Redbound/story text

Redbound

From the moment the first blast of the proximity warning sounded Zhou knew he was in trouble. He was already reaching for his trunk, ripping into the hidden, scanner-shielded compartments in a desperate rush to gather his armament as the Captain’s public announcement blared through the intercom. “Attention passengers, we have detected a Separatist frigate on an intercept course. I have confidence we will successfully evade this attack and achieve hyperspace. However, evasive maneuvers must commence so all passengers are advised to strap in.”

We’re not getting away that easily, Zhou knew, but he was too busy strapping on the military hardware he’d been illegally carrying to worry further. Combat belt with pistol, vibroblade, and grenades over the armored flight suit fashioned to appear as nothing more than a thick uniform went first. Then he reassembled the blaster rifle from its modular parts with practiced motions, training so complete he could have finished the task in his sleep.

There were gasps from the rest of the passenger cabin. The poor refugees who made up the bulk of this tramp freighter’s sentient luggage instinctively edged away from this suddenly dangerous stranger amongst their ranks. Out of the corner of his eye Zhou glimpsed the flinching, cowardly body language of those who retreated from threat. It disgusted him.

“Sir, what are you doing?” the ship’s security man stationed to this section stood in the aisle at Zhou’s row. “Passengers aren’t permitted weapons onboard.” The security officer’s hand rested nervously on his holstered blaster pistol.

“You should have drawn first,” Zhou spoke with absent-minded professionalism. He snapped the last piece of the Sorosuub-made weapon into place and swung it about to point directly in the security man’s face without even looking at him.

“Uh…um…” the unfortunate guard stumbled at a sudden loss for words.

The ship lurched, jerked, and tumbled. Everyone fell to the right, spinning away with the crash of turbolaser impacts in its wake. Passengers rolled in their seats and the security guard braced awkwardly, both hands solidly on seat padding.

Zhou hold himself firm, feeling the knee strain, and as his training had ingrained, moved off when the roll stopped, using the pushback when the vessel leveled to provide additional momentum as he vaulted into the aisle. Mouth open, the guard stared. “Combat experience?” Zhou’s voice was terse, his mind elsewhere.

The guard shook his head, indicating something of no surprise. Passenger freighter crewers were barely rated with their service blasters, about as skilled as any civilian with a few hours at a firing range under their belt.

“Staff Sergeant Zhou Thike, Epicanthix Impergium Navy,” he was looking past the confused man, recalling the layout of this dilapidated vessel. “I’ve been in two seizures of pirate vessels,” he’d only actually engaged hostiles for a few minutes during one of those, but this wavering human didn’t need to hear that. I am a warrior of the Epicanthix Impergium with critical data that must get home and no Separatist high-jacking is going to stop me!

“We’ll escape them!” the guard’s expression suggested he wanted very badly to believe those words, but couldn’t quite manage it.

“Maybe a one in ten chance,” Zhou’s reply was sober, hostile, and grim. “Our one real chance is to hold them when they board until help arrives from the Republic.”

A crack and groan of metal punctuated these words. Universally the beings crammed into the cabin winced. Those sounds indicated only one thing, the establishment of a firm grip by a tractor beam.

These glorified ushers haven’t got the guts to fight on their own, and even if they do how much chance do we have? It was a foul thought, and logic warred with pride in Zhou’s chest for a moment. Pride won. No officer present, training says it comes down to you Sergeant; duty calls, time to answer.

Zhou took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the stale sour air of many species’ exhalations. Then he began to bellow. “Get every man with a blaster to the port cargo hatch! They’re droids. They always board standard models the same way! Get heavy material to block the passageway and we can hold them off. Move it man, move!”

Zhou turned words to action himself, barreling through the hall back toward the cargo area. He slammed the heavy durasteel divider door open, shouting at the men crouched there. “Move, move! Form a cordon! Close this space off!”

The port cargo hatchway was four meters wide, three meters high, and completely square, making it ideal both for loading cargo and attacking battle droids. It was also the only place where they had a decent chance of making a stand. The cargo hold, with its jumbled luggage and cargo and debris was far too chaotic for inexperienced men to defend. A pair of guards wheeled out a heavy case, probably filled with beverages. “What do we do?” the begged, knowing time was running out.

“Flip it, and get more. We’ll form a V across the firing zone,” again he put actions behind his words, flipping the load himself and slamming it into place. Zhou estimated maybe one minute until the droids started cutting through.

Ship’s security came running, accompanied by a few brave civilians willing to fight, and the defensive formation took shape. Zhou slipped into the bottom point of the V personally, anchoring the line with his blaster rifle, a far heavier weapon than the pistols available to everyone else. “When they break through, five seconds of sustained fire, break, then resume, and we continue until I call to fall back.” It was all the instruction he had time to give.

“Here they come!” one of the score or so defenders shouted as movement ceased and the scream of plasma torches on durasteel drowned all other noise into oblivion.

Zhou breathed deep, letting the grit and hostility give him focus as he sighted. Gloved hands closed down on the trigger of the killing tool in his hand. He was a tactical trooper, highly trained independent elite for ops coordination. His minor little data retrieval mission had just slammed into a call from the Clone Wars. Let them come, Zhou’s mind narrowed down onto the doorway.

The hatch blew.

“Fire!” the words ripped from the Epicanthix’s throat with pride and fury as his finger slammed down on the trigger, depressing the little hinge again and again.

