Mandalore's Open Orbit

Coming from the direction of the MandalMotors shipyards, a brand new Beviin-Class Cruiser pushes its engines to the redline on a final space trial before being handed over officially to her new owner. The vessel's interior still smells of polish, paint and cleaning fluids, the hallways filled with the sound of her engines with the squeaky whine of brand new propulsion units stretching their space legs for the first time.

The vessel's new master, standing on the bridge with the MandalMotors crew, observing her first flight, looked on with pride. So far young Reyn Australis, 23 years of age, was impressed. He watched the crew work from behind his red T-visor, replying to the MandalMotors rep with nods or shakes of the head, keeping a silent vigil.

Secure inside his buy'ce, Reyn commed his father, Kaine.

::Buir?:: After a moment, Kaine answered.

::No, you can't borrow the Boar.:: Reyn's smile could be heard in his voice. ::No need. Look out the window.::

A short silence, then Kaine's voice came back. ::Colour me impressed.:: A pause. ::Wasn't cheap, was it?:: The Alor asked his son, a little gingerly.

Kaine had offered to purchase a ship for each of the children. He had been thinking of fighters or freighters when he said it, and had not put any caveats or sensible limits. A moment of worry clutched at Kaine as he wondered what the hell the less sensible of his brood had bought, but it was too late.


::Not even a bit.:: Replied Reyn without even a hint of shame, knowing what his Buir was thinking. ::Thanks Buir.:: Reyn commed off. The MandalMotors rep had stopped talking.

He'd have to have them paint the ship before he took ownership of it, slate gray wasn't his colour. Soon enough. And he'd have to come up with a name...

Comm transmission from the Wild Boar, currently docked at the MandalMotors shipyards in orbit.

::Honorable Judgement, you are cleared to dock at the MandalMotors yards, Marshal Australis is expecting you.::

Landing coordinates are sent to the XS freighter.

Cique Claybourne

[ Mandy | Bridge | Mandalore's Open Orbit | Gozanti-class Scout Cruiser, The Green Purrgil ]

“Wake up, kid,” said a low, gravelly voice. It was muffled, almost distorted.

She didn't want to wake up. Her chest was in so much pain. She struggled to draw breath.

A beeping noise made her open her eyes, and she looked at the console before her. She frowned, struggling to become familiar with this position. She had never sat in the pilot's seat before. She was always the co-pilot. Markas taught her how to fly this ship, but she had never herself taken the pilot's seat before. She'd never had to.

Because Markas Yedron never would fly ever again....

Her vision became blurry, and her face contorted, the lips curling downwards with light spasms. The throbbing pain in her chest was almost physical. And she did not understand it. She'd only felt like this, and in this much pain when she was younger. When the Jedi still had her and trained her...beat her.

She let her mind wander again after she tended to the beeping beacon, which notified her that she was nearing her destination, and she thought back to when the old man and her officially met.

She'd very slowly opened her eyes, her vision blurred by the fluids she was floating in. There was a mask over her mouth and nose that provided her with oxygen. Each breath felt torturous, and she flinched. There was something coating her body from within that created a strange cooling sensation. The Mandalorian had seen her movements and her open eyes, and nodded.

“Don't know what you were thinking, pullin' a stunt like that. It was both very brave,” his mouth twisted at the last part, to a scowl, “and mind-numbingly stupid. You could have died.”

Yes, she very much knew that. It was the goal, the expected end result. She was a weapon, a tool. Nothing more. When her master had died, she found herself very abruptly adrift, without purpose, without a goal. A blaster with its trigger pulled, but nobody aiming it, and no actual target or destination. She wandered aimlessly, and stumbled upon the Mandalorian, locked in deadly combat with a massive rogue Imperial War Droid.

She frowned at the man now, his helmet was removed, and she could see his nearly shoulder length greying hair, the lines and scars on his aged face. Something in her expression must have conveyed her sentiments, because his eyes widened, then narrowed, “You did want to die, didn't you?”

She simply stared at him. What would he do with this knowledge? Perhaps take her out of the bacta tank and let her expire? She wouldn't even fight him. She had no strength for it the way she was anyhow. He pressed his palm against the transparasteel, gazing at her with an expression she had never seen before. She would later learn that it was a mixture of concern and compassion. “What in the blazes did you go through that would make a kid like you throw your life away?”

Even if she could talk, she doubted she would have been able to give him an answer...since she had none.

