked when they first set off and he'd replied with a staccato chitter that his onboard translator de-garbled into a growl of, "Shut the hell up."
So much for that line of questioning.
Where the hell was the Handmaiden? The woman had claimed to be watching, and yet this strange being had gotten the jump on Tamai without so much as a glimpse of white robes in the background. That left one of two realities waiting: either the Echani had abandoned her, or she had seen the situation unfold and deemed it not a threat.
For the moment, Tamai would rather assume the latter. So instead of fighting she cleared her throat and said, "I've never met a Gand before. Are you in Keldabe on business?"
"I'm always on business, sister," he hissed. His translator took a few seconds to process and regurgitate his words, giving him a strange oblong pause after every sentence. "And last I checked, I didn't tell you to talk."
"You haven't shot me yet," she ventured. "So I figure you aren't going to rob me or dump my body in a ditch."
He let out a warbling grunt. "Jury's still out."
"Look," she said, "if I'm treading on your turf, I'm sorry. But I'm on a mission from-"
His gun jabbed into the small of her back, into the sweet spot beneath her back plate. She grimaced and fell silent. Heard and understood: this guy didn't care. Still, she couldn't just trudge along like a good little captive. If she was here, might as well make something of it. She squirmed, the blaster barrel still poking against her spine.
"It makes sense that Null would use Gand to do his scouting," she said. "Are you a Findsman?"
He didn't say anything.
"My unit with the Rangers once did business with a group of Findsmen. Before my time of course, but-"
"You speak with the quickness and tremor of a young raptor." The being's voice changed. Gone was the gravelly and confrontational rasp of before, replaced now by a slower, more serene tone. The chittering remained the same, but its inflection couldn't be missed. "One who knows the scope of her reach, but not how to use it."
"Um..."
"You would do well to judge the weight of your words before passing them on without purpose," he continued in that slow and glassy tone. "Lest they betray you in the end."
He then jabbed her in the back again, sending her staggering forward a few steps. When he spoke next, his voice was back to his earlier rasp. "In other words, shut up and keep walking, sister. I'll share what I want to share when I want to share it. You'll be lucky to get even that."
If this guy is actually Null, she thought with a glare, it's no wonder he and Uncle Tobbi get along so well.
She heeded his words and fell silent for the rest of the trip. Their path seemed as random as her own stumbling sojourn through the tunnels. Lefts, rights, double-backs, several one after the other. Part of Tamai couldn't believe the Gand knew where he was going, but her more cunning side quickly realized the meandering path was for her benefit. To make her lose her trail, unable to find her way back in case of an escape.
No. Not her benefit. Somehow he knew about the Handmaiden, and the path was to confirm the Echani was following. He admitted as much when he glanced over his shoulder, registered some unseen clue, and muttered, "Good. The white-hair is still on our trail. Would hate to lose her too."
"You know?"
"You didn't?"
"No, I..." Tamai hesitated. "I mean, she doesn't exactly announce her presence. I'm just surprised you caught on."
"I haven't got as far as I have by being the kind of rock-headed barve who's too proud to check his six. Your Echani friend is good, though. I'll give her that."
Tamai glanced over her shoulder. "Who are you?"
"Keep moving." Another jab in the back. "You'll get your answers soon enough."
Soon enough turned out to be around five minutes of silent walking. After a time, they turned a corner into a sprawling expanse. The walls swooped out into the darkness, and the ceiling vanished over their heads. The ever-rushing water around their feet built from a gentle current to an echoing roar: an underground reservoir.
"Stay here," her captor grunted. He nudged past her and stepped ahead a few paces. A short-barreled pistol appeared from his hip and he raised it over his head. With the pull of a trigger, he sent a flare arching up into the dark, illuminating their surroundings. They were in some kind of domed structure, still underground, where all the sewer tunnels converged. The air hung thick with the stench of sewage and decay. At the center of the placid reservoir sat a boxy collection of shipping containers that seemed to have been jury-rigged into some kind of shelter. Tamai couldn't imagine how anyone could bear to live in such a place, but people seemed to eke out a living however they could in this galaxy.
