Chapter Text
24 BBY
Kalee
Inside the communications room of the Urukishnugal Spaceport, Barzivh nim Sheshkala draped himself in a chair, heels kicked up on the windowsill, his sorry state of wakefulness reliant solely on the mug of caf he nursed. His daily sunup prayer consisted of thanks to every last ancestor for the import of caf beans, and when he attended the evening blessing and listened to Malga Sarabdu drone on about the importance of faith and community in these challenging times, he snuck in another silent prayer for the continued influx of trade goods that their challenges might be tempered by more delicious, bracing cups of caf.
Something beeped.
“Sir?” A voice spoke up from one of the nearby terminals, a communications officer. Uncertainty staggered her words. “Ah. There…there’s…we’re receiving a message from orbit. It…erm, it’s a modified Huk transport craft. Older model.”
Heaving an unhappy sigh, Barzivh knocked back a deep swill of his drink, dropped his feet to the ground and approached the officer’s workstation. “They have permission to land. They always do. Why are you even bringing this to my attention?”
“He…he’s not asking to land. He’s just asking if there’s anyone here. And he’s speaking Kaleesh.”
“Hm. Patch the communication through the holocomm station.” Still slow with sleep, but marginally more intrigued and alert, the chief officer ambled over to the holotransceiver node. Once he received confirmation that the transmission had been successfully rerouted, he cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. “This is Barzivh nim Sheshkala at Urukishnugal Spaceport. Pilot of the unknown Yam’rii craft, identify yourself, please.”
After a charged delay, the holoprojector sputtered to life and spat out a fuzzy blue display of a seated Kaleesh. In Barzivh’s experience as overseer of the spaceport, he’d seen very few independent Kaleesh travel offworld, and even fewer return. They all shared something in common, however, as they did with this individual: none of them wore traditional Kaleesh clothing, having adopted the fashions of the offworlders. This man had no kakmusme, yet he was certainly built like a warrior. He leaned forward, presumably to peer at Barzivh’s own projected likeness, long twisted locks spilling over his broad shoulders and well-defined brow crumpling in skepticism. “Urukishnugal has an actual spaceport?” he demanded.
“He is Kaleesh,” whispered the communications officer unnecessarily.
Barzivh was less surprised, nor impressed. A returning Kaleesh might have been rare, but protocol was protocol. “Once again, I must ask that you identify yourself.”
Claws drummed the cockpit console. “Is this spaceport under full Kaleesh control? There are no Huk there with blasters at your backs?”
“It is under my control,” said Barzivh, now bristling a bit. “Who are you?”
The projected figure settled back in his chair, posture exuding cautious relief. “I am Grie—” He abruptly broke off with a startled expression, then barked out a brief sound, a cross between a huff of annoyance and an incredulous gasp of laughter. Shaking his head, he began again. “I am Sahuldeem. I would like to make port.”
This declaration captured the attention of the entire communications room. A murmur of “Sahuldeem?” rippled across the workstations as Kaleesh left their posts and began gathering around the holocomm, craning their necks to see the projection.
Barzivh tried to calm his overzealous pulse, drawing a steadying breath and clinging to skepticism. No need to get his hopes up. Perhaps it was a prank. “We haven’t heard from Khagan Sahuldeem for years,” he said coolly. “Not since the offworlders took him away and enslaved him.”
“Ah, is that what they’re saying?” mumbled the other Kaleesh, seemingly to himself. “Not entirely wrong.” He straightened and spoke louder, words charged with authority. “There was a miscommunication. And many, many missed communications. But I have returned. Word has reached me that the Huk are desecrating our burial sites and temples on Oben.” He leaned in, eyes slitting, intensity drawing forth a growl from deep in his chest. “I am here to stop them.”
Gasps and exclamations sprang up from the growing crowd around the holotransceiver.
“It is him!”
“Yes, yes, that ship must be the Masdaría!”
“The Khagan is back!”
“He’s returned to us!”
“Down with the Huk!”
Barzivh owed it to his people to remain hesitant. As much as any of the former Khans who had remained in Urukishnugal, it was his responsibility to protect the population to the best of his abilities as the commanding officer of their spaceport. “Forgive me,” he therefore said, “but how can we be sure this isn’t some sort of trick, and that you aren’t under duress?”
His alleged Khagan appeared to be studying him closely. “Barzivh nim Sheshkala, you said?”
“Yes.”
What followed was steeped in sincerity, stronger than caf. “My mother was of your clan. I swear on her name and her memory that I am here of my own accord.”
Barzivh lifted his tusks. “Welcome home, Khagan Sahuldeem. The bay on the far eastern side is available for your shuttle to make port.”
