Chapter 36

Onderon, Japrael System

Japrael Sector

Iziz. The oldest, largest, greatest, and perhaps the only city of Onderon, as far as the galaxy was concerned. But there were more–many, many more–hiding away in the impenetrable wilds of the planet. Most were Beast Rider settlements–descendants of criminals who were exiled from the walls of Iziz. Most perished in the thousands of years following, but I think the Beast Riders themselves would prefer the phrase ‘faded into obscurity.’

Can’t exactly blame them. Still, the Onderonian Space Force was tasked with keeping tabs on them, and our relationship was going along quite swimmingly.

The more contentious people, on the other hand, were the Untamed. The Beast Riders had somewhat settled down after the Kiran Peace four millennia ago, but there were the quarrelsome few who didn’t fancy the idea of being civilised. So they fucked off into the hinterlands, beyond even the reach of the Beast Riders, and called themselves the Untamed. Bunch of lunatics.

As the White Hand Fleet sailed over the rooftops of Iziz, a single glance out the viewports brought back memories of the city. First built to ward off man-eating fauna, Iziz has grown into a beast of a city, with walls so thick and tall they appeared carved out of the mountaintop that the city straddled. Despite the fact that the walls rose sheer from the mountainside, with no telling where they ended and earth began, it was obvious they had been designed for an older age of warfare.

Bristling with ravelins and bastions, with the only approach being a bridge spanning an impossibly deep gorge, the city was virtually unassailable from the ground, and the threat of Demon Moon raids were a bygone memory to the four million souls within. Because even if the odd drexl slipped past the Onderonian Space Force, the innumerable battlestations atop the bastions of Iziz remained ever-vigilant.

Not that they have shot a single round in a thousand years. But the Wave Gunner Corps remains, because no matter how much the galaxy tries to export culture and technology to this world, no matter how hard the Kings of Onderon try to uplift us from this stagnation–this mad planet will always be held back by its own cultural psyche.

Masonry and carpentry are still booming industries, with not a single speckle of grey permacrete or glinting transparisteel in sight. You could count each individual brick in the walls of every house and castle. The Royal Army still used laser lances as their standardised weapon, for fuck’s sake. Onderonians were xenophobic, isolationist, and culturally incapable of taking ideas from other cultures, whether it be military or art. We may as well be suspended in the galaxy’s definition of the mediaeval era.

The city walls, the architecture; that brutal massiveness of Iziz that made the place wholly Onderonians… was all the physical manifestation of that psyche.

The people didn’t care; they’ve lived the same way for four-thousand years. But the noble houses? They’ve been painstakingly promoting uplift for so damn long, trying to finally bring Onderon out of its stagnation, to catch up with the rest of the galaxy. So when King Ramsis Dendup insisted on neutrality in the Clone Wars, the Council of Lords finally snapped. They deposed him, and naturally sided with the faction that offered greater economic incentives: the Separatist Alliance.

You know, if I didn’t know anything about the Separatists beforehand, I would have been a hardcore supporter of the coup. But knowing the truth behind the Separatist Alliance… well, in the end I still have to make something out of this shit sandwich.

Strolling out of the Iziz Starport and into the hazy, noisy streets of Iziz was like a punch of nostalgia. The myriad, pungent scents of spices and perfumes mixed and mingled in the air along with the grunting of burdenbeasts lumbering through open plazas. Gilded repulsorlift carriages dragged by dalgos pushed aside the teeming crowds, many a symbol of lordly house emblazoned on their flanks, riding hard up the mountain slope towards the Unifar Temple. To me, Iziz felt like a miracle when I first saw it.

Or rather, it had been a miracle.

Memories of youth; dashing through these cobbled streets, ducking under the strides of fambaas, waving up at ruping riders soaring just over the rooftops. Memories of adolescence; honouring the dirges in the Hall of the Spirits, and studying the arts among Ov Taraba’s hallowed halls. It was downright fantastical. Now, battle droids patrolled the streets and watched over the people from totem pole watchtowers, and ray shield gates cordoned off sections of the city. That had been Dooku’s price, and I’m not sure if it was worth it.

My shuttle whirred as it lifted back into the air and towards the fleet that most citizens had took to gawking and pointing fingers at, while at the same time my honour guard of fifty Dxunian warbeasts and twice as many Onderonian rupings plunged towards the Unifar Temple to await my arrival.

I stepped into the repulsorlift carriage, double-checking that my burdensome cape remained firmly on my shoulders and not caught in the door. As the dalgo started on its leisurely traipse up the sky ramp, I poked my head out the window to marvel at my destination. If Iziz was built around a mountain, then the Unifar Temple was the mountain peak itself. The Royal Palace once stood there, but after its collapse the Temple was built in its place, to serve mostly the same function.

