Chapter Text
Two Months Later
Pink morning light crept through the messily drawn curtains of Qymaen’s bedchamber, crawling across his closed eyes, as disruptive as a soft, inquisitive knock on the door. He mumbled slumber-steeped syllables and draped the crook of his elbow over his face, blocking out the light. Both Siduri and Ilona had passed the night with him, not a common practice before their move to Irikuum, but nowadays the whole of his family clung to what they had. Siduri only shifted in her sleep, but Qymaen’s movement stirred Ilona awake.
Sighing, she rolled over in the pile of hides and watched Qymaen doze for a minute. With one hand she reached out, slipping beneath the covers and touching his rising and falling chest. Her thumbs traced his prominent ribs and clavicles, a heavy-hearted examination that didn’t improve as she trailed south and her palm dipped into his concave stomach.
The last pakozri was long gone, partitioned among the remaining villagers of Irikuum and every last scrap consumed. No more pakozri had been seen since the small herd they’d tracked down two months earlier; the remnants had likely been hunted down by other desperate villages. The children had not eaten more than a few mouthfuls of tubers in two days; herself and the other wives had eaten less than that for three days; for Qymaen, it had been a week since he’d taken what could be considered a meal.
Despite his concerning physical state, she was at least grateful that he had made improvements mentally in the last several weeks. For as little as they spoke directly of what had happened the evening of the storm, his wives, children and clan kin nevertheless made it quite clear that the changes they made in their day-to-day lives revolved around providing support for him however they could. He was never alone, but the children were well-practiced in giving their father space if he needed it. His wives involved him in chores when he felt well, and one of them would sit with him in his dark, quiet bedroom when he didn’t. Nulahu visited almost daily and took tea with him, using their time together to make gentle conversation and perfect her herbal blends until, after a few weeks, his unpredictable moods began to stabilize. At that point, Zaebar also visited and convinced Qymaen to join him beyond the outskirts of the village, if not for futile hunts then for target practice or Lig exercises.
And, slowly, Qymaen started to seem like himself again. No more mention of voices in his head. No more silent spells where he would sit for hours and do nothing. No more abrupt outbursts, bouts of panic or waking nightmares. It all began to fade like a dream.
Ilona knew better than to believe all was well, however. She remembered that night, years earlier, during her first week at the Khanagal. His breakdown. The nightmare that wasn’t a nightmare. If such a thing had happened then, so long ago and so devastating, she had no reason to expect it would never happen again. She also had good reason to suspect that such a dramatic reaction only occurred during times of intense stress—and their current straits were hardly conducive to alleviating such stressors.
Gods, they needed food.
As she lay in bed, feeling Qymaen’s heartbeat, she raised a silent prayer to the ancestors for a blessing— any blessing, no matter how far-fetched. A successful hunt. A good rain. An unexpected advent of the Khagan’s followers, making the pilgrimage to his birth village to bring him tribute. A catastrophic event to wipe out every last Huk in the galaxy and free Kalee from these odious sanctions.
A clang of the warning bell out in the village square.
Both Qymaen and Siduri jolted awake, the former clambering across the bed to thump to the floor in front of the window. He thrust his head outside, looking for danger.
Several villagers had already flocked onto the street, some only partly dressed, jabbering and huddling together as they moved en masse toward the western entrance. One of the villagers spotted Qymaen at the window. “Sahuldeem! A starship landed outside the village! There are lu-kubdallam—they have blasters, but they haven’t attacked yet!”
Metal men.
Droids.
Spitting a stream of profuse curses, Qymaen ducked back inside and began ripping the room apart to clothe himself as quickly and sufficiently as possible. In his haste, he yanked on only his hunting leathers. No time for his wrappings or dulhlava. As he dressed, he fired off terse instructions to his wives, who both huddled wide-eyed on the bed. “Keep the children inside. And you stay in, as well. Don’t follow me. If you hear blaster fire, barricade yourselves in the cellar and make sure the children stay quiet.”
Ilona nodded vigorously. “Of course. Be safe, Qymaen.”
“They said there were metal men,” Siduri said, deeply troubled. “The Huk have never sent metal men. Is—is this the Republic? The Jedi?”
“That’s what I’m going to find out.” Snatching up his old clan cloak and slinging it around his shoulders, he paused for a moment by the wall in his quarters upon which his twin Lig swords were mounted, crossed with decorative pomp, notched where two lightsabers had melted the kuluha, and briefly considered grabbing them on his way out. He had used them little since his shameful defeat at the hands of the Jedi Masters. They didn’t serve him well as hunting tools, after all. Today, he wondered if they would be useful against the bodies of the metal men. With sufficient strength—or in the hands of a clever swordsman—kuluha-forged Lig blades sliced with ease through Huk chitin; metal, he found, put up more resistance.
Instead of taking up his swords, he emerged empty-handed from his sleeping quarters and burst into the main chamber to find Zena already waiting for him, brandishing his kakmusme in one hand and his Czerka Outland in the other.
“The bell woke the children,” she said plainly. “They’re still in their room. Shahulla is keeping them occupied for now.” She lifted his mask and his slugthrower. “Go and make sure they have nothing to be afraid of, would you?”
Maybe a slug to the head worked as well for droids as it did for Huk. Giving her a curt nod, he slung on his rifle and strapped his kakmusme into place. “Stay here, no matter what happens. Keep the children safe.”
“Try not to die,” she muttered as he swept out the front door without a backward glance.
Outside his home and out on the road, Qymaen approached the mass of villagers, pushing them aside and berating them for their reckless curiosity. “Lug huul, stay away from the gate! Do you want to get shot?”
“They have shot no one!” protested one young villager.
“What if they’re here to help?”
“Let Sahuldeem pass!”
Zaebar already stood at the head of the pack, nearest the archway of the western gate, armed with a pair of macrobinoculars. He welcomed the sight of his cousin with a heavy sigh of relief. “Right there, about a kilometer out. Unknown shuttle. Two dozen metal men disembarked, began to advance, then stopped half a klick away. They have weapons—blasters, from the look of it—but they’re holding them at their sides. I think...I think they’re waiting for us.”
“For me, more likely,” Qymaen corrected him darkly, gazing out across the former meadow toward the gleam of metal in the distance. “Can’t be a coincidence, can it?”
Zaebar’s posture drooped. “You don’t know that they’re here for you.”
