Happy Valentine's to you too, LordAries! I'm so grateful for your support.
Enjoy!
Chapter 11: Comrades
Korkie whipped his gaze backwards as two Imperial pursuers, repaired from his hurried acts of sabotage, lurched from hyperspace behind them.
"That's not ideal."
Pok grimaced.
"Look. At least we've made it to Ryloth's air space. Our position's defendable now."
The stolen freighter rattled as blaster fire sailed their way. Pok punched in an override code for their overheating shields and wrenched the ship hard to the left.
"We've got back up coming, yeah?" Korkie asked.
"On their way up from the second moon," Pok grunted. "Not too far away."
His face darkened as movement outside the ship caught his eye.
"What the kriff are they-"
Their two Imperial pursuers had dropped back as a third ship, sleeker and smaller than those parked in the shipyards of Yaga Minor, appeared from hyperspace and drew in close. Korkie found his 'sabers at his belt.
"That new one wants to board."
Pok slammed the heels of his hands into the dashboard in frustration, then quietened with a disciplined breath.
"Alright. Kriff it. Better than them shooting us out of the sky. You take the controls, I'll fight."
Korkie shook his head.
"No. It's okay. I can fight. Back me up as you're able to."
He strode from the cockpit back into the hold and leaned cavalierly against the closure button for the emergency blockade doors.
"I've got a good record against stormtroopers," Korkie informed his companion, calling out over his shoulder. "Officers too. It's just those stupid Inquisit-"
His voice strangled in his throat. The thick doors were pierced by four beams of neon light and an opening slashed between them.
When Korkie found his voice it was hoarse and hushed. It was no use calling for Pok. He spoke only to himself, to fortify himself, to prove to himself that he was not dreaming.
Not stormtroopers. Not officers. Not even an Inquisitor.
"That," Korkie breathed, "Is General kriffing Grievous."
It was something akin to a lifeday gift: to board a ship with the intention of snuffing out a troublesome band of Twi'lek guerrillas and to instead come face to face with a teenager wielding two 'sabers. The idiotic selflessness could only be Jedi. Grievous had unearthed a prize for which he would finally be rewarded.
He lifted a hand to still the officers behind him.
"Lower your blasters. We will take him alive to the Emperor."
There was something strange in the boy's stance; he held the blue-bladed lightsaber elegantly, intuitively, but the second 'saber seemed to hang heavily off his frame. Grievous had never seen a weapon like it. The blade was made from an impossible darkness, the likeness of which Grievous had only ever seen in a total solar eclipse.
The boy, he realised, was carrying the fabled Mandalorian Darksaber. Grievous gave a guttural beat of laughter.
"This will be a particularly fine addition to my collection."
Slowly adjusting his stance, the boy spoke with unexpected certainty.
"It belongs to me, General."
Grievous laughed once more. Those blue eyes. The steel of his voice. That smirk. The sense of kriffing entitlement. Grievous knew him.
"Until it is won by a worthier owner," he growled. "Bastard Prince of Mandalore."
Korkie's experience of Jar'Kai, wielding two blades, extended about as far as an end-of-training novelty exercise. He'd done it only for Ahsoka – because she'd laugh at his stance, and he loved the sound of her laughter, and because when she was finished laughing she'd stand opposite him and teach him the movements that he so admired in her. Their sparring had never approached anything remotely serious.
And now Korkie faced four blades, spinning at a speed he'd never seen in his life.
Trust your instincts, Korkie.
His father's voice, Ahsoka's, Bo-Katan's, rolled desperately into one.
They're better than you know.
And so he flowed with the Force, his every movement defensive. There was no time for anything else. The Darksaber was heavy in his hand. It pulled strength from deep in his core with every movement. He stumbled with the reverberation of lightsaber on Darksaber and Grievous's blow singed his cheek.
"We've got help coming, Ben, real close now."
Pok's voice was distant, almost inaudible. Grievous barked some instruction to the officers at the boarding port behind him and pressed harder still. Sparks flew from the walls of the ship as the cyborg wielded his 'sabers with furious, reckless abandon. Korkie was running out of space.
There was the noise of intensifying battle outside of the ship. The floor beneath him rattled.
If Grievous takes me now-
A traitorous, forbidden thought. Korkie lunged forward to damage Grievous's briefly unguarded left leg but the Kaleesh warrior moved too fast.
If this ends today-
His focus wavered and broke. Grievous roared with sick elation as Korkie stumbled.