She was thirteen, and Markas had introduced himself. He'd seen the old scars that riddled her young body. She had very little on while she was in the bacta tank, the marks and ligatures on her neck, wrists and ankles told anyone with a lick of sense that she had nothing resembling an ideal childhood. In her own way, she was protected, because she never knew anything else. She didn't know that nobody was treated like her. He told her that the Mandalorians could have a tough, even harsh upbringing, but they were not without compassion, kindness, love...

She knew the Jedi teachings, but the few times she mentioned the tenets she had been taught by her masters, Markas' jaw dropped. Eventually, he'd told her never to talk about it ever again, nor even think about it.

He'd never insisted on knowing her name, since she didn't seem to have one or know it. She did in fact have a name. Aoife (EE-FAH) Qal-Dragoran. But since her master mostly called her "You!" "Girl!" or "Animal!", she had all but abandoned her own name by the wayside.

With a mirthless chuckle, Markas bestowed her the name Mandy, as in Mandalorian.

It was far better a name than most things she'd been called by the Jedi Masters of her temple, so she accepted it. She accepted a lot of things easily.

Markas had given her direction, purpose, something to strive for once more.

Warm liquids trailed down her cheeks as she brought the Green Purrgil out of hyperspace, and the world of Mandalore floated before her. It looked beautiful. Better than the holoimage Markas had shown her. She distractedly dabbed her cheeks with a finger, wondering what was afflicting her. She didn't like this pained feeling in her chest. It was different from the permanent lung damage she had from her exposure to the corrosive fumes of the Imperial War Droid. This pain was like an ache. And there was a numb quality to it. She was also unable to control her breathing properly. Every now and then she made a short, audible gasp, and her breath hitched. Again, nothing to do with her injury.

It must be one of the "feelings" or emotions that Markas spoke to her about many times, often with a look at disbelief when she questioned him about the odd sensations she sometimes felt.

“You flippin' my gizka steak, kid?” he asked her once, “you're sayin' you can't tell that you're feelin' frustrated? Angry? Happy???”

She knew the words, but often, she did not comprehend what he'd been trying to get at. She knew emotions, she just didn't know how to associate the words for them. She drifted in her memories again as she adjusted the ship's thrusters to bring her closer to the orbital range of the world.

They were on a tiny unnamed moon. It had been four years...almost five. She wore a breathing mask almost all the time. It was the only way to keep the pain down to bearable levels. Without it, her lungs felt like they were on fire and like she was swallowing glass shards with each breath. He had bequeathed her with a few gifts that helped her when she accompanied him on his tasks or missions.

Markas was not a conventional mercenary. He lived more for the challenge than the credits offered. If he needed supplies or food, he was often skilled enough to obtain the resources from the wilds of most worlds.

He promised her that she would be given her own Beskar'gam when they made a circuit back to Mandalore. She didn't really care one way or another, and besides, they never really found the time to do that. There was always a new mission, a new quest. Someone in need of people like them. So she learned to make do. Considering that before meeting Markas, she had gotten by on the clothes on her back and a lightsaber, Mandy was quite versatile with or without weapons. But he had insisted that she wear and use the Mandalorian Vambraces he'd made for her. It was quite a piece of technology, coupled with her previous Jedi training, and Markas' own training in the Mandalorian ways, she became quite proficient in ranged and melee combat.

The end came far too quickly for Markas. Though he'd never said it, he had more or less adopted the girl as his own daughter. He taught her the language, he taught her as much of the culture and skills of the Mandalorians in the few years they were together. But on that nameless moon, where the Twi'lek colony was terrorized by pirates, led by of all things, a Moggonite, named Racua Khianat.

It turned out Markas and Racua had a bitter history. The Moggonite had escaped capture by the Mandalorian six times. It had always been close, but the Moggonite had the advantage of numbers, which he used to great effect. With Mandy on his side, now, though, the tables were turned.

Markas was free to continue his pursuit of Racua and his bodyguards personally, whilst Mandy remained with the village to fend off the rest of the pirates. When she was done, she'd raced after Markas, and was in time to witness the two old foes locked in their final battle.

It ended with Markas killing the Moggonite, but not before the diminutive alien had stuck his own blaster under the vulnerable point of the Mandalorian's armour, and inflicted a fatal wound.

Mandy distantly heard an agonized scream, later realizing it was her screaming. She'd rushed to Markas' side, drawing on the Force as she once did, and tried to heal the wound, but she could feel the old man's life fading away. With the last of his consciousness, he uttered his final word to her as he stroked her cheek with the back of his hand, “...Return...”

And just like that, he was gone. She laid her head against his still chest, crying, and pleading, “Come back...come back...wh-what is my mission? What is my mission?”

