Onderon, Japrael System


    Japrael Sector


    In the shade of low-hanging eaves, Steela Gerrera only had a single thought running through her mind; we were too late. Or rather, they were supposed to have more time. For the first time in four-thousand years, the skies above Iziz were made darker by the smog of war. Brutal Separatist cruisers hung from the clouds, just as murders of warbeasts weaved in and out of their ranks, each and every swooping dive ripping up slates from the rooftops.


    Steela had never seen a Dxunian warbeast firsthand before, only in the most terrifying visages of her childhood nightmares. The vast majority of Onderonians haven’t, especially those who lived in the shelter of Iziz’s mighty walls. Flame-scaled rupings were a common enough sight, and oft spotted on Army patrols. By the Demon Moon, their small insurgency possessed a handful, albeit illegally.


    But Dxunian warbeasts? Skreevs and, Unifras forbid, drexls? Those were more often than not the subject of tall tales, the real things stowed far far away by the Onderonian Space Force. The same Onderonian Space Force, it seemed, that was finally dipping its toes into the intrigue of the capital city after centuries of neutrality. And that was terrible news for their budding rebellion, because there was as much information about the Space Force as there was about the Beast Rider Clans.


    The Space Force was the home of political outcasts and disgraced soldiers, exiled to a forever-crusade against the Demon Moon. Steela had painstakingly cultivated sympathisers in both the Iziz Council and the Royal Army, only for all of that effort to come crashing down as the impenetrable, non-aligned Space Force returned with their ruinous warbeasts in tow. How must those Wave Gunners vigil on the walls be feeling, having trained their whole lives to shoot down drexls, only to be forced to stay their hand at their very first encounter with them.


    To make matters worse, those were Separatist ships, which could only mean the city will be crawling with droids even more than it already was in the coming days, and she was not so confident to believe they will be able to remain under the radar for much longer.


    “Steela!” Dono called in an instinctively hushed shout, “Hutch’s cell got through the gate safely. His cover was for a chartered hunting party.”


    It was a good cover. One of the best, actually. The longest Onderonian hunts could go on for weeks, if not months. Hutch’s cell was one of the largest, so the guardsmen won’t bat an eye at an entire caravan leaving the city. But it also meant ‘hunting party’ could only be used once or twice, before the gate gets suspicious. Fortunately, all of their cells were on the same flimsi, in that regard.


    “His safehouse?”


    “Not even fingerprints left behind,” Dono grinned, “And everything they couldn’t get out was stored in caches not even I know where.”


    Dono was one her cell’s most zealous members, joining after her family’s boutique was trashed by droids for ‘anti-Separatist’ activity. As Steela’s right hand, she trusted Dono with everything from gathering sympathisers to scouting ahead. She trusted her brother, Saw, just as much, but he was a little… rough around the edges, and perishingly little of freedom fighting actually involved brute force.


    Steela tore her eyes away from the fleet above, “What about the summons? Did you figure out the purpose of the gathering?”


    “Can’t say,” Dono shook her head, “But whatever it is, the House of Kira isn’t attending. Our spotters didn’t catch the Kira’s colours among the arrivals. I got in touch with one of my contacts, who’s an ex-Army guardsman, to bring us up to speed.”


    “Are you sure it’s safe?” Steela couldn’t help but be concerned.


    “Apparently they were banished by the current Lord General for protesting against joining the Separatists,” Dono explained conspiratorially, “And they’ve had a chip on their shoulder ever since.”


    “We’ll leave in two days,” she said with finality, “We’re the last ones out, so if the contact doesn’t arrive by then…”


    “They’ll be here by today,” Dono promised.


    That was good. They desperately needed the information, as the usually vocal Council of Lords were being exceptionally tightlipped about what was going. However, they desperately had to get out of the city even more; because something big was going on, and sooner than later the droids were going to crack down even harder than they’ve been before. Steela peeked inside the safehouse, at her comrades struggling to stack up ammunition and supplies necessary for their prolonged sojourn in the jungle before any unwitting eye stumbled upon a cache of smuggled weapons in the middle of Iziz.