“Thank you, Barzivh.”
The moment comms disconnected, Qymaen engaged the Martyr’s autopilot and dropped his head between his knees, swallowing a surge of unbidden anxieties.
He’d been fine. Two weeks of dipping recklessly in and out of unsanctioned hyperspace routes, placing trust in smugglers’ shortcuts as cowardly San Hill and his luxury yacht would never dare, and yet now, after speaking directly to another Kaleesh for the first time in years, his breath quickened, his chest grew tight and his stomach nearly capitulated to nauseating nerves.
Why? Why, when there was nothing he wanted more than to return home, was his head reeling under an overwhelming scramble of regret and doubt?
There was the reasonable fear that nothing he’d been told about Kalee for the past eight years had been true: that trade had not resumed, that the embargoes remained, that the Huk continued to torment his people and drag them offworld, that the planet had not healed and Kaleesh still starved. His brief conversation with Barzivh nim Sheshkala should have alleviated those fears—unless there was deception at play, if Kaleesh were truly in control of their own spaceport, then the Yam’rii were not directly interfering in his people’s affairs as they once had.
But a deeper fear twisted his innards and made his scales crawl with self-conscious disgust as he reflected on its source. Such fears were for someone far weaker than the likes of the Khagan Qymaen jai Sahuldeem.
And yet that was the problem, wasn’t it?
How easily the workers in the spaceport had called him Khagan, a title he had forsaken eight years earlier and now intended to reclaim despite the squirming, niggling discomfort in the back of his mind and the pit of his stomach. If they still called him Khagan—despite the passage of time, despite the circumstances surrounding his departure from Kalee—he shouldn’t have any trouble doing the same.
He was worthy.
Lacing his fingers at the back of his neck, he exhaled a deep breath and drew himself upright, up out of his wallowing, counterproductive thoughts. His brow molded into a scowl. Don’t be such a fool, he berated himself, the sting of bitter anger centering him as little else could nowadays. You’re stronger than this. If you have to worry about anything, let it be the Banking Clan.
Though he was still trying not to think too hard about the Banking Clan.
Well. One problem at a time.
The atmosphere that pervaded the Urukishnugal spaceport upon his arrival certainly didn’t seem to indicate problems by any measure, a current of excited babble running through the workers that clustered around the perimeter of his hangar bay. Barzivh, after quietly berating those who swarmed a bit too close and with too much enthusiasm, moved to the foot of the boarding ramp and bowed as Qymaen disembarked. “It’s an honor to meet you, my Khagan. Is there anything I can assist you with?”
Looking around at a sea of unfamiliar faces, one question surfaced. “Do you know if any members of my Izvoshra still live in Urukishnugal?”
A faint smile softened Barzivh’s professional mien. “One is already on his way to meet you; he’ll be here soon. The news of your return has spread quickly,” he added, glancing sideways at a number of sheepish workers. “In the meantime, you are welcome to step inside and sit. Would you like some caf?”
He’d had every intention of presenting a strong, stoic front to his people, but now—surrounded by giddy, adoring expressions, kuu-lir drowning his senses, reveling in the knowledge that one of his Izvoshra was en route—he struggled to compose himself. “I…I think I’ll wait outside. Alone. It’s been so long since I’ve breathed in Kalee,” he added, though he knew he needed no excuse.
“Of course, my Khagan. You can leave that way, over there. I’ll be at the door should you need anything.” Barzivh turned to the gawkers, corralling them away. “All right, move along. Give Khagan Sahuldeem some space. No doubt he’s traveled a long way.”
With the crowd dispersed, Qymaen crossed the hangar uninterrupted and pushed his way through the door Barzivh had indicated, tense with anticipation. Immediately he hooded his eyes with one hand, startled and squinting against the intensity of the sun. The last time he’d been planetside, dust choked the atmosphere and filtered sunlight through a dull, beige haze. Now, the modest skyline of Urukishnugal stood clear against blue skies and noonday luminance. Emboldened by the sight, he stepped out of the hangar onto grass-tufted soil and drew a long, deep breath, inhaling the nostalgic scent of loam and river musk. Perhaps he’d been too optimistic about Kalee’s recovery—or he’d underestimated the sensitivity of his scarred lungs—but he loosed several hacking coughs before he managed to stifle them with his sleeve.
“Qymaen?”
His breath hitched and stopped completely as his head snapped toward the familiar voice.
A figure had just rounded the side of the hangar bay, approaching from the direction of the city, silver-streaked hair tied back in a long braid and clear from wide, vivid green eyes. His faltering steps lengthened into an eager stride as he closed the distance between them. “Qymaen! I—I can’t believe it. It’s really you!”
