Chapter 37

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.”

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“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.