The Gand waited for a signal. He must have got it, because he holstered the pistol, shouldered his blaster, and grabbed Tamai's arm. "C'mon. Watch your footing, Mando. It's a long sink to the bottom."
A long sink indeed. Tamai peered over the edge of the walkway and into the murky water below, black-green and sinister. She didn't even want to guess how deep the reservoir went. Thankfully a partially-submerged maintenance catwalk had been lowered into place between the rotunda edge and the shelter at the center. No handrails, of course.
"Now are you going to tell me who you are?" She glanced at the insectoid as they crossed the catwalk into the shadow of the rag-tag shelter. "Even just a name would be nice."
The shipping containers had been lashed together with lengths of whipcord and support nets, but the shabby exterior hid a technological marvel within. The cramped walls were filled with row upon row of databanks and computer terminals. She also saw equipment lockers, maintenance hubs, and a weapons workbench so heartily stocked with tools that it would've made her jealous if she didn't still have a gun almost jammed up her ass. The air hung thick with the scent of machine oil and ozone, powerful enough to battle the stink of the sewers.
This wasn't just a safehouse. It was a hidden fortress - and a well-equipped one at that.
The Gand seemed to debate for a few moments, and if he had teeth behind that implanted respirator, she was sure he would be grinding them. Then he chittered at her in his gnashing, insectoid voice. His onboard translator took a moment, then rattled out a response.
"The name is Zuckuss. I'll leave the rest of the explanation to my partner. He's the people person."
Zuckuss. Not a name that rang any particular alarms. That was a slight comfort. "And your partner is Null, right?"
"In a manner of speaking, Mistress Vasser."
The Gand was about to speak when another voice cut in. Unlike Zuckuss, this new voice was smooth and cultured - though still filtered through a speech unit rather than a spoken sound in its own right. Tamai turned in the direction of the new speaker to find a droid: dark and ragged as his partner, with a similar bulbous headset and large compound photoreceptors. It hunched over a data readout, typing with a quickness and grace that belied the usual stiff-jointed shamble of a protocol droid of its model. Then it turned and regarded her with a polite tilt of its head.
"A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Mistress Vasser," it said. "Allow me to make proper introductions: I am designate 4-LOM, and this is my partner, Zuckuss." It linked its arms behind its back. "Together, we serve as the entity known as the operator designate Null."
Tamai glanced between the two: the battered protocol droid and his surly alien partner, who was currently settling himself into a seat of sewage-stained cushions with a groan. Zuckuss unhooked a tube from his mask and plugged it into a tank next to the cushions. His whole body seemed to relax as soon as the flow hit his system - if Tamai's schooling and sense of smell were both accurate, the tank was an ammonia respirator.
"I don't understand," she said, glancing back at the droid. "I thought Null was an information broker."
"He is. Or rather, we are." 4-LOM gestured for her to step closer, an offer she reluctantly accepted. It gestured to the databank readout it had been studying when she arrived: a collection of technical and informational reports of a wild variety. Everything from news feeds to tech schematics to HoloNet blog posts. Similar windows were mirrored on half a hundred other screens mounted about the sanctum. 4-LOM seemed able to process all simultaneously.
"My companion and I once plied our trade as intergalactic bounty hunters," 4-LOM explained. "But an unfortunate misunderstanding between ourselves and the Hutts demanded we take an... extended leave of absence. However, even outside the Hunters' Guild, our respective talents had their uses. Your uncle saw that quicker than most."
"My uncle?" Tamai frowned at the droid. "You mean you work for Uncle Fenn?"
"Among others. Though it was your Mand'alor who suggested we shelter from Hutt scrutiny on your charming homeworld."
"His offered lodgings leave quite a bit to be desired." Zuckuss' voice was muffled behind his respirator intake, yet the grumble in his tone was plain enough. "But he pays better rates than the Guild ever gave us."
"Indeed. And between my specialty in computational analysis and my partner's more mystical traditions, we have no shortage of contented clients. Null is a prosperous businessman - and a busy one." 4-LOM shuffled over to another readout, which was in the process of downloading a data packet to a chip. Its fingers flashed with surprising dexterity across the input panel.