Qymaen found himself shivering slightly in the morning air and preferred to believe it was due to the lack of extra insulation of his dulhlava and his limb wrappings rather than any failing of nerves on his part. This was not how he imagined he would face down his captors, in the end—enervated and lightheaded from his bone-deep hunger, half-dressed in his leathers, so weak he knew his thin arms would shake and protest the weight of his own rifle when he used it.
But he had pledged to himself that they would not take him away without a fight.
“You don’t know,” Zaebar repeated with more urgency, reading his cousin’s expression from beneath his kakmusme, dreading the mix of resignation and determination he saw glinting in his eyes.
“Stay here,” Qymaen said. “Keep everyone back.”
“Qy. Don’t.”
“Of course they’re here for me. But I don’t know if the Huk, the Republic or the Jedi are behind this. So, I’ll go find out. Alone,” he emphasized when Zaebar began to protest. “They came for me . No one else here needs to be involved. This is my…” He cut himself off abruptly, retreating into his thoughts for a moment. The voices no longer hissed and seethed blame at him, at least not with the same vicious intensity that had culminated in a night he’d sooner forget. He could override them, nowadays. So he did. “This is my fight,” he amended, and even Zaebar could hear his grim smile.
Zaebar understood the futility of further argument, but nevertheless plunged his hand into a pocket and fished out a spare, cracked comlink. “Fine. You go on ahead, but I’ve got your back whether you want it or not. I’ll be watching. Keep me updated, if you can.” Pressing the comlink into Qymaen’s reluctantly outstretched hand, he then traded his macrobinoculars for the rifle he himself rarely used, stepping back to position himself behind the waist-high wall that encircled the village.
Qymaen bit back his thanks. Somehow, saying “thank you” felt like an admission of what this shuttle probably represented—that such parting words carried the meaningful weight of a final farewell. Rather, once he’d tucked the comlink away, he turned his back to his cousin and walked out through the gate of Irikuum as if setting off on a morning stroll. Sounds of quiet protest erupted behind him, but his flicked ears heard Zaebar shushing them, warding off anyone from pursuing.
As he approached the droids, they all lifted their heads in unison. Still some several meters away, his step faltered and ceased as he examined these unwanted visitors.
These droids were...different.
While TC-23 had been made in the obvious likeness of humanoids, these spindly beings, while also bipedal, possessed narrow, elongated faces that tapered at the end of their snouts. It reminded Qymaen rather of a juleem. Their tall, lanky bodies were painted predominantly a pale beige, but they also sported crimson components, not unlike the color of the pigment Kaleesh often used for marking their kakmusmal. As he soon learned, they had not been engineered with diplomacy or relations in mind—and not only for the obvious, disconcerting fact that they were all armed with blaster weapons.
“What is your business here?” he called out to them, alert and wary.
One of the droids stepped stiffly forward to address him, and to its credit it did not point its weapon in his direction. However, its words were a garbled blend of Kaleesh and Basic. “Greetings! Are you the Kaleesh known as General Grievous?”
Fighting his impulse to sigh in exasperation at its poorly-executed attempt at communication, he glared and demanded, “Who wants to know?” Droids were not autonomous. Someone had sent them, and if it was indeed who he feared, he would soon find out how his slugs fared against the metallic skulls of these constructs.
The droid paused, processor audibly whirring as it tilted its head at the impatient Khagan. “Uhh. Designation...OOM-37. Are you the Kaleesh known as General Grievous?” The repeated question matched its first iteration with pitch-perfect precision.
This time, Qymaen couldn’t hold back his frustrated groan. Language barriers aside, he realized answering a question with a question was not the right move when speaking with metal men. “ Yes . I am the Kaleesh you offworlders call ‘Grievous’.”
“Oh, good.” OOM-37’s nasal voice, though relatively flat and tinny as it emitted from its vocabulator, almost carried relief. “Your presence is requested by the Chairman of the InterGalactic Banking Clan. We have been sent to escort you to his private yacht, the Prudence.”
Íb-ku huul. What was all that supposed to mean? He’d never heard of half of these words before. Qymaen pinched his brow and asked, “Can you explain using Kaleesh? Only Kaleesh?”
“Uhhhhh…” The sound gradually dropped in pitch, as if the droid was powering down.
“Mostly Kaleesh?”
“Oh! Yes. The Chairman of the InterGalactic Banking Clan wants to see you on his starship.”
Strange. He didn’t remember hearing these particular words in his dealings with the Huk, the Republic or the Jedi, or if they had come up, there were no Kaleesh translations or adapted loanwords he recalled. It almost sounded as if an entirely new faction had entered the scene...but what did that mean? Was this third party here to deliver him to his trial—or to deliver him from it? Difficult to say without more information. “A person wishes to meet with me?”
“The Chairman.”
“Jairman,” he echoed, uncertain whether it represented a name or a title. Qymaen pointed to the sky. “His ship is in orbit?”
“Roger, roger.”
Whatever that meant, it appeared to be an affirmation, as the droid’s snout bobbed up and down eagerly. Qymaen narrowed his eyes. “Well, that’s fine for him. I, however, am not allowed to leave the planet, not while I still have this tracking device inside of me. Unless this person has permission from the Galactic Republic or the Jedi Order to remove me from Kalee for my trial,” he added sardonically, “he will have to land and speak with me here.”
OOM-37 tucked its weapon behind its back and emerged with a new tool clamped in its rudimentary hand. Qymaen flinched, bracing himself for an attack, but the droid patiently held up the oblong object and waved it in the air a bit. “This won’t hurt. Hold your limbs out from your sides,” it instructed him, and, warily trusting this stupid machine wasn’t clever enough to trick him, Qymaen obliged.
The droid swept the deactivator wand up and down Qymaen’s tensed body, from fingertips to toes, then paused at the base of his skull, where his head and neck met. The wand hovered an extra moment and emitted a long beep, again drawing a flinch from nervy Qymaen.
“There. Your tracking chip has been deactivated. Now you can leave the planet.”
Qymaen blinked. Lowered his arms. Stared. “You...you’re lying,” he blurted before it could occur to him that such a thing was extremely unlikely for a metal man.
“I’m not programmed to lie,” confessed OOM-37, swapping the deactivator wand for its weapon once more. “Lying is too complicated for my processing unit.”
“It can’t be that simple.”
“You are correct, it isn’t simple! When you lie you have to prepare a statement that is false as well as remember what is true and my processor can’t—”
“Shut up!” Qymaen snapped. His mind raced, dizzying. Surely there was no chance authorities would remove his tracking chip before bringing him into custody, not at the risk of him escaping and becoming untraceable. “This...this has nothing to do with my trial, does it?”