    “Where’s Saw?” Steela suddenly asked, despite admittedly not entirely sure why Dono would know. Her brother was hard to pin down at the best of times–but if there was someone other than her that would know, it would either be Dono or Hutch.


    Dono opened her mouth halfway, stepped back, and narrowed her eyes, “I’d imagine he’s on the roof, Steela.”


    Her heart spiked–that idiot!


    “Thanks,” she said hurriedly, traipsing back inside, “Fix yourself a drink.”


    Without waiting for a response, Steela rushed through the storeroom and clambered up the wooden stairway at the far end, dust sprinkling off the timber at every footfall. Shoving open the half-ajar loft window, she pulled herself out onto the eaves and clawed up until she could see the soles of Saw’s boots as he laid flat on his back, watching the Separatist fleet through a pair of macrobinoculars.


    “What are you doing!?” she hissed loudly, “What if they spot you!?”


    “Relax, Steela,” Saw brushed her off, not even physically reacting to her presence, “I’m not the only one. Look.”


    “Not the only–” she twisted around, and spotted dozens more climbing onto their roofs to observe what must be a once-a-century occurrence. Children jumping and gawping, whole families pointing out starships, and even recreational ruping riders trying to get in as close as possible before being warded off by shrieking droid starfighters.


    Steela allowed herself to slowly deflate, internally scolding herself for not trusting her own brother. Which, she supposed, would be far easier if he wasn’t so difficult most of the time.


    “So,” she sighed, “What do you see? Anything interesting?”


    “Yes, actually,” Saw replied mockingly, handing her the binocs before scooting upwards, “Those ships have markings, and I swear we’ve seen them before.”


    Interest piqued, Steela put her eyes to the binocs and scanned the Separatist warships–and through the magnification, realised that beneath the battle weariness and laser scars, each ship was clad in individually unique coats of paint. One had a flock of white birds racing alongside its hull, another a rose brush, and another a dazzling array of strange patterns that made her eyes swim.


    “So…?”


    She could feel Saw grabbing hold of her head and guiding her to what he wanted to see, “Look at those frigates. Don’t they remind you of something?”


    Frigates, frigates… were those cave paintings? Cave paintings, and the other had what appeared to be indiscernible scriptures rakes across its hull. Saw was right, she had seen those before. The Halls of the Spirits was a series of caverns deep within Iziz’s mountain, said to be the very place Iziz came into being. The first primitive Onderonians took refuge from the wilds in those caves, and over millennia their descendants built the greatest city in the world. It was a sacred place, and no man in Iziz has not honoured the ancestors in its halls, for it was now the resting grounds for almost all Onderonians.


    And all those cave walls was history, drawn and carved. Much like on that ship. And the other, the scriptures; it was just like the stone tablets displayed in Iziz’s largest university, the Ov Taraba. The first writing system of Onderon, it was said–the first ever stories and legacies of Onderon.


    “You’re joking,” Steela said disbelievingly, “That’s just coincidence. There must be hundreds of other worlds like Onderon–”


    “Then look there,” he insisted, growing heated.


    A stark white hand, writ large. It wasn’t everywhere, only in the central dozen or so ships, but large and obvious enough to be the only common factor between the warships. Steela immediately, instinctively, knew what it meant. After all, what Onderonian didn’t respect their ancient history? Offworlders, perhaps.


    The white hand meant ‘I was here.’ In the primal time, when humans were still struggling for the survival of their species on this hellish planet, there was only one way to prove to others that you existed. How else would you let others know that they were not alone, or that this place was safe, or that you drew this particular cave painting, than by leaving a signature of yourself? Throughout Onderon’s history, handprints of blood and paint served as a testament to their ancestors'' existence.