Blasterfire filled the crowded air with light, heat, and smoke. Howling chaos mounted, but there was one smell absent, the rotten stench of burned flesh. Zhou’s body moved and targeted on the strength of his training. His mind focused on something else entirely, the slow count. One…two…three…four…five.

“Break!”

Fingers moving on pure reflex Zhou dropped one power pack and slapped in another in under a second. “Fire!” The droids had been given a chance to step forward again, accomplishing nothing beyond giving the defenders a better chance to mow them down.

So it went; an eternity of intervals, each five long, long seconds of endurance. Men screamed, droids shrieked, and the air filled with the blinding residue of battle. Zhou’s arm moved in little shifts and jerks, guiding in on any motion, any clarity, and blaring energetic destruction. He had no idea how much time had truly passed, there was a readout on his wrist interface, but a glance downward was a luxury only a madman could afford now.

Then, suddenly, the stream of incoming fire stopped. A few stray blaster bolts followed down into the enemy position, but then the droids were gone and the smoke was clearing. A sea of shattered metal carcasses greeted the battered defenders.

“Wounded back to the cargo hold!” Zhou ordered the one thing he knew to do outright. What next? It was a moment of confusion. He wasn’t an officer, but a command decision needed to be made here. Battle droids knew no fear, so they would only fall back in order to try a new tactic. The sergeant recognized he’d need something new as a counter, but what was the right move?

Their commanders are cowards, accountants and moneylenders; they’ll try to go for the quick, cheap kill. They know we’ve got no heavy weapons, so…droidekas!

“I need chronos and comlinks now!” Zhou demanded, stripping grenades from his belt. “We’ve got maybe two minutes, you two, help me,” he pointed at the two nearest crewmembers. “Everyone else hold and cover.”

The crewmen understood what was necessary and field stripped the components out to rig crude detonators to a quartet of grenades. Counting seconds in his head Zhou ran forward and placed them at the edge of the pile of electronic bodies. Time was running down, the low rolling rumble of the deadly droidekas echoed down the frigate’s hallways in his ears.

Dashing back to roll behind the piled cargo he came upright with rifle in one hand, junked-chrono detonator in the other. “Hold fast!” he shouted.

Men grimaced, raising blaster pistols with trepidation, faces covered in dust and smoke.

The rolling sound of droidekas was instantly recognizable, everyone, even ship’s crew, knew it from the holo ads if nothing else, and they wavered. Thankfully they didn’t have time to let the fear eat away, their enemies were too fast.

Deadly, shielded, durable, but they can’t walk, Zhou allowed himself a cruel little smirk as the pair of destroyer droids rolled up to the wall of bodies and had to stop and uncoil.

He hit the detonator.

Explosive power turned droid remains into instant shrapnel, shards of metal piercing wall, floor, ceiling, and droideka armor plating.

“Fire!” Zhou’s words now imitated his actions, for he was already firing without even having yet properly aimed.

Bolts of energy hurtled into the debris-filled space the enemy presumably occupied. It was impossible to see, but that was meaningless. Autofire bolts lanced into the gap until the power pack had nothing more to give.

With agonizing laziness the dust cleared away.

A cheer went up as the decapitated blaster-scorched remnants of the Droidekas greeted the defenders.

Zhou felt a surge of relief. He’d made the right move, lives had been saved. “How are we doing?” he asked no one in particular.

“Holding!” there came several responses in the affirmative.

“I’m okay,” another spoke with less confidence. “But I’m down to my last power pack.”

“Damn,” Zhou cursed. He should have expected it. These security men wouldn’t carry much of anything by way of extra ammo, and like all green troops they’d burn through it at a prodigious rate. My supply isn’t limitless either, he recognized distastefully, and I’ve only got two more grenades.

“Okay, new plan,” the sergeant made a decision. “If they come at us again drop back to the cargo hold when the energy runs out. When we haven’t got enough anymore I’ll order a general withdrawal. Then we try to hold the bottleneck to the passenger section.” That door, though fragile, was much smaller, it might be doable.

“Any news of Republic support?” that was really the key, Zhou understood. Even a frigate held thousands of battle droids.

“The captain says nothing sir,” one of the security guards shook his head. “I think we’re all alone.”

Lousy news that. Without help they’d inevitably be overrun. “We’ll hold on as long as we can anyway,” the Impergium soldier wouldn’t dream of anything less. “Maybe we can make defeat expensive enough they’ll offer terms.” Privately he thought it unlikely. If he were the enemy commander when the moment reared its head he’d simply blow the ship apart with turbolaser fire then spend more expensive droids. Then again, it was a civilian vessel, they might get squeamish. Doesn’t matter, he realized with a smile. I’ll sell my life for as many credits as possible, literally. Show the bean counters the worth of an Epicanthix Warrior!

“I think they’re coming back!” someone chattered, filled with panic.

Silence fell and Zhou could hear the advance, the clanking of droid feet across starship bulkheads. It was different now, heavier and deeper than before. It was also many indeed.

Super Battle Droids, the sergeant grimaced, but then grinned. Real opponents are better anyway. Getting shot by a B-1 would be embarrassing, bring on the big spring-boys! He felt oddly calm, almost relaxed even as the continued rush of adrenalin revealed everything in precise clarity. I have found, even on a tramp liner in a stop-over system of no importance, a worthy place for a warrior to die.

The Super Battle Droids, dark gray and shining with malice, turned the corner.