“No. The Chairman was permitted to remove you from your planet for the purpose of this meeting.”
“What is the purpose of this meeting?”
“I don’t have access to that information,” the droid said sadly, as if it wished it did. “The Chairman only said he wants to help.”
Help?
“I can also tell you that threats won’t be necessary as long as you cooperate.”
“What if I refuse?” he tested.
“Oh, that’s when we make threats.” The droid’s weapon lifted in an enthusiastic demonstration, then jerked back down. “Oops. Not yet.”
“Stupid droid,” Qymaen muttered. His eyes darted over the squadron of droids, counting, calculating, considering. If this new individual wanted him dead, the droids would have already attacked. The deactivation of his tracking chip certainly made a compelling case for earning his trust and enticing him aboard a strange ship to learn more. But the promise of treachery still loomed. “This... Jairman. He’s not an agent of the Huk, is he? They didn’t send him?”
“Huk does not compute.”
“Yam’rii!” he practically shouted. “Does he serve the Yam’rii? The Republic? The Jedi? Who does he serve?”
“Oh. The Chairman serves the InterGalactic Banking Clan,” the droid explained without explaining much to Qymaen’s frustrated comprehension, rattling off the same string of Basic words that held no meaning to him. “I’m supposed to tell you that you will not be harmed, but if you do come with us, you’re going to have to leave your weapons here.”
Qymaen’s fists clenched and his jaw tightened as he listened. He didn’t care at all for the idea of yielding to these droids and their master without any weapons, despite their assurances.
And yet…
And yet, since they’d already pledged not to harm him, he worried it wasn’t his own hide in danger if he refused to cooperate; the droids’ threats could fall on Irikuum and its inhabitants.
And he was lying to himself if he thought he wasn’t the slightest bit curious about this new person—whether he truly intended to offer help —and what that aid might entail.
If there was the smallest, faintest chance that it could help Kalee…
He had to find out.
He had to go.
So, scowling beneath his kakmusme, he slowly put up his hands to signal his peaceful, if reluctant submission. “Will it take long?” he growled. “This meeting?”
“You will be returned to your planet by nightfall.”
“I need a minute to speak with one of my—subordinates,” he said, settling on a more militant term, preferring not to complicate matters with talk of friends or clan kin. “I just need to get out my comlink and inform him of the situation.”
“Put down your weapons first.”
Wordlessly, he removed his rifle and set it in the brown grass, then, maintaining deliberate eye contact with what he presumed were the droid’s photoreceptors, he drew out his comlink and thumbed it on, tuning to the appropriate channel. “Zaebar.”
“Qy, what’s going on?” was the immediate response, his voice razed by static and muted by a broken speaker.
Qymaen suspected they’d have a better time communicating by shouting on the wind than continuing this conversation on a malfunctioning comlink, but persisted regardless, turning toward Irikuum’s gate and addressing the scope of a distant rifle. “I’m meeting with someone in orbit. He’s requested that I come unarmed. I should be back by nightfall. When we’ve left, come get my rifle and take it to my hut—and let my wives know I’ll be home soon.”
“What the—what are you talking about?! Who are you meeting? How do you know this isn’t a trap? What did they say? Why are you agreeing to this?”
All very sensible questions.
Qymaen ruminated on his answer for a minute, waiting for something profound to grace the tip of his tongue. “You said it yourself before,” he said at last, not without a little wistful pride as he held up his tusks. “I’m still Khagan.” Then, before Zaebar had a chance to say anything else—whether to convince him of his foolishness, to shout at him, or even to agree with his decision—he switched off the comlink and turned his back to Irikuum, facing the patient, empty gaze of OOM-37. “Very well. I will go with you to meet this Jairman.”
“This way, General,” replied the commanding droid without hesitation. The whole squad pivoted in unison, as if responding to an unseen signal, leaving Qymaen to trail along behind them uncertainly as they led the way to their waiting shuttle. At least they weren’t marching him at blaster point. He nevertheless lingered at the base of the boarding ramp, taking in the sight of this unfamiliar ship with cautious regard. It was quite unlike the admittedly clunky shuttles used by the Huk and appropriated by Kaleesh, closer in aesthetic and refinement to the other ships he’d seen, but stamped with an unfamiliar sigil on its glistening side—a circle with spires protruding from each cardinal direction, rather like a compass or a simple, stylized sun.
The interior proved to be similarly polished, and more comfortably furnished than what the likes of Huk or droids required with their respective exoskeletons. The padded seats, however pleasant, did nothing to mitigate the nauseating motion of the starship as it lurched into the air and propelled into the atmosphere, a sensation Qymaen had avoided for a good few years and which struck him full-force as if to make up for lost time. His empty stomach left him retching miserably but fruitlessly on the floor of the passenger cabin, a development that left the droids at an utter loss as they goggled down at him. A strange audience indeed; they offered no hand in assistance when he at last clambered to his feet and sought out a seat, made no effort to be sociable as he passed the next several minutes of ascension sitting quietly and gazing at his hands in his lap, and continued to stare in silence when he eventually dared to stumble his way to the nearest viewport and watch their approach to the Chairman’s starship where it waited in the exosphere.
And what a ship it was: a large cruiser, sleek and elegant, its chrome chassis shimmering in the light of the sun and reflecting Kalee’s surface in a warped rainbow of dust-brown to sea-blue. It was as if the entire starship had been drenched in melted kuluha, and Qymaen couldn’t help but gape.
Their shuttle docked and a reduced droid escort brought him aboard, revealing the cruiser’s interior to be as extravagant and clean as the outside, and shockingly quiet. One would have guessed they were stationed planetside; the engines hardly made a whisper, and he couldn’t feel the kinetic vibrations that teased his toes while in transit. He had little time to process or appreciate these unexpected luxuries before his escort drew to a halt before a silvery door and OOM-37 put a hand to its audioreceptor, speaking Basic. “Sir, the Kaleesh general is here.”
The door shunted open, seemingly in response. OOM-37 indicated the opening with its blaster.
Qymaen stepped forward alone, the door sliding shut behind him and sealing him inside a new room. Similar to the quarters where they had dragged him to sign their accursed treaty, he observed, but, like the starship itself, it was small and chic by comparison. A wave of tantalizing aromas washed over him, so powerful he was forced to swallow a flood of saliva as his mouth watered on reflex. He spotted the source of the smell a moment later: a large central table, not populated by his enemies, but laden with platters and bowls of foods that defied description. A severe tremor of unbearable need seized him at the sight of it, leaving him weak and hazy until his stupefied gaze caught movement. He flinched and turned.