    “It’s too much to be coincidence,” Saw spoke her mind, “The Separatist commander is an Onderonian.”


    “A very sentimental one, I agree.”


    Steela flinched, nearly digging her face into the edges of the macrobinocs. Whirling around, she found a woman in coveralls balancing precariously on the peak of the roof, her illustrious red-hair billowing in the breeze. Saw was already on his feet, hand hovering over his holster.


    “Who are you!?” he shouted.


    “The name’s Alvera– woah!” the woman attempted to walk closer, but her noticeably unstable footing cost her–with a step failing to find purchase on clearly open air.


    With an explosive, panicked waving of arms, Alveraslipped off the peak, sliding uncontrollably down to the eaves–and if it wasn’t for Steela leaping to snatch her, she might have just found herself with a broken spine. Wrapping her arms around her, Steela slowly exhaled as she lifted the woman up to a sit.


    “–Should I call you my saviour, or…?” Alvera trailed off, and as Steela backed away, she noticed a faded insignia on their shoulder.


    “You’re the contact?” she asked incredulously, trying to match her mental picture of a gruff, exiled soldier with that of the clumsy person before her.


    “Contact?” Saw asked, moving to open the loft window, “What’s this about?”


    “Dono got one of contacts with Army ties to rendezvous with us,” Steela explained, “But I didn’t think…”


    “I feel an insult coming on,” Alvera held up a hand, “I’ll have you know I have everything Dono promised.”


    “...Get yourself downstairs,” Steela wiped her face, “Dono’ll fill you in.”


    “I’ll do just that,” the contact took one final look at the Unifar Temple, high among the clouds, before descending through the window.


    “You don’t trust her, do you?” Saw’s jaw clenched, “She’s acting and you know it. She managed to climb up here with none of the spotters noticing, and managed to sneak up behind us without making a sound.”


    “According to Dono, Alvera is an ex-guardsman,” Steela pointed out, “Aren’t they the Army elites?”


    Her brother frowned, “There has to be more to it. The way she walks… it’s almost like–”


    “Like what?”


    “Nothing,” Saw closed up, “I’ve got a suspicion, that’s all. I’ll keep an eye on her, trust me.”


    She did. Steela did trust her brother, “Fine. Just don’t scare her away.”


    “If she really was a guardsman, she’ll be the one doing the scaring,” he grumbled, dropping over the eaves and pivoting through the window.


    Joining the rest in the safehouse, Steela found Alvera sitting on a chair sipping from a mug in absolute tranquillity even as half a dozen men and women surrounded her in what appeared to be an improvised interrogation. Saw was leaning against a pillar, face scrunched up in thought.


    “Steela, there you are!” Dono cried in wide-eyed panic, “Onderon is going to host the peace talks to end the war!”


    Steela froze, “What?”


    “The Council of Lords was summoned to prepare for the peace summit,” Alvera leaned back, “The reason they didn’t declare it to heaven and earth is to keep it a secret for as long as possible. In fact, as far as the galaxy is concerned, the location is still up for debate.”


    Keep it a secret as long as possible. Before Steela could even ask why, she noticed Alvera was staring at her with an extremely pointed look. The reason, she realised, was to keep ‘us’ from finding out. Not just them, but every group in the galaxy potentially attempting to sabotage the peace efforts. All of that, by keeping the final location of the summit secret until the last moment.


    “We have to stop it,” Saw hissed, knowing just as well as the rest of them that he was proving the Council’s pont, “If the war ends, we are going to get crushed, and any hope of freeing Onderon from the Separatists will go up in smoke.”


    Steela couldn’t help but nod in agreement. They were under no illusions; the only reason the Separatists haven’t wiped them out was because they were too low a priority. If the war ends, Rash’s puppet regime will get all the resources it needs to hunt down their insurgency.


    “And how are we going to do that, exactly?” Dono demanded, “The plan was to ask for Republic aid, but it’s the Republic initiating the talks!”