A bemused smile wrestled its way onto Qymaen’s lips, a reflexive response to hearing his name—his given name—spoken after so many years. He returned the favor, greeting his comrade by stretching his arm out in anticipation of a salute. “Amagi. It’s been far too long.”
By the time he realized what Amagi was about to do it was too late to draw back, and with a startled wheeze he found himself yanked into an exuberant, brotherly embrace. “You came back!” Amagi shouted joyfully. “We thought—we tried sending—but we never heard—we weren’t sure you would return! But here you are! It’s you!”
Despite the shock of it all, Qymaen accepted the hug without complaint. “It’s me,” he said, gruff but contrite. “I’m…sorry you never heard from me. I sent messages—or I thought I did. Apparently nothing you or I sent ever made it.”
“Well, never mind messages!” Amagi scoffed, clasping Qymaen’s shoulders. Qymaen couldn’t help but note that his old prosthesis had at some point been replaced, upgraded to a sleeker model with visibly improved haptics and functionality. Digits curled and grasped with ease. “We have you, now. That’s all that matters. Gods, I can hardly believe it. How long are you staying?”
“I’m not sure,” was the truthful if evasive reply, little more than a murmur. The unequivocal thrill that had seized him at the sight of his old friend settled into sobering uncertainty as he reflected on the question. There was so much to explain…and yet no part of him wished to speak on it—his intentions for the Huk on Oben, his violent resignation from the Banking Clan—not when for a sweet, indulgent moment he could pretend nothing did matter but the fact that he was finally home.
Amagi, meanwhile, stepped back and studied him at arms-length, his eyes flicking up and down as a curious grin slowly consumed his lower face. “They treated you well beyond the stars, eh? Fattened you up!”
Qymaen blinked, jolting out of his funk and genuinely taken aback by the assessment. “I think you forgot what a healthy Kaleesh is supposed to look like,” he retorted, keeping his response light despite the edge of protestation creeping into his voice.
Amagi’s grin persisted as he motioned for Qymaen to follow him, angling in the direction of the city gate. “Sure, Qy. I was going to suggest a feast to honor your return, but you’ll probably be disappointed by our offerings.”
“Do you have enough food for such things as feasts?” Qymaen demanded, focusing on what was important. “That is, Kalee has the food it needs? Not just here in Urukishnugal, but everywhere?”
Amagi’s eyes widened as he realized the significance of the subject. “Oh. Oh, yes! Of course. Sorry, I wasn’t sure what you already knew.”
“Not as much as I’d hoped. There were reports from the Banking Clan, but nothing in great detail. And frankly I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
“Well, not long after you left on your mission, the trade embargoes were lifted. We still have to rely on imports more than we’d like; the farmlands may never fully recover from the damage done.”
“But Kalee is no longer starving. And what about the Huk?” Qymaen grimaced, hesitant to know. “Do they—have they left our people alone?”
Amagi slowed his pace, casting an uncomfortable glance backward. “I…well…listen, Qy,” Amagi rushed on with forced cheer, “we can talk about all that later. Why don’t we focus on celebrating? You’re home! You’re finally home!”
Qymaen’s expression hardened. “If only my homecoming was cause for celebration. I heard about Oben. I’m here to help resolve that issue—as violently as necessary.”
“Oh, you know about Oben! Then it should be a celebration!” Amagi exulted. “Now that you’re back, you can rally the rest of the Izvoshra and we’ll have our revenge on the Huk for failing to honor treaty terms.”
“I came home before I finished paying off our planet’s debt with my service,” said Qymaen soberly. He couldn’t ignore it forever; couldn’t pretend there were no complications lurking beyond their star system. “I broke my contract with the Banking Clan.”
Amagi waved away his words. “You served your Bank Clan to help us pay our debt to the Huk, which only exists because of the treaty. If we’re restarting the war—and the Huk are the ones who violated the treaty, they’re at fault!—then we don’t owe them anything anymore. No more treaty, no more debt, no more working for the Bank Clan!”
Qymaen sighed. He was too weary to try and explain the circumstances surrounding his broken contract, never mind berate Amagi for his foolishly naive interpretation of the situation. Instead, he fell silent and soaked in the ambience of Urukishnugal as they traversed its streets. Everything flooded back—the marshy, vegetative smell of the Shumiv’za, the grand temple casting cooling shade across several square kilometers, the lively sounds of civilians calling to one another in the marketplace and driving both kuunsi-led and repulsor-powered carts down the main drag. But though he relished the familiarity of the experience, it all served just as well in reminding him how much he himself had changed since leaving Kalee. For every smiling Kaleesh they passed, he would spot two more standing well out of the way, nervous and curious, whispering as they eyed his clothing and accoutrements.