"So where do I come in?" Tamai asked. "According to Tobbi Dala, you have information to share?"
"We do," 4-LOM said with a short nod. "Though your Field Marshall seemed loathe to accept it, despite our more than fair terms."
"He mentioned you weren't charging your usual fee."
"The Mandalorians have been good to us," the protocol droid confirmed. "That demands some small form of recompense. And the rogues you seek threaten our place in the status quo as well."
"In other words, we have a vested interest in finding them too," Zuckuss added from his cushions. He let out a muffled cough that sent a greenish puff of gas out from beneath his respirator. "Our interests align."
Tamai folded her arms with a frown. This all seemed far too good to be true, especially considering the considerable pitfalls they'd faced so far. "Say I believe you. What's the catch?"
"Perceptive." 4-LOM's voice carried a smile, if that was even possible for a droid. "There is indeed a catch. What do you know of Gand Findsmen?"
Zuckuss coughed again.
"Not much." Tamai glanced between the two former bounty hunters. "I know they're rare. They specialize in tracking down high-priority targets, even when leads have gone cold."
"Do you know how they accomplish this?"
She shook her head. 4-LOM gestured to its Gand companion, who sucked down another lungful of gas with a slow rasp. He cleared his throat and when he spoke his voice had once again shifted into the calm and serene speech from before.
"It is the Findsman's way to see the truth," he intoned. There was a rhythmic lilt to the way he said it, as if reciting an old refrain. "To find the signs that hide amongst the ordinary. The Many Mists speak to Zuckuss. Show Zuckuss things others cannot see. In this manner, Zuckuss is a master. You shall be the acolyte of Zuckuss' sight."
Almost sounds like the Handmaiden. Just... creepier.
4-LOM was still busy with the readout, but explained, "My companion's mind is beset by many branching paths as labyrinthine as the sewer passages that brought you to us. But his abilities speak for themselves."
"Abilities?"
"Zuckuss breathes deep the Many Mists," the Gand recited. "And in return, they show Zuckuss many things. People. Places. Things others wish to find."
Tamai watched the insectoid alien as he basked in his gaseous haze. She hesitated, then knelt in front of him with a curious tilt of her head.
"Are you saying... you can track the people I'm looking for?"
The Gand held her gaze from behind his shielded eyes. His breath wheezed out from within his respirator mask. "Zuckuss already has."
4-LOM's readout chimed and the droid removed a datachip from the console. It turned and held out the shard for her to take. "Upon this chip you will find the likely location coordinates of your targets: Torq Vindo and Talazar Cren. Take it as a gift, from one hunter to another."
Tamai straightened and looked at the chip, lying so tantalizingly close within the protocol droid's flat palm. "You said there was a catch."
"Gand can track targets through their rituals with an accuracy rating of ninety-one point three-three-seven-two-five percent. This is significant, but there is a not inconsiderable margin of error." 4-LOM's hand didn't move, still proferring the data chip. "The coordinates we offer may lead to your quarry. They may not."
"Why didn't Dala take the data?" Tamai still hesitated.
"Your Field Marshall is a practical man. With information as vital as what you seek, he was less than enthused to trust the future of your people to ritual and mysticism."
She stared into the droid's unblinking compound photoreceptors. "And what do you get from helping me? Why would you risk getting involved in such a mess?"
The droid didn't move. "I am but a tool. And tools must be used or discarded upon the whims of their wielder."
"It all seems too convenient. How do I know you won't betray me?"
"Convenience is our stock and trade," 4-LOM explained easily.
Zuckuss fidgeted on his cushions. When he spoke his voice was far away. "When one comes to a branch in the path, one must decide which path to take. Standing still will only allow the wolves that much closer."
Tamai gritted her teeth. She couldn't put her finger on why, but she could almost feel the Handmaiden's eyes on her from afar. Watching, weighing, and judging all at once. "I don't know... if we get off track..."
"If you are led astray," Zuckuss wheezed, "you will fail."