    Even in the worst of times, Saw would somehow come up with an idea–usually an incredibly foolhardy one–but this time he could do nothing but sigh in frustration and close his eyes. Steela suddenly found herself sorely missing his insane plans, because at this point any plan at all would do. Despondency fell like a shadow over their small group, as each man and woman mulled over their dire straits.


    “...Isn’t there a good chance there will be Jedi among the delegation?” Alvera spoke up, “Can’t we asked them.”


    “We?” Saw sneered, “There’s no ‘we’ yet.”


    “Calm down, Saw,” Steela crossed her arms, “She’s got a point.”


    “What? Ask for the Jedi to help?” he repeated sceptically, “Are we talking about the same Jedi? The Jedi that are generals of the Republic Army? The Jedi that are the Senate’s lackeys?”


    “Aren’t they supposed to be peacekeepers, at least before the war?” Dono mused, warming up to the idea, “Aren’t they supposed to help fight against an illegal government?”


    “And we’re just supposed to trust them to do the right thing because they’re Jedi?” Saw scoffed, “What’s stopping them from selling us out immediately? You realise if they are coming to Onderon, they’ll be here as security.”


    “Well,” Alvera swivelled her attention between them, “This might just be me, but… if we can’t trust the Jedi of all people, who can we trust? They’ve always been friends on Onderon, since ancient times.”


    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    “I mean, there’s no harm in it, right?” Dono looked around, “Do any of us have a better idea?”


    After a series of shaking heads, Steela finally decided; “Dono and I will stay behind and contact the Jedi. Saw will take the rest of us and rendezvous with Hutch; you all will follow the original plan.”


    Saw’s lips twisted, “I don’t like it, but we can’t put all our eggs in one basket either. But… are you sure about this, Steela?”


    Are you worried about me, Steela thought fondly, thanks.


    “Dono and I can handle ourselves, and we’ve got our own ways out in case things get sour,” she promised, “We’ll remain in contact, and if the line gets severed, we’ll rendezvous at the Nest.”


    “Got it.”


    “–Wait,” Alvera held up a hand, like a child in a classroom, “What’s the ‘original plan,’ exactly?”


    Dono blew out a breath, side-eyeing Saw, “To seek help from the Beast Riders. But I, for one, think contacting the Jedi is a much better idea.”


    Alvera slowly lowered her hand, mumbling, “We agree on that, you and I.”


    ?


    The skies over Onderon were painted red with the gleaming hulls of scarlet Consular-class cruisers. Scout pressed her hands against the transparisteel viewports as her Master guided the starship through the press of clouds, revealing the Separatist warfleet waiting for them below. If this whole thing is a Separatist trap, she thought, this would be the perfect time to spring it.


    After all, dozens of Republic diplomatic cruisers were descending towards the fleet, filled with hundreds of delegates and senators. If the Separatists wanted to deal a crippling blow to the Republic, they would have no greater chance than this. If the Separatists were truly the monsters the HoloNet painted them as, they certainly would. But they didn’t. Even as unarmed cruisers fell arm’s reach from bristling turbolasers and missile launchers, the painted warships remained silent.


    Wait, painted? Since when were Separatist warships painted? Must be an Onderonian thing.


    They came and went like a mirage, and when she finally ripped her attention away from them finally found their destination. Iziz.


    “Woah…” Ahsoka muttered.


    Scout nodded in silent agreement. Whether it had been Vorzyd or Coruscant, she had lived her entire life among transparisteel spires and towering skyscrapers. But there was none of that here; ringed around a single mountain peak was a world ripped straight from the bedtime fable. Iziz stretched on as far as the eye could see, as would a city that housed an entire planet in its gargantuan walls.