As for why it was a temple, that would be because its construction was sponsored by the state-sponsored religion; the Unifras Sect. Functionally, however, the Unifras was just another marketing stunt by the Council of Lords to promote xenophilia and draw in more offworld visitors via Onderon’s latent tourism potential. After all, there was no shortage of nature lovers out there, and all Unifras had to do was build ‘shrines’ at the many scenic locations of the planet.

“Best keep your head in, sir,” a female voice–the carriage driver, presumably–called from outside, “Nobles aren’t all too popular these days.”

“And why is that?” I took her advice, and leaned back into the cushioned seat.

“They brought the war to Onderon,” the driver answered.

So, it was as I thought; “It’s the droids, isn’t it?”

“It feels more like occupation than security.”

I frowned. The driver sounded familiar… it’s probably someone I knew.

“What rank are you?” I asked abruptly.

The driver didn’t answer. I huffed silently.

Soon enough, I was forced to lean back as the sky ramp grew ever steeper and winding, with the noise and smell retreating behind us. In replacement, the air grew colder and wind louder, and that’s when I knew we were rising above the lower city and into the upper quarters. Peeking out of the silk windows, I swiftly made out the lordly estates that clung onto the slope, jutting out from the mountainside like blocky, artificial cliffs. The Bonteri Estate was somewhere around here, I figured.

Higher yet, the honour guard of flying beasts had entered a circular holding pattern around the Temple. Almost like vultures around a wounded falumpaset, I couldn’t help but think, how most fittingly foreboding.

“There’s an insurgency fermenting,” the driver warned once we were in the less populated section of the city, “Something about re-installing Dendup. They’ve got a camp in the southern jungles, but we don’t know where exactly.”

I had held back a snort. At least fight for abolishing the monarchy, or something, not just replacing one absolute monarch with another. Ramsis Dendup isn’t even the enlightened kind, just an old and conservative man who wishes to maintain the status quo. Then again, abolishing a four millennia old monarchy was easier said than done. Every King of Onderon since the Kiran Peace were members of an unbroken lineage tracing back to Oron Kira.

Sure, the cogs of aristocratic politics turn, and noble houses sit and vacate the throne like taking turns on a carousel, but the blood remains. Both Ramsis Dendup and the incumbent Sanjay Rash can trace their bloodline back to Oron Kira, as can a hundred other people. It’s been four-thousand years; the entire Royal Court may as well have royal blood.

“Is that so?” I humoured her, “How did you find out?”

“The rebels are much too free with their rupings–” The driver realised she had slipped up, and immediately cut herself off.

“…Huh.”

Rupings, hm? They were the swoop bikes of Onderon; four-eyed, carnivorous, and deathly loyal to their riders, they were dime a dozen in the Royal Army–including the Space Force–and as it appears, the rebels as well. Except, not everyone could ride a ruping, for obvious reason, and the Army is always on the lookout for those who might be up to some mischief.

The terrain levelled out, and the carriage drifted to a halt, repulsors weakening to lower it to the ground. The woman who opened the door had an odd, wobbly gait–almost as if she was wholly unfamiliar to solid ground. Her armoured uniform was bronze and gold, and the device of the Space Force was emblazoned on her shoulder.

“These rebels,” I continued the conversation even as I stepped out, “I’d imagine they are in a bit of panic right now.”

“Not everyday a warfleet darkens the sky of Iziz,” the driver agreed, “They must be trying to evacuate the city as fast as possible.”

I swallowed a murderous grimace, finally recognising her, “Can I leave them to you, Lieutenant Mishar?”

“Captain, now,” she corrected, placing a hand on her hip, “Someone had to fill in the hole you left.”

Captain, then. The last time I saw her, Verala Mishar was the rider of a particularly violent Dxunian raptor that was as deeply red as her hair. I, for one, would have never tried my hand at a skreev or drexl, instead settling for a rather tame ruping I named Nausicaa. Before I left for Raxus, I set her loose into the wild, as was tradition. I had to admit she was a lovable thing, and hoped she was doing well. In any case, Mishar served in Royal Intelligence in the Army, before the Officer’s Coup resulted in her being transferred to the Space Force, along with the rest of us.

“I thought they would have chosen Vander,” I muttered.

“I’ll have you know Vander also got promoted. He’s the boss of his own warbeast, now,” Mishar glanced upwards in a mild double-take, “Ah, here he comes.”

“You’ll have to fill me in the details later,” I patted the dalgo and urged it to move aside before it found itself in the stomach of a demon, “But before that, I’ll need you to find a lead on the insurgents.”

I tossed her a comlink, which she deftly caught with a raised eyebrow, “Is that an order?”