“Fire!” Zhou’s blaster rifle slammed a metal carapace full in the chest, and the shattered automaton spun about, knocking a pair of its fellows to the deck as it crumpled, but the sergeant did not see this. His weapon moved, sighting down the barrel at the glimmering sea of targets. Gloved hands on the trigger again and again. Droids crumpled in sequence as death burned red hot in the hall.

The droids knew not fear or nausea. Stepping over the shattered and twitching bodies of their own comrades they crunched forward seeking the edge of the battered V defying their advance.

Zhou could no longer hear anything coherent in the storm of battle now confined to a zone mere meters in diameter. He did not need his ears to see the inevitable advance, to feel the blasters graze him, and to watch as the strength of defensive fire faded. A battle droid reached a line parallel with the edge of their defense, directly in the sergeant’s firing line. He slammed it back with two smoking holes in the torso plating, but the time had come.

“Back! Back!” he barely heard his own order, spoken in a voice he could not recognize. Still kneeling he shuffled in reverse from the line, firing as he went, doing everything possible to cover the inexperienced crewmen who dashed for the seeming safety of walls.

A bolt grazed his right hip, but no pain registered, and the battle droid never got a second chance, punctured clear through the head by Zhou’s counterfire.

Then he was into the cargo hold, rolling to the side out of the line of energy. Automatically, as if it were planning and not impulse his left hand fell from the rifle to the belt and then ripped out a grenade, rolling it almost leisurely into the hatchway. He did not stop, but kept scurrying back when the explosion came.

One grenade left, but it had purchased a moment’s respite. Zhou joined the remaining defenders in the passenger’s cabin, closing the slender door behind him.

Less than ten armed men still stood, and they were battered. Unarmored, even grazing and glancing ricochets brought severe pain and injury. The many passengers now hovered at the front, as far from the enemy as possible, compelled by fear.

“I’ve only got a few shots left,” one of the crewmen raised his pistol, face set. “But I’ll stand with you to the end sir. You’ve made our fight count, I’ve never been prouder.”

“Right,” Zhou didn’t have any inspiring words at that moment. His cause was not the cause of these Republic shippers. His faith was not their faith. Only his fight was theirs. “Let’s drive up the bill!” The men cheered.

They crouched behind the flimsy protection of seats, waiting for the blast that would blow the door in and restart the fight.

It was not long in coming.

Super Battle Droids fired through the opening. Crewmen returned fire. Metal screamed. Padding scorched. Droids shattered. Men died.

Suddenly a lone Super Battle Droid crashed forward through the doorway, several steps ahead of its fellows. Zhou shot it through the head, but by some quirk of gyroscopic programming it stood in place, refusing to fall.

Something deep inside the Epicanthix warrior snapped at this offense, this refusal to acknowledge his destructive act, and he leapt up. His left shoulder slammed into the droid with all his strength behind it, carrying it forward. Blaster bolts smashed into this impromptu shield but did not penetrate. Firing with one arm Zhou blasted out blind from behind this slab of circuitry until he wedged it into the sundered doorframe.

The rifle fell from his hand. A single motion drew back and snapped forward, lobbing the final grenade into the darkness of the cargo hold.

Explosive force slammed Zhou to the floor of the aisle, jamming the butt of his rifle into his back. He lay stunned for a long second.

Eerie silence descended. No further attacks came.

For five seconds the sergeant did not dare to breathe or stand. He wondered if his hearing was lost, but the expressions on the faces of the crewmembers gave lie to that. No, the attack had simply ceased.

Amazed, Zhou eventually made it to his feet, shaky hands on his rifle again. “Has there been a surrender demand?” he asked of everyone and no one.

“There’s been no communication at all,” one of the crewmembers answered, face indicating no comprehension.

It made no sense, but Zhou wasn’t about to complain. One more good rush would have finished them. We’re alive, yet we shouldn’t be. I don’t understand.

Then sound intruded from the outside again.

Heads turned in fascination as defenders and passenger alike listened for any news. The sound was soft, not the metal treads of droids but of boots. Zhou, gauging the cadence, believed it to be only one. Why should one person be coming? Do they want to negotiate face to face? There was no evidence to support such an action. An unmistakable sensation of having missed something critical settled over the sergeant.

The booted feet approached closer and closer. Then the Super Battle Droid carcass blocking the doorway fell forward onto the deck. There had been no sound of exertion.

A single humanoid stepped forward in the low lighting. A human, Zhou guessed, but as was Epicanthix nature he did not simply assume all who looked human actually were. A woman, he noted. Unarmed?

The woman had long wavy hair and looked to be middle aged. She wore only long white robes with red borders. She carried no weapon openly. Absolute confidence marked her every movement. “A tolerable first round by my droids,” she spoke to no one in particular, looking as if all were beneath her gaze. “Enough to break your endurance. Now, Jedi, surrender to me! If you do, I’ll let the passengers live.”

“Jedi?” it came from a dozen or more throats. “There’s no Jedi aboard.” Someone, Zhou thought it might have been a passenger, added.

“No Jedi?” the woman’s brow arched, and then her eyes went suddenly wide. “You actually believe what you’re saying, but that’s impossible. How could you have held off my droids without…?”

Zhou was dumbstruck as the woman turned to stare directly at him. He had never seen anyone use the Force before, but he understood it must be how she had recognized the truth now. Not that he was especially impressed, another trained fighter could have figured it out almost as fast using just the visual evidence.

“So you are the warrior who destroyed all those droids,” the woman tossed her hair and laughed. “I’m impressed. Who are you? That is not a Republic uniform.”