    An ear -splitting scream pierced through the hull of their cruiser, followed by a wall of scales and spines encompassing the viewports. If Scout hadn’t been a Jedi–or if Master Skywalker hadn’t been as prodigious a pilot as he was–she would’ve found herself thrown off her feet as a gust of wind rocked the cruiser like it was a toy boat.


    “Warm welcome, huh?” Master Skywalker grunted as he wrestled with the yoke.


    When Scout found her footing again, she found herself greeted with two insectile eyes, nearly imperceptible under a riot of horns and spikes. Man-sized mandibles snapped, and the monster folded in its gargantuan wings and dove out of sight. Ahsoka immediately ran to the viewports and pressed her face against it to catch a better view. After a brief struggle between her own dignity and curiosity, Scout joined her.


    That thing is as large as this cruiser! As the monster moved ahead, the twenty or so men riding on its back came into view–some waving, and others making what she assumed to be obscene gestures.


    It wasn’t the only one. All around them, flying beasts of all shapes and sizes swarmed and revelled between the warships. Some massive, others leaner and lighter, and each and every one sporting dagger-filled jaws and viciousness in their wingbeats.


    “Woah…” Ahsoka repeated, this time with a sense of breathlessness, “Did we just travel back in time a thousand– two thousand years? Look at those gunners on the walls! Can those relics even shoot?”


    Scout tried to follow her friend’s gaze, but decided it was a hopeless task. There was no way she was going to match a Togruta’s perception.


    “They can, but they do not,” Master Plo answered, “I’d imagine those Wave Gunners haven’t fired a single shot since the Third Galactic War. These days, their navy intercepts the Demon Moon long before anything comes close enough to Iziz to warrant action. These tamed warbeasts are proof of that.”


    “Then why do they still have them, Master?” Scout questioned.


    “Because the people of Onderon are warriors,” the old Jedi answered, “No matter how far they''ve progressed, they''re fundamentally still warriors standing watch on their battlements. They still believe they are fighting a war for survival that started at the dawn of history, and will continue doing so until the end of history.”


    “These monsters are still monsters,” Master Skywalker scoffed, “Can’t see why they don’t just call for Republic intervention and wipe out that moon of theirs.”


    “Legally, because the Republic would not allow it,” the Kel Dor folded his arms beneath his robes, “Both Onderon and Dxun are protected legacy worlds for the aggressiveness of their fauna and flora; as both are completely capable of seeding new ecosystems into previously dead worlds, and have done so in the past.”


    “More importantly, Master Plo is right; Onderonians are warriors,” Master Kenobi stroked his beard,” They don’t like outsiders, and they don’t like being told how to do things even more. For them, this is a matter of pride. It is why their world was chosen for the summit; they dislike the Republic and Separatists equally.”


    “As Jedi, we must be sensitive to the cultures we visit, even if we may personally believe things are wrong,” Master Plo finished, “It is not our place to know what’s better for others. This will be a learning experience; you may hear comments that upset you, or practices that may seem deplorable, but you must never forget to be patient. This goes for everywhere in the galaxy, understood?”


    A duet of “Yes, Master” spilled forth from the two Padawans, just as their cruiser gently coasted into the docking bay of Iziz Starport. To their right were the senatorial cruisers, and to their left were more cruisers bearing the devices of the various humanitarian groups, the Refugee Relief Movement chief among them.


    As the most senior among them, Master Plo descended the ramp at their head, followed by Master Kenobi and Master Skywalker. As Scout waved away the jets of atmosphere, she raised her head to behold their welcoming party–and her breath caught in her throat.


    What awaited them was an army.


    Hundreds of soldiers in gleaming bronze-gold armour and long shimmering purple cloaks, conducted by parades of stone-faced cavalrymen atop silver-barded, carnivorous steeds. Over their heads, dozens of flying warbeasts provided shade from the beating sun by sheer volume alone, announcing their arrival with triumphant roars that sent banners whipping at their standards.


    Ahsoka’s right, she decided numbly, it really is like just stepped into the last millennium.