Markas said nothing. The villagers helped her bring his body back to the ship. They'd begged her to take more than what was agreed upon as payment. She'd not even responded as she crossed the boarding ramp, intending to leave. But a girl her age pressed something into her palm, and only when she had left orbit did she even look at the object. It was a sizable cut gem of brilliant emerald. Ryll, she belatedly realized.

It might very well be worth more than anything the entire village had collectively tried to get her to take.

She had let it fall to the floor of the bridge, and it lay there, forgotten.

She did not understand Markas' request. What did he want her to return? After days of deliberating, she'd decided that he wanted to be returned to Mandalore, and had begun her journey. Having his body nearby was an odd comfort, despite knowing that he was gone for good. She almost felt reluctant to bring him here. They would take him away from her. Maybe they would take the ship and even the vambraces she wore.

He said she was Mandalorian as much as he was. But she had never met another Mandalorian aside from him. Would they even acknowledge her as one? Would her deeds make her worthy of the clan? Of any clan?

She was within orbit now, and she turned on her ship's transponder for identification, and she spoke not in her raspy, hoarse voice, but a recorded voice modulator of Markas', “This is Markas Yedron, of the Green Purrgil, requesting permission to land.”

She closed her eyes, as more tears fell, and the ache in her chest intensified to an actual physical pain. Hearing his voice again, even as a recording, brought her more anguish than all the beatings she had taken as a child from the Jedi. She sat still and waited for the response.

A few minutes later the Honorable Judgment cleared the gravity well and leaped to hyperspace

Emerging from hyperspace along the major hyper lane that passed through the system, a fairwind style transport decelerated from lightspeed travel, coming to a slow sublight speed as it angled towards the planet. Its transponder codes registered it as the 'Lack of Faith II', currently belonging to a Captain Bey Kahn. Aboard the bridge of the ship that so resembled a sailing vessel of old, was the old boar himself, seated in the command chair that had been improvised from when the crew used to keep a wookiee aboard. Well, he was a half wookiee, as Ol'Cap'n Tarfang used to like to jest. The Gamorrean leaned forwards in his seat, trying to get a look at the display screen of his first mate, Chestnut, an ewok of exceptional skill and endless supply of humour. Bey Kahn scratched his head as he got a glimpse of the planet. As he squealed a query to the glossy furred ewok in gamorrese, the tactical droid head hanging from his hip translated his words into galactic basic.

So that's Mandalore, huh? I thought it would be... He leaned back, staring at the view port thoughtfully. ...well, I guess I don't know what I was expecting. Pa never spoke about it much.

Chestnut: "You want us to take her in, Cap'n?"

Yeah, that was exactly what he wanted. He had taken a roundabout way to get here ever since he and the crew had escaped Taris, but eventually they had arrived at the home world of his adopted father, Sloan Skirata. If you asked the old smith why exactly he had wanted to come, he probably wouldn't have been able to give you a straight answer. The truth was as he got older, he felt an urge to better understand the man that raised him. Sloan had practically taught him all he knew, then he died, leaving a young boar to find his way in the galaxy.

Sure, let's do that. The sooner we land the sooner we can find some place to get a drink.

König was seated at a holotable in the strategium at the rear of Invincible Reason's command bridge. He was overseeing starfighter exercises taking place in the space between Mandalore and the moon of Concordia, as his flagship sat at anchor near one of Mandalore's lagrange points.

The battle exercises had been running twice a day for a week, and the pilots were working towards the end of the series, and a well-earned rest break. The current engagement was almost complete, with two fighters remaining. Claw leader was pursuing Fang seven with purpose, and the end seemed to be nigh. In a flash, the older pilot in Fang seven pulled a beautiful high-G pivot turn with no warning, and as Claw leader's Fury flew past, she painted his fighter from nose to tail with low-power shots.

König spoke into the squadron-wide comm. "Good shooting Fang seven. You're dead, Claw leader." Silence followed, restrained jubilance from Seven, while König pictured Claw leader swearing up a storm in his cockpit. He spoke into the quiet. "Everyone pay attention and learn from Claw lead's mistake. If the enemy does something unexpected, don't try and maintain your lock. Get out of the line of fire before you try to reacquire." No one argued, which for fighter pilots was tantamount to agreement. "Nice work everyone, bring yourselves on home."

The exercise terminated, the pilots formed back up into their squadrons, and returned to Invincible Reason's hangars, to swap stories, and to pound beers. Wagers would be settled, and the tales would grow ever more exaggerated into the evening. König was pleased with the level of dedication shown by his pilots, as well as the Invincible Reason's crew. Seasoned now, they had gelled as a team, and conducted themselves professionally, making their commander very proud of them all.