And that was only what had changed on the surface. What might they find if they could look deeper?
He averted his uncomfortable gaze and spotted the white shellstone of the Khanagal looming in the distance, realizing after a beat that they were not headed in that direction. “Where are we going?”
Amagi gestured vaguely before him. “Just my home, for now. Jindra is there, of course. And as luck would have it, Kashbaru and some of his family are visiting Urukishnugal this month. When the rest of the Izvoshra hear you’ve returned,” he added confidently, “they’ll come, too.”
That remains to be seen. “Who rules Urukishnugal now?” Qymaen hazarded. “Who lives in the Khanagal?”
“Officially?” A shrug. “No one. Asilal returned to his position of Captain of the Urukishnugal Guard, and that has placed him in the highest authority in the city...but he doesn’t call himself Chieftain or Khan—or Khagan.” He beamed sideways at Qymaen. “No one wanted to replace you.”
“No one dared, you mean,” was the wry response, and Amagi huffed in somewhat abashed amusement.
A million more questions teetered on the tip of Qymaen’s tongue, but he held them there when he saw that Amagi was leading the way from the road to a modest-sized house befitting a common civilian rather than two of the first appointed Izvoshra. Kuninda flowers bloomed in the garden, a charming and welcome sight. Qymaen lagged behind, stopping just past the gate when the front door opened.
The passage of time had been kind to Jindra, despite the suffering all Kaleesh had shared over the past decade. She’d flourished as well as the kuninda blossoms, lack of tusks notwithstanding: no more lean than she’d ever been, the color of her scales ruddy and healthy, shaggy hair barely brushed with silver and now long enough to tie at the base of her neck. She greeted Amagi by pulling him in to press foreheads, then leaned around her husband, smiling warmly toward the gate. “Qymaen,” she said simply, but the single word carried enough poignant, raw relief that his heart unexpectedly ached.
He’d hardly a moment to process his emotions before a dark red face appeared over Jindra’s shoulder.
“SAHULDEEM?”
Kashbaru unfolded himself from the doorway and bounded forward, tackling Qymaen in a boisterous hug and lifting him clear off the ground. He’d never had much regard for personal space, and the years had not changed that.
“It is you! What in the ancestors’ names are you wearing?”
A pinched cough from Qymaen muffled against Kashbaru’s clavicle. “Hello, Kashbaru. Put me down.”
The old Grendajuin obliged, setting him gently on the ground, but his hands remained on Qymaen’s waist for an extra moment. “Ah! What is this?” He clapped his Khagan’s sides, astonished. “Ya igni! So plump you’ve become! The offworlders have spoiled you, Khagan Sahuldeem. I hope you are still fit for battle.”
Flushed and flustered, Qymaen retreated from the impertinent touch, all too aware of Amagi off to the side, wilting under the desperate struggle not to laugh. “I’m stronger than I've ever been,” he snapped.
For Kashbaru, there was no struggle as he guffawed and rejoined, “Thank the gods, so am I, or I may not have been able to lift you!”
“Everyone, please, let’s settle down,” soothed Jindra as she inserted herself between her friends and hooked elbows with Qymaen, purposefully redirecting his attention. His ruffled nerves visibly settled in her proximity, a heartening development that spoke to how deeply he must have missed them all; she could too well remember a time when he flinched and grew rigid at her touch. “Come inside and sit at our hearth. Are you tired? How long were you traveling?”
“Oh, I…just a couple of weeks—some of it in hyperspace to cut down on—oof.”
He broke off with a grunt as something small but solid barreled into his knees. He’d just enough time to register the sight of wide yellow eyes staring up at him before two more children skidded around the corner of the yard, both brandishing handfuls of mud. All three younglings stopped in their tracks, their game arrested on account of a stranger in their midst. Qymaen, meanwhile, turned his incredulous, almost stricken gaze on Jindra and Amagi.
But it was Kashbaru who strode forward and scooped the smallest of the children into his arms—first tossing her in the air, an exercise she met with a screech of laughter—and declared, “My elder-children! My oldest daughter and her husband are taking in the city sights this day, so I am tasked with the care of these little ruffians.”
“Ah,” said Qymaen, throat tightening around the single syllable.
Jindra noted this fresh tension and tugged Qymaen toward the door. “Let’s leave the children to their games, Kashbaru. They don’t want to listen to our boring old people conversation, anyway, do they?”
This had the desired effect, the youngest squirming free of her elder-father’s grasp and scattering with her siblings as if Jindra had threatened them with violence.