Zhou had managed to figure out this woman was some kind of Force-user for the Separatists, perhaps a Jedi gone to the Dark Side, as whispered about in nasty cantina tales. More importantly she must be some kind of officer. He might yet be able to negotiate surrender. “I am a soldier of the Epicanthix Impergium,” he answered proudly.

“And are you at war with us?” her voice was coy, playful.

“No, Madame, not at present,” it was the honest truth, if not precisely the technical one.

“So why fight?”

Zhou thought the question surprisingly practical, but his answer stirred no doubts. “To complete my mission I must return home. Besides, ships crewed by droids take few prisoners.”

“A fair answer,” she flashed a predatory smile. “Well then, soldier of the Impergium, will you yield up the Jedi? I’ll let everyone go, the whole ship even.”

“Madame, I do not believe there is a Jedi onboard,” Zhou had never seen a Jedi, just like most people from the Outer Rim, but he’d not glimpsed brown robes or any of the other supposedly tell-tale signs on any passenger or crew.

“Don’t lie to me!” the woman snapped, her features distorting in rage. “I can feel the strong presence in the Force! There is a Jedi here!”

Zhou looked around helplessly. He wouldn’t have minded a Jedi’s aid. Taking on a Force-user by himself, unarmed or not, was far outside his training. “If there is such a person aboard,” he spoke at last, catching grim glance from the crew. “They are unknown to us.”

“How cowardly and un-Jedi-like,” her voice was now a sneer. “I guess I’ll have to lure our Jedi out, by killing you all!”

“Shoot! Now!” The sergeant suspected it was already too late as he ripped off a half-aimed blast and the remaining men joined his effort.

Where the lightsaber came from he could not have possibly explained. It simply appeared in the woman’s hand as far as he could tell. Then blaster bolts were somehow flying in both directions.

Cruel burning pain blossomed in the sergeant’s right leg. He’d taken a hit somewhere above the knee. The armor helped, but not enough and he slipped momentarily.

Others were not so lucky. They lacked armor, and so the deflected bolts struck them full force. It was disastrous. With no training in taking hits even men with modest injuries collapsed, and most of the strikes were far more deadly.

Watching the glowing ruby blade in sinuous motion Zhou regretted the positioning. If we could spread out, circle behind, surround, there might be a chance. Not here. He let the blaster rifle fall from his hands as the man next to him went down, a smoking hole in his chest. I’ll not die by deflection! Zhou swore, pulling free his vibroblade.

Charge high, maybe she’ll spear me through and I can sink the blade in then. Zhou’s melee training had been limited, tactical functionality broke down at that range, and it certainly hadn’t included lightsabers.

Or the Force.

The saber-wielding woman never stopped blocking shots as she turned to stare at the charging solider. Her eyes narrowed and her left hand shot forward.

It felt as if a speeder had smashed into his chest. He was hurled back through three rows of seats before slamming into the wall. Only the shoddy construction and his armor prevented a slew of cracked ribs.

Have to get up, have to get up, have to get up! Zhou refused to go out like this, but the strength to stand wouldn’t come, the air was gone from his lungs. The woman with the lightsaber had chosen her attack well, throwing his ineffectual participation in this fight full in his face.

Get your hide off the deck soldier! A voice, the voice of pride, shouted in Zhou’s head. You’d better not dishonor the Impergium by dying on your knees!

Zhou stood, unable to say how, and there was a sudden break in the Separatist’s confidence as he pulled his blaster pistol and fired down the path his hurtled body had clear moments before.

His shot was aimed not at anything vital, but down at the feet, a desperation move, attempting to split the lightsaber defense. If another fired high at the same moment it might work.

There was no one left to fire, all the security men were down, and the woman laughed as her blade dipped down and deflected the bolt up into the ceiling.

“What a waste,” a second voice, female but low and throaty, intruded.

Zhou’s eyes widened. A second woman stood behind the Separatist. She was frightfully strange.

The lightsaber snapped around, but the new arrival locked it with her right forearm, impossibly doing what durasteel could not with mere flesh. Her left hand shot forward and something like black tendrils snaked off the fingertips, piercing through flesh and bone, leaving a bloody star on the front of the Separatist’s white robes.

Zhou knew a fatal wound when he saw one, and didn’t bother watching the robed woman collapse. His eyes were glued to the new presence instead.

The tendrils she’d used to make the strike were tattoos! The Sergeants jaw dropped as they snaked back onto a slender arm and settled into place. As jaw-dropping impossible as that seemed he realized the woman was covered in the things. Excepting a few places where an armband, bracelet, or lacy frill covered the skin, the tattoos danced along arms, shoulders, chest, and neck. Only her face and her breasts, revealed by the low-cut red corset-type piece she wore, had no markings. As he stared Zhou could discern the black tattoos in their exotic lines, swirls, whorls, and symbols continued under both corset and the loose wrapped gauzy garment about her waist that merged with a double-slit red skirt traveling to just below the knees. A pair of sharp-heeled dark red leather boots took over from the ankles down.

Damn, Zhou thought. This exotic woman looked straight at him and he saw she wore some kind of strange metal fillegree connected in gold up behind her eyes, like the skeletal remnant of some helmet’s guard-piece. He suspected it served to hold the wavy mop of crimson hair away from her eyes, themselves a burning fire ember shade and reptile-slit.