Who's gonna look after Luke-Leia-Kawlan-Hidden Path-refugees-
If I'm taken before the Emperor-
Korkie braced against the wall and righted himself, lifting his blades in tandem to block an almighty barrage of lightsaber blows.
Forgot to tell Anakin-
If I die there-
Mum and Dad never would have wanted-
If I die-
There was an almighty crash then, and for a fraction of a second there was the terrifying suction of Grievous's ship becoming detached from the boarding port. But Korkie slid only a metre before the vacuum was sealed. A new ship, now, was attached to the stolen Imperial weapons freighter.
Korkie caught a glimpse of shining purple and that was all he needed. He had the sudden and certain feeling that everything would be alright. Grievous wheeled around with a snarl.
Mace Windu spoke with impossible calm, as though to an unruly Padawan.
"Not today, General."
The kid had put up a hell of a fight. The scorch-marked walls of the hold were warped with heat and Grievous's chest was heaving beneath his armour.
"Windu!"
Grievous greeted him with pleasure despite his obvious exhaustion, undeterred by his emphysematous coughs.
"I had hoped we would cross paths again."
But Mace was tired of this war and wasn't interested in talking. He lifted his blade and advanced. Behind him, the clone troopers scuffled with the blaster-wielding Imperial officers. It had been long months since Windu had fought a 'saber-wielding opponent but his body would never forget the movements. He ducked and twisted his way through the barrage of 'saber strikes. If he could make it in close, Grievous would be cramped for space and vulnerable. Grievous knew it too. He was backing up, towards the main hold of the ship.
Towards the teenager with both lightsaber and Darksaber in hand.
Confronted with the dazzling visual cacophony of emerald and sapphire and amethyst, Mace was unable to place a name to the familiar face.
"Padawan, step back, allow me-"
But the teenager didn't listen. He advanced toward Grievous and engaged his right arms while Mace contended with his left. The young man was holding his own but would surely fade fast. There was the clunking of armoured boots and a spray of blaster bolts aimed expertly above Mace's head as the clones advanced. Grievous twisted his cyberkinetic torso to deflect the blaster fire with the blades he had previously devoted to the young warrior. The boy saw his chance but did not see the danger. He skipped forward to deliver the fatal blow and was met with a kick from Grievous's clawed foot.
It struck the boy heavily, the length of his whole torso. His 'sabers twisted downwards to sever the limb and he fell, stunned, to his back.
"Padawan!"
Mace paid for his lapse in focus as Grievous leapt and stuck, insect-like, to the roof of the ship. His missing lower limb did not slow him down. He scuttled at impossible speed, dodging blaster fire. Mace hurled a crate through the Force to block his path but his aim was no better than that of his clone comrades. Within seconds, Grievous had made it to the escape pods and ejected.
"Will we pursue, General?"
Mace did not answer. He hurried to the boy's side and dropped to his knees, lifting Grievous's heavy limb from his body. The boy's chest was slicked with blood and his eyes wild with pain. Mace Windu knew those eyes.
"Ob-"
He arrested his mistake just in time.
"Prince Korkaran."
The boy managed a weak smile. His face was terribly pale.
"Nice to see you, Master."
Mace could not return the smile.
"Let me see your wounds."
"I don't think they're so bad."
The young Mandalorian brought his hands protectively to his chest but Mace placed them back down by his sides.
"Kix, I need a hand here."
Korkaran's face brightened a fraction at this.
"Did you say Kix? Is Kix here?"
"Stay still, Korkaran."
Mace pressed the boy's head back down as he tried to sit up and look around. He was as bad a patient as his father had been before him.
"But did you say-"
"Kix, yes," the clone trooper affirmed, coming to kneel at the patient's other side and opening his medi-kit. "I'm here, Prince Korkaran. Please don't move."
The young man grimaced as the clone medic laid a cloth soaked in pro-coagulant across his chest. There was the hiss of chemical cautery and the sickening smell to which Mace had become far too accustomed.
"I'm not really a prince anymore," he managed, through the pain. "Korkie's fine."
Kix peeled back the dressing delicately. With the mess of blood cleared from his chest they could visualise, now, the three puncture wounds inflicted by the points of Grievous's clawed foot. Mace saw the white sheen of bone and tried not to grimace. But Kix took a more optimistic tone.
"Your ribcage has done exactly what it's supposed to do," he informed his young patient levelly. "He didn't get to your lungs."