An unfamiliar alien rose from the seat at one end of the table and moved a few steps closer in greeting. It was a tall, painfully thin, sallow-skinned creature who looked stretched out from his elongated skull to his fingers, with a severely flattened nose, small earholes and a cramped smile. The alien brushed off his sleek, greenish tunic with long hands and fixed beady eyes on Qymaen. He spoke, and another voice from behind the alien startled Qymaen yet again—one of those protocol droids, standing respectfully off to the side, this one silver and of a slightly different structure than the last. It translated the alien’s Basic to impeccable Kaleesh.
“Welcome aboard, General Grievous! I am San Hill, Chairman of the InterGalactic Banking Clan.” The alien gestured with great flourish toward the spread; Qymaen suspected most of his gesturing was done with flourish. “Please, sit down, help yourself. Given what I know of your current circumstances, I can only imagine how hungry you must be.” The unpleasant smile pinched. “Starving, if I may presume?”
Qymaen narrowed his eyes at the stranger’s words, but temptation drew his attention inexorably back to the food on the table. He had every reason to be wary—he needed to be wary—but his stomach cried piteously for nourishment. Surely the food was safe to eat. If the Chairman wanted him dead, he reminded himself, the droids would have attacked him before he ever set foot on this starship. He struggled for only a few seconds longer, then, with a curt nod, claimed the closest seat and removed his mask. If the alien reacted to his face, Qymaen ignored it, already busy reaching for whatever was at hand and pulling it close for the briefest inspection before stuffing it in his mouth.
It was fruit. Fresh fruit. Its juices gushed over his chin and dribbled down his tusks. He shivered and almost fell faint again, overwhelmed by the sensation. And there was so much more! It was like the feasts of Sudab’a Ud-Imin he remembered from years past, only made up of a hundred novel offworld flavors and textures. Gods, there was so much.
San Hill watched the ravenous Kaleesh warlord sample the food off of several platters, hovering thoughtfully on the other side of the table, before he folded himself into his own chair. “Try the topato soup,” he suggested, sounding quite pleased. “Not the most appetizing color or consistency, but believe me, it’s delicious.” He paused, crossing his hands on the bare stretch of table centered in front of his seat, allowing his guest another minute to indulge himself. When he spoke again, his nasal tone pitched up like a bridge, carrying them forward in the conversation. “I hope you weren’t put off by the little security force who collected you. I’d have sent someone sentient to relay my invitation, but, frankly, I didn’t trust that my party wouldn’t be met with a violent reception, and organics are far more valuable than droids, nevermind more difficult to replace. But now that I see you are here—willingly, weaponless, and unscathed—and here I am, prepared to meet you without one of my usual bodyguards on hand—then I believe it’s safe to say we’ve already achieved mutual trust, yes?”
San Hill’s attempt to get things rolling pulled Qymaen out of his food-dazed reverie. He looked up from a bowl of pale green stew to find the alien’s small, dark eyes fixed on him. There was a niggling familiarity about the gaze, a squirming tug at the back of his mind. It wasn’t as infuriating as the utter disgust with which the people of the Republic and the Jedi had regarded him—it reminded him rather of the many village leaders who, so long ago, when he’d first become Chieftain of Irikuum, had peered down their tusks at him and demanded who this youngling thought he was. It was not a look that shamed him for existing; it invited him to impress. Qymaen didn’t feel especially impressive at the moment, half-clothed, ragged with hunger, hands and face dirty with the food his host had deigned to provide him, but he did the first thing he could think of that an offworlder might consider impressive.
He tried to speak Basic.
“Yes,” he said, then, spotting the alien’s startled blink, proceeded with more confidence. He may not have gotten far in his lessons with Levantis, but he knew he had retained what he’d learned. He pointed at the table. “Good. Thank.”
San Hill’s lips split in an intrigued smile. “It’s my turn for a surprise! I didn’t know you spoke any Basic, General. Excellent. That will make things easier.” He twisted toward the protocol droid. “We may not need you after all.”
The protocol droid, who had continued to translate San Hill’s words to precious Kaleesh. Qymaen realized what was happening and hastily pinched a thumb and finger together. “Small Basic.”
“Ah.” A supercilious veil descended. “Then we shall keep the protocol droid on hand to translate what I say. I’m not about to talk down to you.”
Qymaen’s stomach still ached to be filled—and perhaps ached from being filled after so long with nothing—but the mood had already shifted. Suspicion clouded his face as he pushed the nearest plate away and squinted at the smirking offworlder, floundering to recall and mimic the words he had heard repeated several times now. “What...ah, Jairman San Hill InnerGalateek Banklan...what want? Why…” He paused again, already frustrated but determined to practice his Basic, then resorted to exaggerated hand gestures to help illustrate the words he lacked, pointing to himself and then to his surroundings. “Why...Grievous...ship?” Even as his translated moniker passed his lips, it felt false to him; still, it seemed to be the name that he had come to be associated with by non-Kaleesh, and San Hill had already addressed him as such, so he saw little point in introducing more names or titles that might confuse the offworlder.
San Hill let out a sigh, a blend of irritation and pity that wasn’t quite condescension but which skirted its boundaries. “You needn’t speak Basic if it is too much of a challenge for you, dear General. The droid can translate both ways.”
Qymaen shook his head with a stubborn scowl. He wasn’t about to give up on Basic so soon, and San Hill calling attention to his struggle only made him more determined to persist. “Grievous speak Basic.”
“If you insist.” San Hill tented his fingers. “There’s a matter I would like to discuss with you.”
That much was obvious. Qymaen couldn’t stop himself from huffing in impatience. “Jairman San Hill speak now.”
“Straight to business! Oh, I do like that. Well, General,” the Chairman went on, plucking up a pastry from the table, “not to put too fine a point on it, but your planet is in astronomical and economical dire straits. Your very planet is dying.”
The words didn’t translate especially well, but Qymaen squirmed at the hyperbole—or rather, at the realization that it was not quite the exaggeration he wished it were. “Kalee…live,” he frowned.