Jindra and Amagi’s home was a typical city dwelling—larger than the simple huts of the steppes, with greater delineation of space through corridors and separate chambers, as well as technologically advanced amenities and appliances that spoke to the health of Kalee’s trade situation. A traditional hearth still occupied the center of the main living space, warm and inviting.
Jindra started to head there first to fetch a waiting kettle of tea, but Amagi made a dash for the pantry and unearthed a large jug.
“No tea!” he declared as he poured beer into four clay cups. “This is a time for festivities!”
Kashbaru grabbed a cup and passed another to Qymaen. “A blessing! To the return of our Khagan!”
“To the Izvoshra reuniting!” chimed in Amagi.
Qymaen spoke grimly. “To righting wrongs.”
They all drank, though Jindra did not miss how Qymaen downed his mug in a few practiced gulps. She continued to keep an eye on him as he accepted another pour from Amagi and the four of them arranged themselves on cushions around the hearth.
“How is your family, Qymaen?” she spoke up before he could take another swallow.
His jaw and fist both clenched, a reflexive response before he could formulate words. He strove to keep his voice level. “I didn’t stop in Irikuum. I came straight here.”
That redirected Amagi and Kashbaru’s focus, the former of which almost choked on a mouthful of beer. “You haven’t been home yet? I—but—aren’t you looking forward to seeing your wives and children again, after all these years?”
“Am I looking forward to seeing who has survived?” snapped Qymaen, abandoning composure and taking a quick, vindictive swig. “No, I can’t say that I am.”
An uncomfortable pall of silence fell over the room. Jindra knew Qymaen’s temperament well enough to understand he’d just descended into a mood that would be difficult to counteract, and Amagi, though he kept regular contact with Zaebar and knew the answer, suspected Qymaen wasn’t interested in hearing hard numbers at the moment. Brazen Kashbaru, meanwhile, waited only a few seconds before he plunged headlong into the murky waters.
“Bah, you will go when you go! For now, you are here with us, and this is a treasure! You should tell us tales of your adventures in the stars while we have you to ourselves, Sahuldeem.”
Qymaen peered gloomily into his nearly-empty cup. “Adventures.”
“Yes! For instance, is it true you now speak very well the Basic tongue? I am sure your words are most impressive. Go on, say something to me in Basic!”
Qymaen lifted only his eyes, and obliged. “You look like shit shoveled out of a Bantha stables. And you smell like it, too.”
Kashbaru boomed with delighted laughter. “Ahaha, amazing! Now, will you translate the terrible thing you have just called me?”
Even Qymaen couldn’t help cracking a smirk before his expression settled once more into grim neutrality. “I think I’d rather hear about what’s happened here before speaking of my ‘adventures’.”
“Kalee is doing much better now, thanks to you,” insisted Amagi. “Food, technology and medicine are imported on a regular basis, and—”
“And the Huk have honored the terms of the treaty until recently?”
“They rarely visit Kalee,” Jindra assured him. “Your arrangement with the Bank Clan ensured they no longer needed to conduct their affairs on our world, and they stopped taking laborers some months after you first left.”
Qymaen took a deep swallow of beer, drowning out uncomfortable thoughts of the IGBC. “How did you find out about Oben? Do you know the extent of the damage?”
Amagi wilted a bit. “Ah. Well, the merchant guild leaders have been working closely with offworld traders, of course, and a few months ago one of the larger crafts from a regular importer was rerouted to Oben for emergency refueling. They had a front row seat for some of the newest construction projects the Huk are working on, and they were kind enough to let us know.”
“The Yam’rii aren’t just desecrating the tombs and temples we left behind, Qymaen,” Jindra clarified, soft and sorrowful. “They’re demolishing them completely to build over the land. They’re even exhuming Kaleesh remains and burning them.”
Her words summoned harrowing memories in a flash of green, calling forth the worst horrors he had witnessed during the war—the slaves, the slaughterhouses, the warehouses full of the skin, bone and flesh of his people—and his hand squeezed around his mug, claws gouging rents in the red clay. “Disgusting filth,” he choked out. “They think there won’t be any consequences?”
“They will not let any Kaleesh land on Oben to for ourselves see what they have done,” interjected Kashbaru, “and they ignore our accusations and appeals.”
“The Republic hasn’t responded, either. Asilal has been broadcasting a message in hopes that someone will hear and send a representative to resolve the problem.”
“I heard,” growled Qymaen. “But what about the traders who witnessed what’s happening on Oben? What have they done to help us?”
“No more than what they already did.” Kashbaru’s brow creased, his nose wrinkling in disgust. “They told us what they saw, but do not wish to further interfere. No recordings, no images. No words or evidence for the Republic. They say they fear what the Huk will do to them if they find out.”