    The ranking officer raised his sabre, and the ranks of soldiers split with a synchronous clank of armour, allowing the Separatist delegation to come forward. Scout spotted the sponsor of the summit and the Senator from Naboo, Padmé Amidala, shooting a single curious glance at their Jedi entourage before linking with her senatorial peers to greet their Separatist counterparts in a single body. Joining her, Scout spied the colours of Alderaan, Humbarine, Glee Anselm, and Uyter as well. Curiously, another delegation a while away from the Refugee Relief Movement also shone with Alderaanian colours.


    The Separatist delegation was led by the host, the Senator from Onderon, Mina Bonteri, along with several more Scout couldn’t put a name to. Master Plo wordlessly led them to a seemingly random spot behind the senators–before the randomness was proven otherwise by the throngs of blue-robed Senate Guards filing in behind them to oppose the Onderonian guardsmen, as if in anticipation for a pitched battle.


    Holocam droids swiftly descended onto the scene between the two guard troops as the senatorial delegations approached each other. Senator Amidala and Senator Bonteri raced in front of their contingent and collided in a warm hug–as if greeting an old friend–to the visible surprise of their colleagues.


    “Anakin,” Master Kenobi said quietly, “Don’t get distracted. Remember why we are here.”


    Master Skywalker, who had been observing the two senators exchange words before letting the laborious proceedings continue, begrudgingly pulled away. There had been a hint of impatience there, Scout noticed, which made her wonder why her Master even wanted to come here if he knew he would be out of place. She was just about to continue watching, before a persistent voice in the back of her mind suggested Master Kenobi’s words may have been partially directed towards her as well.


    Oh, right. We’re supposed to be watching for… assassins? Bounty hunters?


    Would there even be any bounty hunters brave enough to strike now? They were surrounded by thousands of well-armed, well-armoured soldiers.


    Suddenly, the procession continued, with the delegations marching into the ranks of Onderonian soldiers. On cue, the Senate Guards surged forwards in lockstep, ranks folding in to fit between the corridor of steel and spears.


    “Follow me,” Master Plo said, swerving away from their intended route, towards the officer with the sabre.


    “Who’s that?” Ahsoka whispered in her ear.


    “Dunno.”


    The Togruta opened her mouth to continue, but slowly hesitated until her jaw snapped shut with an audible click.


    “What is it?” Scout whispered back. She had known her friend long enough to know Ahsoka was the type to say whatever comes to her mind. If she was hesitating, it must be something serious.


    “...I can’t see their face,” she mumbled.


    “Can’t see–” Scout diverted her attention back to the officer, squinting.


    His face was… pretty. That was the only word that came to her tongue. It was the same kind of ‘pretty’ you might use to describe a spy; the kind that could charm you with one smile before cutting your throat with the next.


    “I can see him,” Scout shot her friend a weird look.


    “You can?” Ahsoka asked, “I can’t. It’s… blurred.”


    Blurred.


    “Ahsoka’s correct,” Master Kenobi leaned down beside them, “I cannot see his face either… nor does he have any presence in the Force. I do know that some files in the Temple Library suggest that Dxunian fauna have developed a resistance or immunity to the Force, so perhaps the phenomena may have spread to Onderon. Somehow.”


    Resistance or immunity to the Force… haven’t she heard of that somewhere? Scout could have sworn she found something similar in Master Skywalker’s old mission logs while she was researching, dating from back when he was Master Kenobi’s Padawan.


    “Granta… Omega?” Scout stated slowly, almost as if it was a question.


    But Master Kenobi definitely recognised the name, the normally unflappable Jedi Master flinching. At least all my overpreparation finally proved useful, somehow.


    “Thank you, Padawan,” he murmured, spurring forward to speak to his former Padawan.


    Anakin Skywalker leapt out of his skin with a startled jolt, followed by a long hiss. He glanced back at her with a single eye, nodding slightly.