“Like old times, unfortunately. I’ll fill you in on the details later, so keep an eye on that comlink.”

The remark earned me a bruise on my shoulder, “It’s only been a year, Admiral. Get over yourself.”

The world darkened as a monstrous shadow passed overhead, nearly knocking us off our feet. With a furious gust of wind, a hundred foot long Dxunian warbeast set down almost right on top of us. It took everything I had to not piss myself–maybe I would have, had this been my first encounter. The first time… the memory flashed before my eyes, of staring down a monster straight from the pits of Hell, its scissor-like mandibles snapping as if eager to snap off in two before defiling my corpse with its maw full of squirming, snarling feelers.

The creature was an unwieldy beast on the ground; possessing no legs, it was forced to half-drag, half-slither on the ground using its colossal, clawed arms and serpentine tail–the same tail that ended in a man-sized stinger capable of killing a adult hragscythe in a single jab.

This was the monster that earned the Demon Moon its infamous moniker, and the reason the Space Force didn’t expand its fighter corps beyond its cache of existing Aurek-class tactical fighters. Why would we, when our warbeasts could grow to the size of a krayt dragon and shrug off anything less than a turbolaser bolt with its jagged, brutal carapace?

The rider of this particular warbeast, Captain Vander, peeked his head over the top of his drexl’s huge shoulder blade in an almost comical juxtaposition, “You need to get a move on, sir! We’d all like to catch up, but you’re the star of the show today! The King’s waiting!”

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

He has a son, I recalled, of… seven years? Generally, only madmen or daredevils go anywhere near even a tamed drexl, much less a father. But Vander was a particularly nut case.

I shot Captain Mishar a strained look, “Looks like I won’t be able to get over myself just yet. Just do what I ask. You can call it a favour.”

“Glad I won’t be there to see it,” she grinned, waving my comlink, “Oh, and, just for you? I’ll deal with this personally.”

“She has always been on top of things! Just trust us, Bonteri; we’ve been in this business much longer than you!” with a good-humoured scoff and a furious gust of wind, Vander;s warbeast blasted back into the air, releasing a deafening shriek that seemed to make Iziz shudder down to its primordial bones. I thought it was only natural, for in older times, that very cry had only been known as the herald of death and blood.

Gripping my shoulder to keep the damn cape from ripping off my shoulders, I continued climbing the steps with weak legs, trying–and failing–to rid the drexl’s grotesque, four beady-eyed visage from my mind’s eye. Warbeasts had a way of occupying your thoughts and nightmares forever, which I supposed was why the Beast-Lords took such a liking to them.

Thankfully, the image didn’t last, as it was soon replaced with the resplendent garments of the Paladins; the palace guards. With a stiff bow of greeting, their mirror-polished pauldrons glinting in artificial firelight as they folded in lockstep behind me in the rapidly filling colonnade leading up the Royal Court.

It was painfully obvious that in his eagerness to display the glory of Onderon to the galaxy, King Sanjay Rash had dressed his entire palace in the brightest finery his domain possessed. The great bronze doors groaned open, and the crowd flooded in like an overgrown brush of purple kings’ crowns, with all the brilliantly lavender Onderon silk–one of the few exports the planet was renowned for–styled into capes and woven into ostentatious dresses.

It was a far cry from the austere days of Sanjay’s predecessor, Ramsis, when the nobles wore only the white and gold of the House of Dendup and the walls remained spartan of heroic frescoes and dazzling drapes. The Royal Court used to be the sacred temple of the dynasty, and thus nobles could only wear the colours of the ruling house, but these days it was all about cultural splendour. Not quite the bad look, if one could forget that we were at war.

It was only after the Court was filled in that the Paladins bade me on. With their wholly enclosed helms and tight-gripped laser lances, I felt more akin to a prisoner than a lord as I walked on. I took in the immense height of the building, the arched roof with its buttresses of stone and rafters of dxunwood, the huge hanging lamps and baskets of purple kings’ crowns, and the banners and streamers that fluttered with every shade of rainbow hue.

Horns blared to herald my arrival, followed by the chamberlain’s announcement; “Presenting the Lord Admiral Rain of the House of Bonteri!”

Lord Admiral… sounds better than Lord Captain, I had to give it that. The banners whipped before a sudden gust of chilly, mountain air, catching my attention. House of Rash, House of Dendup, House of Kaa, House of Tiree, House of Petryph, House of Tandin, House of Oarr… and yet, no House of Bonteri– actually, two attendants were frantically unfurling the pale purple and teal of my house just as marched past. Which meant, somewhat surprisingly, that neither Mina or Lux were among the watching faces in the galleries.

The only other house to conspicuously ignore the royal summons was the House of Kira, but nobody really dared to fuck with them.