“Cowards.” But as infuriating as he found the merchants’ gutless restraint, he knew his wrath was wasted on them. There were far better outlets. “We don’t need their interference, just as we don’t need the Huk’s permission to land on Oben,” he sneered, sarcastic disdain smearing through the word. “We will fly there and see the destruction with our own eyes—and then we’ll pay them back in kind.”
Both Amagi and Kashbaru sat up straighter, eyes glittering, while Jindra’s body language grew tight and guarded. “What exactly are you proposing?” she asked, not challenging, but exuding caution. “If you mean to attack the Yam’rii, you know they’ll try to claim to the Republic it was unprovoked, that we were the ones to violate the treaty first.”
“We can make holorecordings of what we find,” said Qymaen brusquely. “I know not to make that mistake again. But I will not waste time waiting to hear back from the Republic before we put a stop to the Huk’s desecration. We can’t stand for this any longer. We won’t. ‘Attack’ the Yam’rii? Hah.” His attempt at a scoffing laugh emerged more a strangled snarl. “I should exterminate them.”
Kashbaru’s shoulders shook with a hearty chortle. “Oh, but it is good to have you back, Khagan Sahuldeem!”
Amagi, on the other hand, managed to temper his excitement after he caught Jindra’s worried eye. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “I’m eager to hear your plan! But maybe it should wait until after we’ve gathered all the Izvoshra back here—y’know, so you won’t have to repeat yourself. Ooh, and in the meantime,” he hurried on, gathering good cheer to himself like a deflector shield, “you should tell us more about your time offworld! What planets did you travel to? What aliens did you meet? What technology did you learn to use?”
“What foods did you eat?” Kashbaru added, happy to revisit the subject and brimming with mischievous glee.
“Kash, please,” Jindra chided.
Not without effort, the climate shifted into something more convivial, and after breaking out a second jug the others succeeded in wringing a couple of beer-flushed stories from Qymaen regarding his tenure as commander of the Collections and Security Division. Before long, though, leery of treading too close to the topic of his untimely departure from the IGBC’s employ, he shifted the attention back to his comrades, convincing them to tell their own tales. He sat, drank and listened, more to their lulling voices than to their words, the Kaleesh beer settling malted and warm on his tongue and gently cushioning his thoughts from much beyond the companionable presence of old friends.
Something nudged his leg, and he blinked alert with a flinch. Jindra’s smile met his bleary gaze, which then dropped to the toe she had pressed into his calf to stir him from his dozing.
Amagi, it seemed, was in the midst of gushing about one exciting project or another, the nature of which Qymaen had missed in his reverie but slowly began to register. “—And the controls will actually fit our hands and—oh, it will be amazing when it’s finished! Our very own Kaleesh ship! And Jindra’s going to be so good at flying it! Because she’s the best! Oh! Jindra!” He gestured to Jindra, the expansive, sloppy motion suggesting he’d attempted to keep up with Qymaen’s pace of consumption and lacked the tolerance his friend had built up over the past several years. “Jindraaa! Show him the designs!” He whipped back to Qymaen, ecstatic. “We have designs!”
“You don’t need to yell, love, I’m right here,” said Jindra with an indulgent chuckle, plucking her husband’s cup out of his hand as she stood and moved to the other end of the room. “The designs aren’t as impressive as the real thing, though.”
Amagi wouldn’t hear a word of it. He pounded his fists on his thighs to emphasize each word. “Show! Him! The! Designs!”
Qymaen currently exhibited a much more subdued level of inebriation than Amagi, but had relaxed enough that his smile was genuine. “I’d like to see this Kaleesh ship in person.”
“Well,” was the apologetic wince, “it’s not finished yet. It’s still being built, and even when it’s done, it’s…it’s like a model, you see. We won’t be flying that one; it’ll be there for reference while we test the individual components and assemble the final ship.”
“Ah,” muttered Qymaen, mostly to himself, shifting to Basic without a thought. “A prototype.”
Kashbaru produced a most joyous spit-take, almost dousing the hearth. “He did it again! More than once he has spoken Basic instead of Kaleesh without meaning to!” He laughed and pounded Qymaen on the shoulder, and though alcohol was not necessary to release any inhibitions about personal space he didn’t possess to begin with, he certainly wasn’t sober at the moment. “See, look, look at his face! He is upset that I am pointing it out!”
“You have no idea what it’s like to be forced to speak an alien tongue for years,” Qymaen scowled.
Jindra returned to the hearth with a datapad, which she offered to Qymaen with a raised eyebrow. “I might.”