    “Who’s that?” Ahsoka asked again, insatiable curiosity brimming in her wide eyes.


    “Some terrorist who was immune to the Force,” Scout recalled the reports, “Master Kenobi and Master Skywalker were tasked to bring him to justice.”


    “So did they?”


    Scout’s face scrunched in effort, “I… think so? Either I can’t remember, or the report never got that far.”


    “Master Jedi–” her concentration broke, and all the memories at the tip of her fingers fled away, “How may I be of service?”


    “Rain Bonteri?” Master Plo immediately asked.


    Master Skywalker flinched, leather creaking as his gloved mechno-arm curled into a fist. Right, wasn’t he the guy who thrashed our fleet at Christophsis? Bonteri paused, flicking a glance towards her Master for a briefest half-second, before bringing a hand to rest on the pommel of his sabre–as if trusting the thing could stop a lightsaber.


    But something wasn’t right. Master Skywalker was still a Jedi Knight; he wouldn’t get so angered by something so normal. Pained as she may to say it, men die all the time in war, and Rain Bonteri was no different from the thousand other Separatist commanders who plied his trade. Anakin Skywalker wasn’t looking at Rain Bonteri, but something else. But what? Scout creeped forward, leaning forward so she could see his face… just what are you seeing, Master?


    “Not the first time we’ve met, I am guessing,” Bonteri nodded at Master Plo, “I assume you will be in charge of protecting the senators, Master Jedi?”


    “We are,” the Jedi Master confirmed, “I would like to confirm the route we are taking to the Palace.”


    “You do not have to fear anything, Master Jedi,” Bonteri gestured towards the colonnade that constituted as the foyer, at the hundreds of animal-drawn carriages awaiting them. The hundreds of soldiers had moved, too, to flank the carriages, with the Senate Guards crowding around those bearing Republic devices, “I have been placed in charge of this summit’s security, and have taken every precaution to ensure the proceedings are not interrupted.”


    “You did not answer his question,” Master Skywalker pointed out.


    Rain Bonteri eyed him carefully, before finally relenting, “Very well. We will be taking the sky ramps to the Unifar Temple. As you can see, they rise above the city, and are the only way to access the walls or mountain.”


    The sky ramps. Scout had not noticed them from above, but from the ground they seemed painfully obvious. The ramps were colossal superstructures that, as their name implies, acted as elevated bridges above the tangled riot of buildings. From afar, they appeared like the flanks of grey snakes slithering amid the rooftops and towers, steadily climbing to the mountain peak.


    “After that will be the reception,” he continued, “And the prisoner exchange will be tomorrow, followed by the negotiations… the exchange is going on as planned, yes? The RRM were quite insistent about it.”


    Anakin Skywalker grit his teeth and took a half-step forward, only stopped by Master Plo’s firm hand, “Is there a man named Rex among your prisoners?”


    Bonteri stared blankly, previously relaxed palm morphing into a grip around his sabre’s hilt, “...Who?”


    “He’s a clone captain,” Master Skywalker explained impatiently, “He was on my ship, at Christophsis. You were there, I know you were.”


    “If he survived, he must have been transferred to Battleship Fifty-Three,” the Onderonian replied tersely, “And if you did not find him there, he must have died as a result of your raid.”


    “Raid?” Anakin Skywalker’s face reddened, “It was a rescue operation! Dying stars know what you would have done to my men–”


    Master Kenobi’s shoulder rose and fell in a silent sigh as pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head, as if thinking ‘I knew I shouldn’t have allowed him to come here.’


    “What I would have done–?” Master Kenobi’s fears were proven right the next second, as Rain Bonteri’s expression grew precariously brittle. Indignation was blatant, as if he couldn’t quite believe his ears; “Master Jedi, I would have treated them with every right a prisoner of war would have afforded, and if you had not raided my ship, you would have found each and every single one of them here on Onderon. I realise there is no small supply for barbarism in this galaxy, but do not think that we are all monsters just because we are Separatists.”