He lifted Korkie's shirt to examine the remainder of his ribcage and abdomen with the assistance of his beloved handheld ultrasound. Grievous's hind-foot had left another two smaller puncture wounds low near the young man's hipbones. But the medic overall seemed to approve of his findings.
"No need to rush," Kix declared. "Internal organs are all intact and you've not even broken any ribs. Let me give you some pain relief before I get suturing. You've got a spurter or two we need to take care of."
Mace shook his head in disbelief at their good fortune and finally let himself relax. He looked around the ship where the clone troopers were tidying up the havoc of the battle.
"Kriff, ad'ik, I can't believe it's really you."
Cody's voice strained with emotion as he crouched down beside the teenager and laid a gentle hand upon his tangled curls.
"You gotta let us take care of you, okay, Korkie?" he asked, paternal in a way that Mace had never seen him. "After everything that's happened…"
"Might be worth investing in some armour," Boil contributed. "If you're going to pull stunts like that."
Korkie grinned.
"I invested all my credits in- Ow!"
Kix had injected him with the first vial of local anaesthetic.
"In transport," he gritted out. "Master Windu, I've got to tell you about the-"
"What the hell's all this?"
A broad-shouldered Twi'lek walked into the hold.
"Ben, you told me you could handle the-"
"I did handle it, Pok!"
The Twi'lek looked pointedly at the miniature operating theatre being established on the floor of his ship.
"Close enough to handling it, at least," Korkie grumbled. "Have you ever fought General kriffing Grievous?"
Pok spluttered.
"That was Grievous?"
Korkie screwed up his nose in disapproval. He had mastered the immaculately scathing tone that had been his mother's political signature.
"Were you not paying any attention?"
"In case you hadn't noticed," Pok protested, "We were still being shot at! Someone had to pilot the ship."
Korkie smiled, pacified.
"So it sounds like we both did our jobs and there's nothing to be upset about."
Mace could not help but feel a rush of nostalgia at the young man's diplomat's voice.
"I'm not upset, just glad I didn't get you killed," Pok conceded grudgingly. "Now what's all this about?"
He motioned to the new personnel aboard his stolen ship.
"Mace Windu and the Faulties, I take it?"
Mace stood slowly and faced the Twi'lek.
"We were hunting Grievous," he explained. "I understand that the Free Ryloth Movement prefers not to entangle itself with other rebel groups. But the opportunity presented itself and we had to take it."
"Except that you didn't take him," Pok pointed out, folding his arms. "Grievous escaped, I see?"
"At least we got a leg," Korkie contributed, patting the limb illustratively.
The boy was perhaps a little high on analgesics. Pok ignored him.
"Look, I can appreciate that you've saved my life and saved these weapons from being reclaimed by the Empire," he conceded. "But I can't vouch for Cham Syndulla being particularly welcoming. Your presence will bring further trouble to Ryloth."
This was no surprise to Mace. He'd pushed the Twi'lek leader's tolerance in the Clone Wars, with the prolonged Republican presence on Ryloth that had turned, seamlessly, on that horrible night, to Imperial rule. Cham had even less reason to like him now.
"I know."
Mace looked to Trapper and Wooley, who had been trooping back and forth through the boarding passage between the two interconnected ships.
"How much damage did we sustain?" he asked.
Trapper was always a diplomat – "Substantial damage, General" – and Wooley rather more outspoken – "I think our pilot friend used our ship as a blaster shield, General."
Pok raised his hands in his own defence.
"Just keeping us all alive."
"Then Cham Syndulla would not begrudge us a few days to repair our ship?" Mace suggested. "We'll be on our way as soon as possible."
"Please?" Korkie asked.
Pok looked to the beseeching eyes of the golden-haired boy upon the floor of the ship, the clone medic's suture needle dipping in and out of his chest wall, and sighed.
"Fine, comrades. A few days it is."
Whichever painkiller Kix had injected Korkie with gave the world a warm, soft glow. His comrades had strapped him down onto the ship's solitary bunk. He fluttered closed his eyes and allowed a beautiful illusion to drift over him: lying beneath the tucked sheets of a real bed, listening to the adults murmuring at work long after his bedtime. The feeling of being a child. Of weightlessness. Of love.
The warmth of it brought tears of welling relief to his eyes. He had not known this feeling in so long. He felt that he had stumbled home after a long and trying journey. That he had collapsed finally into a shelter, after a year spent outdoors in a vicious gale wind.