He had the grace to look guilty as he accepted the tablet and held it in front of his chagrined expression. The datapad itself, he observed, was outdated compared to what he had grown used to handling out in the greater galaxy, heavy and clunky in his grip with cracks splintering the fuzzy display. He was able to make out the technical drawings without too much strain, the design clearly demonstrating the new ship’s roots in the Huk spacecraft from which much of its parts derived, but the shape was unique, more evocative of Kaleesh aesthetics.
“It’s good. Very good.” He lifted his eyes to Jindra. “But it won’t be ready before we go to Oben, will it?”
“Oben!” Amagi exclaimed, freshly fired up. “Yes! Are we talking about Oben again?”
Kashbaru thrust his drink toward the ceiling. “To talking about Oben!”
Jindra handily intercepted his mug. “I think it might be time for a break. Qymaen should rest before he flies to Irikuum to see his family—and you two should simply rest.”
Amagi goggled up at his wife. “But we don’t have time to rest; we’re going to war!”
“Amagi, love, you’re drunk,” said Jindra patiently. “We can talk about war when Qymaen has summoned the other Izvoshra. There are other things to discuss in the meantime.”
Another moment of befuddlement passed before Amagi’s green eyes glinted with understanding. “Ohh! I see.” He turned to Kashbaru, who leaned in with open-mouthed interest. “She wants to have a word with Qymaen. She’ll do anything to get us to leave.”
“Oho! We should not cross her, then!” Kashbaru stood, dragging Amagi with him. “Come, Ku’liana! Let’s go see what game my elder-children have invented. Perhaps they will let us join them!”
Jindra watched them march out the door with mild amusement while Qymaen, who had remained quiet throughout the farce, set aside the datapad and poured himself another drink. She soon sat back down, scooting her cushion nearer and fixing him with a sincere, appraising look. “How are you feeling?”
Qymaen tipped back a swallow of beer and seemed to study the ceiling in search of an adequate and honest response. He knew she wouldn’t be satisfied with a vague, perfunctory courtesy. “I’m tired.”
She nodded. “Kashbaru isn’t staying here, so there’s a guest room free if you’d like to lie down.”
Still avoiding her gaze, he instead lowered his eyes to his cup as he mumbled an elucidation over his loosened tongue. “My body’s tired, yes. But my mind, too. My...soul, I suppose. Whatever’s left of it.” His eyelids slid shut and his tusks drooped. “I’m just so tired, Jindra.”
She absorbed this, and, taking it for admission, spoke up tentatively. “You’ve been fighting for Kalee for a long time. Maybe it’s time to rest. To truly rest.”
Qymaen met this gentle proposition with a sharp, upward glance, but there was no anger in his rough face. “For...for the past eight years, I was not a warrior,” he began, rather haltingly. Jindra folded her hands in her lap, head tilted at an inquisitive, polite angle. “My actions were often dishonorable, and so many times over such foolish things as—as expensive trinkets, useless frivolities that these people had no means to pay for. Such empty lives that they were desperate to not part with these things or their money until I threatened those lives.” He paused to sip his drink, a scowl forming. “They disgusted me. That made the work easier—these greedy, cowardly creatures who cared so much for their possessions that they feared death mostly because it would sever them from all those things. And still, everything I did was for Kalee. For the Banking Clan, yes, on the surface, but always, ever, for Kalee. That...helped. For a while.” As he spoke, the scowl folded inward, bitter with self-loathing. “But I was just as disgusting. For every threat I made, for all the broken glass and broken bones, I could be doing...more. How was I really helping? These pathetic beings had nothing to do with Kalee—with our war—with what we fought to take back from the Huk when they first invaded our home. And when I thought Kalee was refusing to reach out to me—it wasn’t your fault,” he dismissed when Jindra’s face crumpled, “no, it wasn’t, you had no idea I was trying to send you messages, and your messages were intercepted before they could reach me. But he—they tried to fool me into thinking I was being ignored—or forgotten—that what I was doing wasn’t cherished—and ancestors help me, it worked too well. I-I gave in to them. I stopped—I stopped fighting. Idiot!” he abruptly railed at himself.
Jindra half-rose from her cushion, not sure if there was anything she ought to do for Qymaen, whose frustration wrenched a few wheezing coughs from deep in his chest. But he directed a wet hack into his sleeve and ranted on, despite the persistent grit in his throat.
“I wasn’t fighting, not the way I was taught to fight, not the way I was born to fight. How dare I engage in such—such uselessness when I should have been leading my armies into battles and spilling blood as I always had? What was I doing?! How could I think it was enough?! It was…I was nothing!” he raged with a final burst of passion. “I am tired of feeling like nothing. I have been nothing for too long. So no, Jindra. Now isn’t the time to rest. I will fight, and I’ll rest when my enemies are dead.”