Not quite human, but close, that much was obvious. In spite of himself Zhou also noted this woman’s exotic impact and fine, supple frame was stunningly attractive. Her clothing was minimal enough that he almost suspected her of flaunting like a Twi’Lek, but his soldier’s judgment said all the bare tattooed skin served a critical purpose. They had already managed to kill and block a lightsaber at least.

“Who are you?” he managed to ask when he recovered his voice. He didn’t bother to ask how she’d gotten where she was, she’d obviously slipped around in the confusion when the Separatist was distracted hurling him through chairs.

“Does it matter soldier?” her voice and carriage intimated it did not. While every other survivor was tense and rigid she seemed completely relaxed, not burning with hormonal overdrive to emotional extremes.

Nevertheless, it was a good question. There were suddenly new priorities. “Everyone to escape pods now!” Zhou’s voice rumbled. “Take the wounded! The droids won’t fire without this woman to give the order!” They simply couldn’t the sergeant knew, the programming of battle droids was such only someone with override authority could make them commit war crimes.

A flurry of activity exploded as panicked passengers dashed like mice for a chance at salvation. Zhou watched only long enough to retrieve his rifle and make sure the wounded would not be left behind. Then he turned back to the red-haired woman.

“You’re the one she,” Zhou gestured to the dead Separatist. “Thought was a Jedi, but you’re no Jedi.”

“That’s true,” her throaty voice had a continually sensual undertone, distracting and alluring at once. “Do you feel betrayed soldier?”

“Maybe,” Zhou admitted. “Why’d you wait?”

“Had I revealed myself from the start the droid assault would have worn me down as she intended,” her lips compressed with irritation. “And had I not chosen the moment of maximum distraction to act at the end she would have fled and called more droids. Servants of the Dark Side are cowardly, cornering them is difficult.”

“I see,” he did, from a tactical perspective, but was not yet satisfied. “And was her death worth our sacrifices?”

“Yes, and it is so even in your simple military reckoning soldier,” she shifted her head in a slow circle. “Do you still bear a grudge?”

“No,” Zhou was not entirely comfortable with what had happened, but combat wasn’t about comfort. He could tolerate this. “All warfare is based on deception.”

“Hmm…wise words, I like them,” she gave him a whisper of a smile. “Now, why do you not board the escape pods?”

“Can’t, the GAR must think they’re no survivors,” the sergeant explained. “We need to board the enemy vessel and send a holocom signal. There’s no habitable planets here, so the alternative is freezing to death in a pod.”

“And if you send this transmission?” she questioned.

“Then we steal a pod, or a shuttle, and get gone,” he told her.

“Do we?” She raised a red eyebrow, brushing against the golden decorations she wore. “You expect my aid Impergium soldier?”

“It’s Zhou, or Sergeant,” he replied. “And I don’t think you’ve got a death wish.”

She laughed a little, and while the sound might have been normal for her race it seemed impossibly seductive to the Sergeant. He forced himself not to leer.

“I suppose you are right Zhou,” she bent down momentarily and then tossed something at him.

He caught it in his left hand, a surprisingly heavy metal cylinder, and recognized it instantly; the Separatist’s ruby lightsaber.

“An arrogant weapon, and useless to you soldier,” she grinned a little. “But it will make an excellent lockpick.”

“Got it,” Zhou agreed, and strapped the weapon to his belt. As he walked over, mentally preparing for the likely suicide run into the enemy frigate, something continued to bother him. “If you aren’t a Jedi, then what are you?”

“My people are the Ancai,” she said languidly. “In the words of this Republic my profession is Bound Chancellor. You may call me Aracya.”

“All right Aracya,” Zhou felt better with a name to use, though it might well be false. “How should we do this?” he asked as he headed back into the cargo hold.

“I’ll take point,” there was still no urgency in her voice. “You cover me.”

From a standard tactical perspective it was madness, but Zhou realized the Force swept ordinary methodology away completely. Best to roll with it, he decided. Wincing at the pain now making its presence fully known he strode deeper into the ship.

Carefully he recorded a short text-only message for use on a GAR distress frequency. By keeping the message tiny it would be possible to get it out before the ship’s computer locked him out of whatever console they found.

“Do you know which way to go?” Zhou asked his mysterious companion. He knew the layouts of many ships, but not these Banking Clan Frigates, their design was proprietary.

“The Force is filled with the foulness of the would-be Sith,” Aracya’s voice simmered with abject distaste, possibly even suppressed hatred in her strangely unruffled fashion. “And I do not care for technical matters.”

“Okay, give me a moment to think,” the ship, glimpsed from the debris-littered hatchway, was remarkably quiet. The droids must have been returned to standby, no doubt in confusion over what to do next, the weakness of a force so heavily automated.

Zhou knew the Banking Clan Frigate’s bridge and main guns were forward. He didn’t want to head that direction. “There should be a holocom unit aft, in the engineering section near the engines. Look for concentrations of power conduits. We should be able to follow them back.”

“Very well,” Aracya did not walk as if in any great hurry, moving with almost idle carelessness, she might have been out for a stroll in a park.

“There should be a checkpoint soon,” Zhou noted, somewhat concerned. The odds could be ten against two.

As they passed a branching corridor he was proven correct, with ten of the gangly B-1 droids waiting for them.

Zhou hit the deck, firing even as he fell. Aracya exploded into motion.

Blasterfire tracked the red haired woman, but she flipped and surged in a complex pattern consistently evading their fire. Her movement was fluid, a stream of water or perhaps, given her coloring, blood, sweeping along the bulkheads.