San Hill scoffed. “Hardly! Don’t let your pride get the better of you. Kalee is crumbling apart...like...like a biscuit in Bantha milk.” He made his analogy with a visual aid, dunking the biscuit until it threatened to dissolve in the blue liquid, before flicking it free and eating the soggy confection with relish. “You are trillions of credits in debt and you don’t have the resources, the means, nor the hope to pay it off. Most of your people have never even seen a galactic credit.” With so much food at his disposal for demonstrative purposes, he reached next for a piece of fruit, which he pinched between his fingers until red juice oozed and puddled on a waiting plate. “The Galactic Republic is letting the Yam’rii drain you until you can bleed no more. Considering the sanctions and trade embargoes they themselves placed, it’s clear they would sooner anticipate the collapse of your species than the repayment of your debts. One less problem planet to deal with. It wouldn’t be the first time something like this has happened.”
Qymaen’s glare knifed across the table. “Jairmen San Hill want what?”
“Why, I want to help, of course. As I was recently promoted from co-chairman to sole Chairman of the InterGalactic Banking Clan, I do have a few strings I can pull—but,” he chuckled, “not exactly to the extent of the forgiveness of five trillion credits. No, what I can do is offer you employment. A job.”
Qymaen had to wait until the droid translated that particular word, but once he realized what it meant, he physically recoiled in his chair. “Nangasham?” he said first in Kaleesh, and then in monosyllabic, dissatisfying Basic. He couldn’t decide if he was more surprised or skeptical. “Job?”
“We’ve had some rather dramatic turnover lately at the IGBC, and given the current political and financial climate of the galaxy, well, we are a tad overwhelmed.” San Hill paused, his smile tensing into a rictus of displeasure. “Please, these refreshments are here for you. If there’s anything I abhor as much as wasting money, it’s wasting food.”
Qymaen, more conscious of appearances but still desperately hungry, managed to pick up a utensil before he resumed eating. He watched the strange alien closely. “What job? Jairmen San Hill speak.”
“Just ‘San Hill’ is fine. You see, we are in the midst of restructuring our Collections and Security Division. Yours is hardly the only debt in the galaxy, dear General. We not only need more collections agents to secure debts owed, but certain leadership roles must also be filled to organize these efforts.” He saw what plate Qymaen was reaching for and pointed with a chuckle. “Oh, you’ll love that. Uj'alayi, from Mandalore. Do you even have sweets on that awful planet of yours? You poor wretch.”
The droid may have been translating San Hill’s words into Kaleesh, as best as it possibly could, but Qymaen also tried to listen to the Basic to test his knowledge, and some of the ideas were being lost in cultural differences and in the impossibility of translation. “What…collek-shun-zae-jens?” he wondered, then winced at the syllables, knowing he hadn’t quite gotten it right. He decided he’d rather take a large bite of food than bother embarrassing himself trying to improve his enunciation. Whatever it was that San Hill had pointed out, it looked like a dense slab of bread stuffed with nuts and dried fruits similar to zuulum, but with a compelling fragrance. He took a bite and almost choked.
“Careful, my friend.”
“Kushlal,” Qymaen spluttered, eyes wide with unrestrained delight.
“Ah,” said San Hill with a knowing smile when the droid translated. “So you do have a word for sweetness. Though I suspect it is an uncommon flavor?”
“Mmph!” Qymaen dug into the cake eagerly, filling his mouth with sticky bliss that had been all too rare his entire life, let alone in recent years. Kalee had fruit, of course, and he’d tasted honey before; this was even better . “What food?”
“Uj’alayi. Uj cake. It’s soaked in syrup. The syrup is the sweetness you’re tasting.”
“Uj kaek. Ya igni! Good food.”
“Glad to see you’re enjoying yourself.” San Hill cleared his throat. “But you asked me another question a moment ago, didn’t you? I apologize, it was a bit, ah, garbled.”
It was suddenly much harder to focus on the conversation, but Qymaen paused mid-bite and nodded vigorously. “Collexunjenvh,” he repeated, mouth full.
“Lovely. But yes, what is a collections agent.” San Hill drummed his fingers thoughtfully on his chin. “How to put it? When a party, be it individual or business, fails to pay back a loan, it is the collections agent’s duty to approach the debtor and learn why the payment has not been made, and, in the case of repeat or recalcitrant offenders, impress upon them the urgency of the rectification.” He topped his explanation off with a truly ghastly grin. “With the appropriate application of violence, of course. In this arena, I think you will flourish . I believe with enough time and, hm, education, you will eventually find yourself at the head of the Collections and Security Division. If I am honest, that is my hope for you. But you will need to grow into your role—and so, it would be best to officially hire you on as a collections agent at the start.”
Once his plate was clean of the distracting uj cake, Qymaen licked his lips and belatedly tried to make sense of the alien’s words. Failing that, he twisted in his chair to appeal to the protocol droid. Multiple passes at translation and simplification later, he reverted his attention to San Hill with a wrinkled, perturbed brow. “So...man no ‘ pay ’.” He touched his chest. “Man like Grievous. No pay. Collek-shun-zaejen— fight no pay. Hurt.” His eyes narrowed. “No luuzhidma.”
“Honor?” San Hill fluttered his fingers, dismissive. “Oh, but most of these people aren’t like you. You are a victim of unfortunate circumstances. You were told to pay reparations with resources you utterly lack. And there will be others in similar straits, I suppose. But the rest? They don’t want to pay back the money they have been so generously loaned. They are trying to cheat the system. They are dishonorable. It will be up to you to determine which category the debtor falls into, and act accordingly.”
“Koklul.” Qymaen honed in on the word, despite the imperfect translation.
“Cheat?”
“Yes, jeet.” His frown deepened. “Huk jeet. Republic jeet. Jedi jeet.”
“Oh, precisely!” San Hill pointed excitedly across the table like Qymaen had won a prize. “They put you in a terrible situation, utterly unfair. Mustn’t forget why you’re here in the first place, and why I’m here with my offer. If you accept this position with us, I can arrange for the IGBC to assist with your debt. Financial aid—a substantial loan—which you will essentially pay off through your employment with our institution. Kalee’s debt to the Yam’rii will be delivered to us . And, once you’ve signed on, I will personally reach out to the Galactic Senate and see to it that some of the strain be lifted off Kalee’s external dealings as quickly as possible. Alleviate those dreadful embargoes, reopen travel and trade, as well as regain access to imported food and medical supplies. How’s that for a job offer?”
There was a twinge in Qymaen’s chest that he hadn’t felt in a long time, a feeling he acknowledged wistfully but just as quickly tried to stifle. He daren’t hope. It all sounded far too good to be true. He’d bartered enough in his time to know something about this business was suspicious; San Hill was offering him everything—exactly what Kalee needed—and for what? He voiced his incredulity. “All...for job?”