He drained his drink in a furious punctuation before he slumped down on his cushion, glowering, shoulders hunched, chest heaving.
Jindra waited for his breathing to even out, then reached out a hand. “Your cup, please. Just because you hold it better than Amagi, don’t think I haven’t noticed. No more.”
Her response was the last thing Qymaen expected, and sheer bewilderment allowed Jindra to stand and firmly remove the mug from his shock-slackened grip. She moved it over to the table with the other discarded cups and empty jugs, lowered herself back in her seat, and promptly held her hand out again. He blinked at her upturned palm, confused by the gesture. “I...now what?”
With a heavy sigh, she sandwiched his hand between hers, locking eyes earnestly. “Qymaen. Whatever you decide to do, we will always be there when you need us. If you choose to fight, your Izvoshra will fight with you. If you choose to rest…” She paused and wetted her lips. “…your friends will support you. No one would think less of you, not when you’ve already given so much. So, please. Think carefully—tell me what you really want to do—and know you have us, now and always.”
A discourteous impulse almost led him to snap back at her, to insist that he’d been quite clear about his desires a minute earlier. Her soft eyes arrested that urge, encouraging him to instead draw a deep breath and drive the venom from his voice.
“I meant what I said, Jindra. I…I can’t rest. I have to fight. For Kalee.”
“Then we’ll fight by your side,” she said without hesitation, squeezing his hand.
“All of you?” he wondered with a hint of skepticism.
“If you call everyone to the Khanagal, they’ll come.”
After a long pause, Qymaen removed his hand and stood. “I’ll reach out to the rest of the Izvoshra in the next day or so. For now, give Asilal my regards, if he’s in town.”
Jindra also rose, face steeped in concern. “Are you…?”
He turned away, heading for the door, gait not nearly as balanced as he’d expected. “Going to Irikuum,” he uttered, trying to disregard his giddiness. It was only Kaleesh beer, after all. Never mind how much he’d had. Or—how much had he had? “Oh, kriff,” he added when the room bucked underfoot like an annoyed kuunsi determined to throw him off its back.
Jindra hastened to move ahead of him, blocking him from the exit and reaching out to steady him. “Ya igni, so much for holding it well. You aren’t going anywhere near a ship. You need to rest and sober up first.”
Qymaen wavered, vaguely swatting at her intrusive hands to push away her support. “Pah. I don’t need...I’m fine. My droids can pilot my…my...” His retort died on his lips as he stopped and blinked, swaying slightly in place as he remembered what he suggested was no longer a solution. “Oh. My droids.”
Jindra took his elbow in a hesitant grip, and, grateful to receive no resistance, guided Qymaen to the table beside the hearth. “You’re staying right here,” she informed him sternly, pressuring him into a wicker chair and overriding his whines of protest. “Join us for our evening meal. No . You’re staying . And you’re going to spend the night if you still need to sleep it off. Do you understand me? No running off at midnight while we’re asleep.” Once she received a grumble of assent, her bearing softened, and she patted Qymaen’s knee. “I would fly you myself, but—I, ah, don’t think you’re in the best state to see your family, not right now. In the morning, though, please, by all means, you must visit them. I’m sure they’ll be so happy to see you safe and sound. I know it.”
He hadn’t considered an alternative until she’d expressed such heavy-handed assurances.
What if they weren’t happy to see him?
Would his children even recognize him?
Who was still alive to feel one way or another?
Despite years of separation and of rigid emotional walls, Jindra could still read Qymaen’s moods well enough to catch him before he spiraled off the edge of a precipice. She jolted to her feet, dragging him with her by one arm, hauling him out of his own dark chasm before he could slip and plummet further. “All right, here’s what we’re doing: I’m going to prepare dinner, and you’re going to help. You can’t be any worse around the hearth than Amagi is, even when you’re drunk. Are you listening? Qymaen?”
“Fine,” he mumbled.
He was, as it transpired, worse, and Jindra banished him to stirring duty after he dropped a basket’s worth of freshly-peeled Kinyenian potatoes all over the floor.
The remainder of the evening passed without further disgrace, good food serving the dual purpose of bolstering spirits and bringing much-needed clarity to blurred edges. His Izvoshra redoubled their efforts to maintain a light atmosphere, and by the time Qymaen crawled under the hide and skin blankets in the guest quarters, he nearly felt relaxed.
Yet as soon as he closed his eyes, his mind rebelled, thoughts scattered and volatile as stars across the seething night sky—exploding into painful novas, collapsing into inescapable wells of gravity, streaking past at lightspeed, ceaseless, shredding nerves and denying sleep.
This was no time to rest.