The sergeant had put down two droids when the red haired lady spun down among them. She struck with the cool blows of a martial artist, smooth and mobile. Each strike did not crush or shatter, and limbs, knees, and elbows never physically touched metal, but droids fell gashed. The tattoos writhed along the skin surface, flaying the unlucky chunks of machinery.

It was over almost before it had begun, between Zhou’s fire and those unearthly blades of ink the droids crumpled in moments. Nevertheless the soldier’s eye noticed the heavy breathing of his feminine ally. “Tired?” he asked cautiously.

“No,” Aracya answered. “But to wield the Force with strength is not assumed or discarded without effort.”

“Does it hurt?” he recognized the question was in poor taste the moment it left his lips.

“How gallant, soldier,” she gave a throaty laugh. “No, not after they are inscribed.”

“Why tattoos anyway?” Zhou questioned, curiosity serving as a distraction from the tremendous danger they continued to face.

“The Sith use tattoos,” her voice was now serious for the very first time. “We took theirs and made it our weapon.”

It was a component of military philosophy sensible to Zhou’s mind. He knew little about Sith, except that they were ancient enemies of the Jedi and just about everyone else with a brainstem. “The Sith are your enemies then? I’ve never heard of the Ancai before though.”

“I would appreciate such things not being repeated,” Aracya’s voice returned to its normal complete lack of stress or concern. “Assuming we survive.”

“A soldier can make no promises regarding information,” the sergeant would not lie to her, easier though it might have been. “But I will endeavor to be discrete.”

She nodded casually, continuing on down the corridor.

There was no silence aboard a major military vessel, the hum of the machinery was constant in the background, but the absence of any and all noise representing activity puzzled Zhou. Muuns might be bankers and poor warriors, but there ought to have been some response. He could not imagine any sentient simply letting them stroll through the vessel unmolested. “I’m starting to wonder if there’s anyone alive here at all,” Zhou mused aloud.

He had not meant the comment for serious consideration, but Aracya suddenly stopped in mid-step. Her body briefly moved through a wave of contortions, her tattoos appearing momentarily to shine. “There is no one,” she sounded oddly satisfied. “The Force is empty.”

“Is that foolproof?” Zhou had trouble believing in pure intuition.

“A rare few can hide in the Force,” the Bound Chancellor replied, shaking her red hair. “Mostly Sith, but we are trained to detect such things.”

“Nothing but droids then?” it hardly seemed possible. Droids could handle standard fleet ops well enough, within an existing defined orders structure, but it was not wise to rely on them, and something always came up. The Confederacy’s droids weren’t exactly number one in the reasoning department either.

“No doubt the fallen one treated the ship as an extension of her will,” Aracya made a disgusted noise. “Typical of their kind’s arrogance.”

It was a reasonable, if outwardly odd, explanation. Zhou decided the minds of Force-users, even seemingly friendly and attractive ones such as his red haired ally would be best left un-probed. “We must be close,” he noted, hearing the now constant thrum of the frigate’s engines.

“And just what will we face?” the sensual languor had returned to Aracya’s voice in full force.

“Probably another checkpoint outside, and who knows how many droids in the engineering section,” Zhou reasoned.

“In this, chaos will serve us,” the tattooed woman mused. “Simply cover me, it will suffice.”

They rounded the final bend, leaving nothing but twenty meters of hallway and ten battle droids between them and the Engineering blast doors. Zhou dropped into combat posture as his companion slid instantly from total relaxation to instrument of death.

The droids were ready for them. Automatons of their kind could not be shocked by surprise in any real fashion. Still, whatever Aracya precisely was, and Zhou’s guess involved creative Force magic and the conglomeration of at least ten oppositional martial arts styles, there was no subroutine in the B-1s for dealing with it. They fired into places she wasn’t heading toward, or into areas already clearly vacated in her shifting, waltzing approach. One aspect of their programming must have identified her as a Jedi though, for they all but completely ignored Zhou.

He made them pay for that.

Only three of the ten droids survived by the time the red haired woman reached melee range. She spun about once, descending from a flying leap, and then there were none.

The pair of fighters stood before the closed blast doors, feeling the vibration of the engines beneath their feet.

“Normally you’d use an explosive charge here or a security tunneler on the door system,” Zhou muttered, shouldering his blaster rifle. “But I guess I’ll try this thing out.” He pulled the metal cylinder of the lightsaber off his belt.

“I will enter once the path is open,” Aracya explained. “You must send your signal first.” Such a course of action put her at great risk, but she gave no sign of this being at all consequential.

“Are you sure that will be manageable?” the sergeant had been seriously impressed by her combat abilities thus far, but the situation inside would doubtless be nasty.

“I have some extra tricks to use, never fear,” she laughed richly.

Zhou thumbed the activator, unleashing the glowing ruby blade. It felt strange; the balance was not like a vibrosword or any other melee weapon. He found the sensation disquieting, the blade moved with an ease almost completely casual in nature. It would be all too easy to injure an ally or oneself with such a weapon. Presumably the Jedi relied on the Force to avoid those mishaps. Zhou decided he’d settle on using the device as a powerful tool instead.

He plunged the ruby blade almost to the hilt into the blast door. Then, getting a handle on the resistance, or lack thereof as it was, began to move. The process was not entirely unfamiliar, he’d trained in using plasma torches for non-explosive insertion, the only real difference was how much easier it was with the lightsaber. Privately Zhou spared a moment to curse the Jedi’s millennia-long ownership mentality of the technology used in their weapons. He was starting to see all sorts of useful functions to the device he now held. How many soldiers had died and would continue to die because these things had been suppressed?