San Hill reached for something that stank of ethanol, the fumes powerful enough to waft across the table and tickle Qymaen’s sensitive nose. He began pouring two glasses. “Unorthodox, I know. But I assure you this is a mutually beneficial arrangement. I gain a valuable asset; you restore your dear planet. Imagine how your service to us will help Kalee. You can save your people. Oh,” he pushed one of the glasses across the table, within reach of Qymaen, “and on a more personal note, that trial I’m sure you’ve been threatened with, regarding your alleged war crimes? I’m sure you’ve wondered why they couldn’t manage to settle on a date for that pesky affair. I don’t mind telling you: I myself may be quite powerful, but I have very powerful friends, as well.” He lifted his glass in a toast. “There will never be a trial. Consider it a demonstration of my influence and a token of goodwill—and your sign-on bonus, if you like.”
Qymaen’s head spun. This was absurd. Perhaps the alien was toying with him, dangling such impossibilities before him for a sadistic thrill before snapping his long fingers and summoning his droids to capture him, to haul him to one of those cramped, electrified holding cells to await his trial. He realized he’d gripped the edge of the table so tightly his claws left shallow scrapes on the metallic surface, but he couldn’t seem to relax his rigid limbs. “Why?” he demanded, throat just as strained. “Why Kalee? Why Grievous?”
San Hill smirked. “Let’s just say I’ve been following the trajectory of your military career, and I see value that would be squandered if you were left to languish here on this doomed planet of yours, or in a Coruscanti prison cell. It certainly wouldn’t do for you to be executed in obscurity. I’ve heard accounts of your... feats . You will need a great deal of training and understanding of our institution before you can rise to the position I have in mind for you, but in many respects you already exceed the requirements for qualification. The Collections and Security Division is responsible not only for the collection of debts, but for the safety and protection of our properties and personnel. In addition to our organic agents, we have a growing force of droids at our disposal for such purposes as providing security and, ahem, enforcement. Rather like a small army—and what is an army without a commander? You’re an investment, dear General.”
Qymaen listened to the translation with closed eyes, taking slow, deep breaths to calm his rapid pulse and thoughts.
Where the Jedi had seen his victories as the acts of a depraved criminal, San Hill saw value. He wanted a warrior. A leader.
He wanted him to fight, and there was little Qymaen craved more.
When he opened his eyes, he leveled an intense stare at the protocol droid. This was too important to risk losing anything in translation, and despite his determination to practice his Basic, he was tired of feeling stupid beside the comparatively eloquent alien. Qymaen was still waiting for the catch, but he decided he might as well test the limits of the Chairman’s offer. “If he’s so eager to hire me,” he said in Kaleesh, slowly transferring his golden glare to San Hill, “tell him he also must do something about the reparations labor. Once we fell behind on our quota, the Huk began taking my people offworld for labor, the nature of which they refuse to disclose. This development is unacceptable to Kaleesh. And yet the Republic and the Jedi have been silent in response to our appeals.” Once he saw he had San Hill’s full attention, his hairless grey brow arched, he addressed him directly. “Can you stop this?”
“Hm. Well, once the IGBC takes on Kalee’s debt, that should negate the need to supply the Yam’rii with laborers, as reparations will then be covered by pecuniary means.”
Qymaen shook his head with a low, irritated growl. “But can the Kaleesh laborers be returned to their homes? Can you do that?”
“The IGBC does not plan to pay off Kalee’s debt to the Yam’rii retroactively, but I can look into the matter.” San Hill did not appear unsettled by the Kaleesh general’s glaring and growling, but wryly added, “And thank you for demonstrating your powers of intimidation. You see? You’re a perfect fit.”
“There must be specific terms,” Qymaen insisted warily. “Like the treaty. A formal pledge to be written and signed.”
San Hill nodded and sipped his drink as the droid translated. “Of course, dear General. We will write you up a contract detailing the nature of our arrangement. One thing I can tell you with certainty—this is not a short-term engagement, and it will take you offworld for quite some time. Your service to the Banking Clan represents repayment of our loan to Kalee; such service you should expect to last for many, many cycles to come. I understand your life so far has been rather...provincial...so I am only giving you a fair warning before you agree to these terms and find yourself unsuited to life away from Kalee and your erstwhile colony worlds.”
Cycles. Years.
Years offworld?
Life away from Kalee?
“But surely I will still live here on Kalee,” Qymaen said, perplexed. “While working for your—” he swapped to Basic and immediately stumbled “—InnerGalateek Banklan.” He wrinkled his nose, then plunged on in Kaleesh. “My work can be conducted from Kalee, can it not? Or will I travel to other planets as this...in this role you want me to fill? This collekshun zaejen?”
The somewhat pitying sigh from earlier returned. “And that is precisely why I wanted to make this clarification. Should you accept my offer, General, you will leave Kalee and return with me to my homeworld of Muunilinst, where the InterGalactic Banking Clan is headquartered. You will primarily be stationed there, though your duties will bring you to many other worlds, no doubt—just not Kalee. More likely than not, your direct involvement with Kalee will be extremely limited for the duration of your contract with the IGBC. Conflict of interest,” he explained, heading off Qymaen’s demand for elaboration. “Your ties to Kalee as its—what is the proper term for someone like you? More than simply a general, if I understand correctly.”
“Khagan,” Qymaen uttered, glaring once more.
“Mm, yes. Leader of your people in all manner of things. Well, you will not be serving the Banking Clan in the capacity of Kalee’s Khagan,” he stated, emphasizing the deep fricative nature of the term in a way that curled Qymaen’s lip. “You will be serving the Banking Clan as an employee of the organization, and to serve the IGBC is your primary interest. Your personal ties to Kalee represent a secondary interest capable of undue influence.”
“But I will be helping Kalee,” Qymaen countered, struggling to follow. “You will be paying me in credits for my work, which I will use to pay the Huk.”
“No. Listen carefully.” A pause, a break in Basic. “L-3PX, are you translating properly?”
“Well, I’m sure I’m doing the best I can with the lexicon that has been installed, Mr. Hill,” replied the protocol droid primly.
“Good. Then perhaps you should slow down for the poor general. He has not demonstrated what I would consider exceptional acumen.” San Hill returned his attention to oblivious Qymaen, whose claw tips marched an uneasy cadence on the edge of the table. “The InterGalactic Banking Clan will be shouldering Kalee’s debt in exchange for your employment. Your loyalties must lie with the IGBC, not the Kaleesh government—such as it is. I can no more employ, say, the King of Toydaria if his monarchy held an account with us. You cannot continue to conduct governmental affairs for Kalee while you are in the employ of the Banking Clan. Do you understand?”