    “Anybody can be a monster. It is a choice we make, not one labelled unto us,” he continued, and for the first time Scout found someone who could rival her Master’s towering height, “Even slaughter has rules for civilised men to follow, and I’ll be twice-damned before I give up hoping that there is still honour in war. It is not battle that makes monsters, but what occurs after.”


    Master Skywalker was silent, but seething. Scout half-expected either Master Plo or even Master Kenobi to step in, but both seemed content to simply observe. Observe the exchange, and observe Rain Bonteri in particular… had he always looked like that? She couldn’t remember.


    “Master Jedi, the ‘monsters’ you seek are those who are incapable of following rules. Those who fail to treat enemies with respect, those who fail to recognise surrender, those who cannot differentiate between the guilty and innocent, those who punish the collective for the crimes of the few,” Bonteri wasn’t speaking in general, Scout realised, but directly at Master Skywalker, “I will not lie, Master Jedi, this galaxy is filled with men who sanction slaughter. It is because they are fuelled by anger and loss, or merely sadism, or apathy. We do not call those people ‘men’– we call them savages.”


    Anakin Skywalker was trembling now, skin shining with sweat. It was as if Bonteri had indeed drawn that sabre and shoved it through his heart. Honestly, Scout thought that the Separatist was being reasonable; but whatever he said had clearly been personal to her Master.


    “You would know a lot about savages,” her Master said quietly, “Wouldn’t you, Onderonian?”


    “Correct. And that is why we also know a lot about the sanctity of life, whether it be of men or monsters,” for some reason, it looked like Bonteri was looking down on Master Skywalker, despite their similar heights.


    “That’s enough, Anakin,” Master Kenobi warned.


    Anakin Skywalker shook his head, “I would like to see the prisoners. To ensure they are being treated as humanely as you claim.”


    “No you won’t Anakin,” Master Kenobi snatched his arm, “You will be coming with me, and you will be doing what you came here to do; protecting the senators.”


    At the word ‘senators,’ Anakin Skywalker stilled. He blew out a furious breath, before composing himself and nodding, muttering an apology as he retreated a few steps.


    “I will see the prisoners,” Master Plo reasoned, “I too wish to see the conditions the prisoners are held in. Of course, one of your men will be invited to review our holding wards as well.”


    Rain Bonteri’s expression slackened, “That is agreeable to me.”


    To their collective surprise, however, Master Plo then looked down at her and Ahsoka, “So, Padawans? Will you join your Masters at the reception, or will you visit our men with me?”


    On one hand, she would be trapped in a stuffy room filled with politicians for the next several hours– so it wasn’t really a choice, however. That was, if she didn’t also have a duty as a Padawan to remain with her Master… but it was Plo Koon who raised the idea in the first place, so did it really count?


    Besides, she knew from Appo that Rex was a close friend of her Master, and the least she could do was afford him some closure.


    “And these two are…?” Bonteri trailed off.


    “These two are our Padawans,” Master Kenobi introduced, “Ahsoka and Tallisibeth.”


    The Onderonian blinked, glancing at them–then at their Jedi Masters–then back at them again, as if he couldn’t quite believe his ears. Or his eyes.


    “You are…” he squinted, as if she was some alien lifeform he had never encountered before, “Anakin Skywalker’s Padawan?”


    “Padawan Learner Tallisibeth Enwandung-Esterhazy, at your service,” she bowed lightly.


    “Padawan Learner Ahsoka Tano, nice to meet you!” Ahsoka chirped.


    “Right… most certainly,” Bonteri smiled at them in such a way that suggested he thought they were mere children, “In any case, any decision you make can occur after we reach the Temple. Let’s not keep the senators waiting.”


    With a hand, he gestured towards the convoy of gilded carriages. The sky ramp leading up to the mountain peak, right then, appeared perilously long and difficult.