The sergeant did not cut forth a plug, as a Jedi might have, but instead varied the depth of his slice so the blade did not penetrate completely through on the left side. This created a hinge point, making the block of reinforced alloy far easier to move out of the way than by a straight push. “I kick, you go,” he told his companion as he pulled the saber free.

Taking a deep breath to gather his energy Zhou drew back and then unloaded an armored boot with everything he had into the door on the exhalation. “Dora!” he exulted the traditional Epicanthix battlecry in the motion.

His foot protested violently when the contact came, but the block of metal shifted enough to allow a person passage and that was what mattered.

Aracya, water released from behind a dam, sluiced past all but instantly. In his hurry, Zhou followed without even sheathing the lightsaber.

Slithering through a gap not nearly so accommodating to his powerful frame as the tattooed woman’s, the sergeant entered into chaos.

The engineering bay was a labyrinth of consoles, tubes, machinery, and components, all designed not to make sense to humanoids, but to serve a droid crew with maximum efficiency. It was filed with enemies, the gangly B-1s, armored B-2s, and even some of the squat crab models. All were firing in a crazed mess, for there were few practical firing lanes here.

Aracya swooped and dove through the chamber, moving as a predatory fish among a school of prey, but she could not close with her foes, the fire was too thick. Then she stopped, perched between a pair of vent cables high above the floor, and her whole body shivered.

Zhou watched stupefied as all the myriad tattoos seemed to move in unison and flow off the red haired woman’s body. They formed an image of a creature, lean and vaguely feline in form, in the air, a wire frame of ink somehow made substantial and deadly. The tattoo creature leapt down to fall upon a pair of battle droids, and its claws of ink sheer through durasteel as surely as any vibroblade. Aracya too, now bereft of almost all her markings and strangely luminous as a result, jumped back into the fray.

Though every emotional impulse demanded he help the woman, Zhou knew the mission came first. This battle was meaningless if his message, relaying lifepod launches and coordinates, was not received. Trying to ignore the fire he searched for the console.

Finding it was easy, getting to it required a dash across several meters of completely exposed deck. Nevertheless the droids were certainly distracted.

He sprinted, rolling at the end. A graze clipped his shoulder, but nothing serious took him. Slamming down on the key pad Zhou triggered for a holocomm message and uploaded the data from his wrist unit. The console shut down almost instantly as automated overrides activated, but not before the satisfying ping of a completed message was received.

The sergeant jerked back to the battle.

As he took in the revised scene he saw the feline creation of ink and Force take a blaster bolt to the flank. It appeared unharmed but a gasped outcry snapped his head around to see Aracya stumble and a hideous welt appear on her right leg. She curled back behind cover as a storm of fire marched along the plating toward her position.

What? The blasterfire was oddly concentrated, far more than should be possible in such disorganized arrangements. Tracing it back Zhou discovered a cluster of battle droids now stood tightly packed about a meter off the floor, perched on a major power conduit.

It was the kind of mistake droids was prone to making, and Zhou cursed his lack of grenades. A blaster bolt would not be enough to penetrate the conduit’s reflective sheathing. He’d have to try and pick the droids off one by one, but it was doubtful Aracya would survive long enough, and without her to draw fire he’d fall soon after.

Only as he started to reach for his rifle in his last stand did the sergeant remember what he was still holding.

It was desperate, but there was no reason not to try. He thumbed the lightsaber on, cocked his arm back, and threw.

The droids ignored the weapon as it sailed whirling through the air straight into the conduit’s innards.

A massive white flash heralded a shockwave driving all parties flat to the deck. Zhou, forewarned, was already rising in the next moment, opening his eyes with blaster rifle in hand. As fast as his hand could depress the trigger he sent bolts of laserfire lancing into droids struggling to regain their footing. Equally quick to react were Aracya and her creation, recognizing a whole direction of fire was gone they moved in the opposite direction with clear backsides, preternaturally fast. In a few short moments it was all over but the mopping up.

Blasting a trio of holes through the last of the Super Battle Droids Zhou felt the firing cease. He immediately, as training had taught, turned to his ally.

Aracya stood wobbly in the center of a quartet of shattered droids. She was wounded seriously, with a mess of shrapnel protruding from her right shoulder, a blaster burn on her right foot, and several of the brutal-seeming and strange welts apparently caused by damage to her tattooed creation. As he watched the feline thing, oddly crested and not any animal he’d ever seen alive or in holo, approached its mistress. She touched it with one hand and the creature disintegrated onto her flesh, forming back into the tattoos once more. It was very disturbing to watch.

When the process was done Aracya let out a long breath, smiled slightly, and collapsed to the deck.

Zhou was at her side in an instant. He did not think her wounds mortal, but the strange retributive damage was unfamiliar to him and he was wary of making any assumptions about physiology for someone not-quite-human. “Are you alright?” he asked carefully.

“I’ll mend,” she replied, and seemed amazingly calm despite the severe pain she must be experiencing. “But I doubt I can stand, the conjuring,” it was obvious she meant manifesting the animal from tattoos. “It drains so much energy.”

“No problem,” Zhou replied, sliding his arms under her. “Only a few meters to the escape pods in this section.” He made sure of his hold, and then lifted.