So that was the catch.
“You are telling me that not only must I leave Kalee,” said Qymaen slowly, “but I need to yield my position and title of Khagan?”
“To avoid a gross conflict of interest, yes, I would say that would be a nonnegotiable stipulation of our contract.” San Hill watched Qymaen’s face closely, gauging his reaction.
Qymaen gave him nothing, expression tense but blank as he fell into deep deliberation.
On the one hand, the answer was clear.
On the other, his stomach soured and his chest ached as he imagined the conversation he would have to have with—gods, everyone.
They needed to know their Khagan was not abandoning Kalee. He wasn’t abandoning his people. His allies. His comrades. His friends. His wives. His children.
Her.
“General?”
Qymaen blinked up at San Hill’s expectant face, then rapidly shook his head, a reflexive shudder as if to shed him of his haunted concerns. “I need time to think about it,” he blurted. “I can’t just make a decision like this here, now, not without...I...I need to think.”
Not entirely true. He knew what he needed to do. But he still wanted time.
San Hill offered a smile that was more a sneer than anything tangentially friendly. “Perfectly reasonable. Why, I’m happy to stay in orbit for a Kaleesh week while you mull it over. I can begin drafting terms, just in case, in the meantime…ah!” His hands unrolled over the table. “And please, eat as much as you like before you leave. I will send this food with you, as well.” His unpleasant smile intensified. “For your wives and children.”
Qymaen tested out a little more Basic, fishing for the correct words from the droid. “San Hill...good heart. Kind? Kind.”
“Just a literal taste of what will be in store for your people should you accept my offer,” simpered the Chairman, not at all kindly. “But yes, please think about it. A small number of my droids will accompany you back to the surface, and can communicate your decision to me once you have come to one. They can transport the food, as well.”
“Yes.” Qymaen took this as a dismissal, leaving behind the untouched glass of alcohol and fastening his kakmusme into place as he rose to his feet. “Good. Thank.”
San Hill tipped back the last of his drink. “I hope I can look forward to doing business with you, General. But...” Though Qymaen was not practiced in reading expressions on the alien’s long face, it resembled Kaleesh physiognomy enough for him to recognize an obvious grimace. “If you do join us, leave that mask at home, would you? Garish, barbaric thing. The Banking Clan has an image to uphold, after all.”
The protocol droid, being a well-programmed protocol droid, shrewdly elected not to translate everything San Hill said.
__
The following week marked the first time in nearly two years that the Khagan Sahuldeem and all of his Izvoshra spoke together on a holocall.
Qymaen did most of the talking, though not without interruption. His subordinates—and his oldest friends—protested his decision to accept San Hill’s proposal, some with more vehemence than others. He needed to find out more, they insisted. He couldn’t just blindly trust that what the Chairman promised would come to pass. He needed to return to Urukishnugal first to settle affairs before even considering leaving the planet for a prolonged period of time. How long would he be gone, for that matter? Would his family go with him? Who would be left in charge in the meantime? When would the embargoes be lifted? Did the Banking Clan have any personal designs on Kalee? What would change? Was this really the answer to Kalee’s troubles?
Qymaen couldn’t alleviate all their concerns, not when he himself led the discussion with admitted uncertainty. But he had already resolved to take the Chairman’s offer, and the purpose of such correspondence with his old Izvoshra was to inform them of this development, not to seek their various opinions, whether in the form of support or misgivings. Jindra’s quiet worry, Zaebar’s obstinance, Kashbaru’s excitement and Levantis’ leery derision were all dismissed as unhelpful sentiment. Asilal, as usual, made pragmatic observations and offered no emotional appeals, perfectly demonstrating the reasoning behind another one of Qymaen’s decisions—that Khan Zigan would officially rule Urukishnugal in his stead during the unknown interim of his absence. On that point, at least, the Izvoshra agreed.
Using the portable holotransmitter that Zaebar had brought to Irikuum, Qymaen recorded a message for the general public to be broadcast on any remaining holocomm nodes or transceivers on the planet. It was a message of assurance, not to be released until the Banking Clan made good on San Hill’s pledge and Kalee saw measurable improvements, such as the return of offworld trade and resources (and, ideally, more holocomm stations). In it, he didn’t fully detail the terms of his contract—or the nature of his work, such as he understood it—but explained that he was being called away from his duties as Khagan to help allied offworlders bring stability back to Kalee, an effort that would likely take many years. It felt strange, donning his old regalia, making hopeful promises of security, plenty and prosperity in clothing that draped in baggy waves from his skeletal frame. He desperately wanted it all to be true, that he needn’t rely on faith, on trust, on a pathetic wish. In actuality, the only tangible evidence he had that amelioration was within Kalee’s grasp was the food the droid escort had brought with them planetside, enough to feed every household in Irikuum for the rest of the week.
But even that was more than anything the ancestors had granted him of late.
To his surprise, it was enough for at least one of his wives to place her faith in San Hill and the InterGalactic Banking Clan. Zena practically packed his things for him, insisting the risk was worth the reward. It will give you purpose again, she told him one evening, blunt as ever. It doesn’t do anyone any good when you don’t have purpose.
Ilona and Siduri expressed greater reluctance, mirroring his own reservations—not distressed that he would be making the wrong choice by leaving, but by what his children would make of his absence. The children were too young to understand why he would be gone; most of them had only formed conscious memories of him during the family’s life in Irikuum, away from Urukishnugal, away from the Huk and the active years of war. Some were young enough that if he did not return for years, they may not remember him.
His most difficult conversation was with Shahulla.
Everyone she’d lost had been taken by the Yam’rii. They would never return. No matter what he said, whatever numb vows passed through his tight throat and gritted teeth, he could see the mistrust in her eyes. Up through the morning of his departure, she averted her solemn gaze and fell silent when Qymaen approached her, again and again, with as much comforting kuu-lir as he could muster, and attempted to convince her that his situation was different—that he was not like the other Kaleesh who’d been taken away, that this was of his own volition, that he would send messages to the family as often as he could manage, that he would appeal to San Hill to allocate time away from his work that he might return to Kalee on leave and visit her and the rest of his kin.