But some untouched part of his mind pulled him back. It was a dangerous fantasy to indulge and Korkie promised himself, groggily, that he would never let Kix give him these medicines again, nor would he seek them out on the streets where he knew they were sold. He forced open his eyes and brought himself back. Back into the wind. Back onto the road. Homeless and lost and unloved. He occupied his drifting mind by watching the activity aboard the stolen Imperial weapons freighter.
He watched Cody at the ship's controls. It had been more painful, had cut sharper than Grievous's talons, to feel Cody's heart break as he laid eyes on him. Korkie was not the miracle survivor that the clone commander had been hoping to see. Close – close enough to twist the knife, to rub salt into that aching wound – but not Obi Wan.
Korkie watched Kix re-sterilising his suture equipment with vials of chemicals and a handmade torch. The clone who had come to Mandalore before any other. Who had given his brain to the experiment that had uncovered the whole great plot. Who had been as powerless as any of them to stop Sidious's plan from falling into place.
He watched Mace Windu and knew that the Jedi watched him too, in his subtle way, probing through the Force. But Korkie could read nothing of Mace, who shielded as impenetrably today wearing standard civilian clothes beneath his battered cloak as he had sitting upon a Council chair in perfectly starched linens. Korkie was surprised when the Jedi Master walked to stand beside him.
"You're comfortable now, Korkie?"
"Yes. Thank you."
Korkie faltered a moment, then spat it out.
"You nearly called me Obi Wan. When you first saw me."
Mace nodded and perhaps gave the shadow of a smile.
"Yes. I'm sorry. You look very much like your father these days."
Korkie screwed up his nose.
"You sure?"
His father had always been elegant – the second-most elegant person in the world, a young Korkie had believed, inferior only to the Duchess Satine herself. He would limp home from battle with his tabards perfectly folded and his hair swept neatly back. He would clean his boots each evening, a matter of ritual, and had taught Korkie to love the scent of the wax and the quiet sweeping sound of brush against leather.
Korkie, by comparison, had never got the chance to repair his Peace Corps coat after Dantooine, and wore the soil of several planets on the soles of his boots. Grievous's near-blow to Korkie's cheek was blistering now and soon would scar. His lips were chapped and his fingernails blackened.
"When he came back from Melida/Daan," Mace assured him, "He looked like you."
Korkie grinned.
"Underfed and grimy with bad hair?"
"Underfed, wild-haired, exhausted," Mace summarised. "But determined. Quietly strong."
Korkie snickered, self-deprecating.
"I don't know about strong, Master. I can barely-"
"Mace is fine."
Korkie beheld the once impossibly authoritative Jedi Master with quiet surprise before finding his voice once more.
"I can barely swing that Darksaber, Mace."
Mace nodded.
"We can fix that."
Korkie fought a yawn. Kix had given him too much medicine, blast it.
"I don't want to be a Jedi, Mace," he managed. "I couldn't. I've not meditated even oncesince everything went to shit."
There was something that Korkie could not read upon the weary Knight's countenance.
"I know," Mace conceded. "And I don't mean to make you one. But some training wouldn't go astray."
He gave a rare smile.
"I get the strange feeling, Korkaran, that this won't be the last time you throw yourself at the great General of the Imperial Army. I can see you have plans to make this galaxy brighter."
Korkie remembered, then, through his hazy mind, why he had hoped to find Mace to begin with.
"There's something I wanted to tell you, something I need your help with, I-"
Mace laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"You're very tired, young one."
"I'm trying to establish a hidden path so that Force-sensitives can escape the Inquisitors. Do you know about the Inquisitors? They're-"
"I know of the Inquisitors, Korkaran."
"My friend Kawlan, on Yaga Minor, he's helping me build the Path-"
"We'll speak of it when you feel better, Korkie. Rest now. Please."
Mace's hand was on his forehead and the colours began to dip and slide. Korkie gave a mournful groan and fell into a heavy sleep.
Kix was perhaps a touch generous with the morphine. But our beautiful young hero deserves a pain-free sleep.
Two big characters introduced here! I have lots of fun writing Grievous. Mace Windu is a bit trickier. He is surely capable of a little more emotion than we saw in the films - but I don't want to push it too far from believable.
I think you'll like the next chapter, 17: we meet the rest of the Free Ryloth Movement. We are now delving into a more action-packed, less time-skipping phase of the story.
xx - S.