Aracya was not a particularly large or particularly small woman, but she was heavy for her size, her supple build being compactly muscled, as Zhou anticipated. Lifting her wasn’t easy, not with his personal collection of aching grazes and minor strikes, but it could be managed for a short distance.

“How gallant you are, soldier,” Aracya gave him a sultry smile after he set her down in the escape pod. There was a rush of noise in the next moment as the pod detached and then she added, far more serious. “Your people have great pride, but I see that it is well earned.”

“Save your energy,” Zhou told her, though he felt a glow spread through his chest at these words. Ignoring a real compliment from a gorgeous woman wasn’t easy. “I don’t understand all you injuries, but I can handle the shrapnel at least.” he pulled out his small medpack.

The red haired woman was silent for a time as he treated her, but her body seemed to relax an extra notch after the metal pieces were removed and the flesh bandaged. “That’s better,” he smiled a little. “Red looks good on you, but not as a blood splotch.”

“Red?” her response was quiet, strangely tentative. “You mean the blood? It is white to me, my kind cannot see the color you name red.”

Zhou forced away the gape he knew he was making. It was hardly a major modification, optical variation was one of the most common changes in species spreading from the human baseline, but it seemed terribly ironic given Aracya’s stunning red and black contrast. “A pity, you can’t see just how good you look in it then.”

She laughed, openly and totally unguarded, for the first time, not the seemingly artificial relaxation she imposed at other times. This reaction sparked a curiosity in the sergeant, one he felt compelled to ask about despite its awkward nature. “You seem so relaxed in combat, not intense at all,” he remarked, trying to sound casual, inoffensive. “I find it amazing how do you do it?”

“Not how, soldier, why,” Aracya answered with a touch of sorrow. “Do you know of the Dark Side?” when he nodded she continued. “Fear, anger, hate, strong emotions of this kind, all common to battle, lead to the Dark Side. They must be avoided at all costs.”

“But I’ve never heard of Jedi being so loosely calm,” he protested.

“The Jedi are foolish,” Aracya’s voice was bland, but carried an edge of contempt. “Constantly they skirt the edge. I have not that option. Should I give into my emotions, let them fill me, these tattoos, a barrier to the dark side, would take the energy inward, tearing the flesh apart. So we learn abject detachment, treating everything as of little importance.”

“Oh,’ Zhou was stunned. “I’m sorry,” the response felt wholly inadequate, but it was all he could offer. In his mind the term Bound Chancellor took on a whole new meaning. The sacrifice seeded a deep admiration for her in him.

“We should rest,” the tattooed woman’s voice took the Sergeant from his thoughts. “But first, you are not a Republic soldier. I hope you will not reveal me to them.”

“I don’t owe them any secrets,” Zhou replied firmly. His loyalty was to the Impergium, and even if that was nominally a part of the Republic he had no duty in that way. “We’ll need a cover story for you though, to explain what happened.”

“Yes,” Aracya nodded. “Any ideas soldier, I truly know little of these regions.”

The Epicanthix Sergeant had already guessed she was from some distant land, perhaps an un-contacted world in the old Sith territories, or somewhere in the Unknown Regions. It was interesting knowledge, but not presently relevant. “Probably you could claim to be a martial artist,” he thought for a moment. “Your fighting style is not close to anything I know of, but you could say you know Echani. It is favored by women, and has a fearsome enough reputation to account for events.”

“Useful advice, my thanks,” she smiled lightly. “A piece of my own; be careful about dropping things.” In her left hand, from beneath her skirt she pulled out the lightsaber.

Zhou’s jaw dropped. He’d left it by the destroyed power conduit, and neither of them had passed back that direction afterwards. What trick…

He noticed Aracya was laughing again and this time couldn’t help but join in. The Force, he shook his head, and let it go.

Some hours later, rested but feeling the full summation of their aches and pains, they were picked up by a Republic gunship and unceremoniously dumped on Eriadu, the nearest loyal system, and Zhou’s intended stopover point anyway. He had kept his agreement with Aracya, giving only terse statements to the GAR troops containing little information. The trooper, obviously far too busy to care much about a simple freighter-jacking, didn’t press. That was helpful; as the sergeant had come to the realization Aracya was the source of the attack. The Separatist woman had tracked her in the Force somehow, thinking she was a Jedi to be captured.

Now, standing on a docking platform next to his erstwhile ally, he wondered if he should confront her on the subject. No, Zhou decided at last. The Epicanthix Impergium wanted no part of this seemingly pointless Clone War, but the Sith had been enemies of theirs in ages past, so seeing one die was worth a little delay.

“I have to go arrange my transport back home,” he told her instead. “I trust you’ll be alright from here Aracya?”

She gave him a mysterious smile. “I anticipate no trouble,” she started to slowly saunter away from him, turning quite a few heads in the crowded spaceport. “Your aid was greatly contributive Zhou Thike, perhaps, if the Force wills, we may meet again.” She raised a hand to her lips and then blew him a kiss before turning away.

The action sent such a ripple of shock through him Aracya was already gone from sight by the time he recalled he’d never given out his family name. In the end, after considering the matter, he simply shrugged. For a man not at war he’d gotten to conduct a fine little bit of soldiering and with a beautiful woman at his side no less, there was not much more to ask.

Except, Zhou realized with a wry grin, I’m going to need a real creative justification in order to keep the lightsaber. Shrugging again he went to acquire passage on another transport. He’d think of something on the last hyperspace leg home.