He had briefly considered bringing his family with him offworld, and sent a message through one of the security droids to consult San Hill on the matter, who quickly discouraged the idea. You are about to embark on a transformative journey, dear General, the Chairman had informed him, through the filter of L-3PX. Not every moment is going to be pleasant, I’m afraid. I can only imagine the culture shock. And you’re going to be so terribly busy with work. Do you want to subject your family to the overwhelming stress of leaving the only home they’ve ever known, just when it is on the verge of being restored to them? Wouldn’t it be best for them to remain where they are to reap the benefits of Kalee’s resurgence? The Yam’rii will have no precedent or pretext to harm them once they have their reparations.
Qymaen was forced to agree. No one on Kalee, least of all his family, would ever need to suffer again. He would see to that.
It still pained him to think of leaving them behind.
And so came the morning of his departure, muscling its way onto the scene with all the delicacy of a day that is faced with both anticipation and severe dread. Qymaen dithered in his quarters, dragging each simple task into a lengthy, meticulous chore: folding up his old regalia and tucking it into the chest that would remain at the foot of his bed, taking up his Czerka Outland from the corner, disassembling it and packing it away with care into a rifle case, and, at last, hanging his kakmusme on the wall, centered beneath his crossed Lig swords.
He stared at the scarred mask and the damaged blades for a minute, mind roiling like a cooking pot on the hearth. It was almost like a shrine, he thought—a capsule of the war, a monument to what he had done and moreover what he had failed to do.
He found himself reflecting on what his shrine might look like one day. What offerings would sit on his altar between plumes of burning simsu. Which victories would adorn his life tapestry. How the people would remember him. How his children would remember him.
Despite his morbid reflection, he supposed it was good to be considering such things. He hadn’t been thinking of any of this the night he’d ridden out into the storm. Now, he realized he very much cared about what he might leave behind when he passed.
He hoped his kin would not be forced to entomb a life token in his stead, should he die offworld and his body not be recovered. He knew that pain, and wished it only on his enemies.
Qymaen, though perfectly willing to stall his boarding of the shuttle that would take him away from all he knew, had no desire to prolong his farewells and subject himself to the inevitable heartache that would come with those final words and touches. A heavier weight than his sahuldeem rested on his shoulders as he slunk from his hut and crossed the dusty roads of Irikuum, a bag of spare leathers hanging from one arm, his rifle case over the other. No; not quite the sahuldeem that had plagued him since losing his soul-bond. This was the sasiga of a sickened, sinking heart. Where sahuldeem burned and consumed, sasiga bled, and it wept.
The droid escort had called the shuttle back to the planet’s surface and stood waiting outside the village gate, stationed at the foot of the boarding ramp. In a moment of hesitation, toes curling slightly into Kaleesh dirt in an almost unconscious effort to tether him, Qymaen felt a hand on his arm. He jolted and turned to find Zaebar, flanked by both Nulahu and Malga Shapra, who had donned his ceremonial finery.
Zaebar’s thick brow was pulled low, but his voice carried no anger—if anything, a soft plea. “Qy. This is your last chance. It’s not too late to change your mind. When I told you Kalee still needed your help, I…I didn’t mean…” He shook his head. “You didn’t even want to go back to Urukishnugal. Now this?”
Qymaen composed himself, drawing a deep breath and coughing a bit over the taste of the steppes. The once familiar, comforting smell mingled with death and ruin. He knew what he did today would be the first step in restoring the aroma of blooming zigmash, wind-swept tukbrush and fresh grasses. “When you said that, I couldn’t see anything left for me to do that would help Kalee. But…yes, now this.” He tipped his tusks toward the waiting shuttle. “This is something I can do.”
“You trust this Banklan any more than you trust the Republic and the Jedi?”
“They didn’t care about Kalee. They didn’t even listen. San Hill is different. He’s going to help Kalee, and for that I’ll help him.”
Zaebar’s mouth flattened into a hard grimace. “No matter what that means for you?”
“Whatever is necessary,” said Qymaen firmly.
After a long, scrutinizing pause, Zaebar sighed, reached out and clasped Qymaen’s arm in a salute. “I can’t stop you. Never could.”
“I don’t mind my elders.” Qymaen dug his claws into Zaebar’s scales. “Watch over my family while I’m gone. But make yourself available to the Izvoshra if they need you for anything.”
“I must do as my little cousin commands,” replied Zaebar with a faint, crooked smile, “even if he’s no longer Khagan.”
As soon as her son stepped out of the way, Nulahu strode forward and wrapped Qymaen into a hug so tight his bones creaked. “Send us a message as soon as you can,” she whispered in his ear. “I’m sure you’ll have many stories to tell. And,” she added, stuffing a smaller leather pouch into his bag, “here is a blend to soothe your mind if you need it. Please try to take care of yourself.”
“Thank you, Nulahu.”
Malga Shapra moved forward once the two of them parted. “You were planning to leave without a blessing, Qymaen?”
For all Qymaen’s sentiments about the ancestors, he wouldn’t begrudge the old man his traditions. Brown, withered grass crunched under his knees as he bowed before Irikuum’s Malga without a word.
This was no battle blessing, with no formal ceremony beyond what the Malga chose to bestow, despite what his outfit would indicate—no kakmusme, no pigment, no verse—so Malga Shapra merely placed his hand over Qymaen’s forehead, thumbs arranged with gentle pressure over his temples. “May the spirits of our ancestors watch over you and keep you safe on your journey, Qymaen jai Sahuldeem,” he intoned, a short, simple blessing, almost secular in its imparting.
Qymaen spoke to the ground, reciting a similarly rote response, more out of respect for his Malga than any hint of reverence to the ancestors and deities he’d renounced. “I will continue to honor their memory, Malga Shapra.”
It wasn’t a lie. There was one memory he honored.
She had told him he would be the savior of Kalee. That it would be his legacy. His strength. He had thought he understood what that meant. He had carried her words with him into every battle—down the scope of his slugthrower—through the swing of his Lig sword—channeled it into every city he razed and starship he obliterated to smoldering dust.
He stopped halfway up the boarding ramp, looking out at the starved grasses of the dying steppes, the discolored sky, the silent crowd of sickly thin villagers that had gathered behind the western gate to see him off, their upturned, hopeful faces.
Now, he understood.
For a moment, he imagined he could hear her laughter. Weren’t you listening, Qymaen? I already told you. It isn’t your physical strength that matters to our people; they never would have followed you to begin with if that was important. It’s the strength of your spirit that guides them. And you have the strength of spirit to do this. I flew to the stars for you. Fly to the stars for Kalee.
It wasn’t her, of course. But, for once, it was nice to imagine.
Qymaen let the shuttle swallow him up and carry him into the unknown.