"And if you cannot find a significant lead," 4-LOM added, "you will also fail."
Tamai glanced between the former bounty hunters. The droid's stare was as cold as iron, holding hers with the patience of a machine. Zuckuss basked in his visions, his mind far from this subterranean hideaway. The choice lay before her and her alone: could she trust the success of her mission to this droid and his gas-addled partner? So much was riding on her success. If she fumbled now...
"Fine," she said. She took the chip from 4-LOM's hand and slid it into a pouch on her belt. "I'll take my chances."
"A wise choice." There was something in the droid's voice that sounded almost amused. "And now, if you'll excuse me, we must prepare for battle."
Tamai frowned. "Battle?"
"There are several life forms approaching from above," the droid said matter-of-factly. "They were likely informed of our location by the tracker affixed to your Echani companion. Estimated time to arrival: less than two minutes."
"Don't be ridiculous," she scoffed. "She wouldn't bring something like that here. She would know."
"Of course." 4-LOM pulled up another readout, this one displaying a security cam feed. On the feed, the Handmaiden crouched within the shadows of a drainage tube and watched the proceedings below with eyes that glimmered like stars in the night. "A warrior of her caliber would not be fooled in such a manner. For instance, running a simple charge through this fragile tracking chit - which, of course, is not there - would certainly not..."
On the cam, the Handmaiden suddenly flinched as a small pop of sparks flew from the side of her hood. She rubbed at the affected spot and pulled something small from the fabric there. 4-LOM enhanced the feed to show her findings: a splintered collection of metallic fragments and microchip wires that could only be the remnants of a tracking device. Even from the other side of a video screen, Tamai could almost feel the Handmaiden's icy fury. She'd been fooled - they both had.
"A simple piece of debris, perhaps?" The droid's tone was smug as it glanced in her direction.
"Kelborn," Tamai muttered. "She must have planted it when we were at the enforcement office."
"The chip did bear Clan Kelborn encryption protocols," 4-LOM said. "Rudimentary but strong. It would be safe to assume the life forms approaching our sanctum are also of Clan Kelborn. Estimated time to arrival: less than one minute."
On the screen, the Handmaiden quickly deduced that eyes were watching her. She vanished in a blur of white. Zuckuss, meanwhile, unhooked himself from the ammonia respirator and clambered back to his feet. He scooped his rifle into his tri-digit hands and racked back the charging rod with a hefty clack-clack.
"I think it's about time you two were on your way," he chattered at them. "Unless you fancy staying to fight. You Mandos have rules about that, right?"
"I don't-"
"The Supercommando Codex," 4-LOM said lightly. "A restrictive dogmatic text forbidding Mandalorians from engaging in lethal combat against one another. Followed as closely as most dogmatic texts are these days, of course."
"No rules in combat as far as I'm concerned." Zuckuss shook his head. "Anyone saying otherwise is a fool."
"My sentiments exactly." 4-LOM tapped a series of commands into its data readout and a second later a trio of heavy blaster cannons unfolded from various mounts scattered throughout the sanctuary. All three rotated up to the rotunda ceiling far above. Tamai tensed and felt the sudden swell of tension in the air like the rising tide of the sea. She knew this feeling well, as sure and reliable as the rising sun: a fight was brewing.
The droid took a moment to calculate, then added, "Estimated time to arrival: twenty seconds."
Zuckuss glanced at Tamai. "You should go."
"What? You want me to run?"
"Want and need are two very different things." The Gand's fingers flexed over his rifle grip. "Zuckuss would like nothing more than to have a Mandalorian stay and do battle with these Kelborns. But your mission takes priority."
"A wise choice." 4-LOM seemed able to eavesdrop no matter where it stood. "Our business is concluded. What happens next is not part of your mandate, Mandalorian. Seven seconds."
"But they're coming for you because of me!" Tamai demanded. "I can't run away from that."
"Five... four..."
"Nobility is often the trademark feature of the brave and the dead."
Tamai faltered. A second later the decision was made for her.
"Three... two... Alert: Incoming."
The ceiling exploded.