The Price of Victory

[Bobbi]

The low fwoomp shook the air as the blue flames leapt from the forge jets. Gloved hands held the tongs which suspended the the chest plate of a new cuirass in the heat to become malleable. Then the hammer came down. Klang. Bits and pieces of the past splinter into a thousand visions of fire and death Klang. a flash of memory. A pair of eyes. The eyes of Solomon Tekal. Pain. Klang. A young boy screams in anguish as the forms of his parents writhe among flames so hot they burn green. He reaches out to them, but they burn away to ash. Klang. We bury the pain. We carry the memory. We share both and all else with the tribe. Klang. This is the way.


Ostari, in the Neminite system. It was a world rich in green resources. Its primary function was the study of agriculture and animal life that was native to Ostari's surrounding sister planets. It was also a member of the Galactic Agriculture Association, and where Solomon Tekal was setting his ship down. The angular blockade runner had always been a favorite of his. The Justicar had seen him through some tough spots, and had left him hanging in a dead float only once. That had been his own fault, though, and the ship could not be blamed for it. It was a Mandal Motors design, and there had been a good handful just like it in the Mandalorian naval fleet. But this one -- this one belonged to him, and for all its bumps and scratches he wasn't looking to trade her in any time soon.

The ship did draw some attention, and what attention it did draw could be waved away for the right price. It was a price he was prepared to pay just now. His business on Ostari was of the kind where time was more against him than not. Disembarking, the blond haired man carried a rectangular box with a folding and clasped lid with his left hand. His right was bandaged and held against his upper body, right around his midsection for comfort. His clothes were clean, and of Hapan cut. He was a clean shaven man, with eyes as blue as any clean blue sky on a sunny day. His golden colored hair was well kept, cut short and spiked back. And after checking in with the port authority, the contents of his carrying case scanned, he was enroute with a port escort to meet with a group of botanists who were, no doubt, waiting for him to arrive.



Whatever Sol had been en route to go do... It would be Interrupted by the Justicar's security system. Someone had apparently bypassed ship's security and managed to get on board. Further information as to the identity of the culprit seemed to be unavailable.



The chirp in his ear was the indication from his ship that something was wrong. Getting access to The Justicar wasn't impossible, it was just very difficult. Too difficult for the most common of ship thieves, and too dangerous for the rest. There were only a few that he knew of that could do it that smoothly, and the hope that ticked up in his chest was squashed a millisecond later by the thought that if it had been The Mechanic, it wouldn't be his ship chirping in his ear. It would be something else entirely. So a detour was made, and a quick excuse to his escort -- he'd forgotten something on his ship. The meeting would be delayed, but added security measures and personell would be needed. His pace back through the pristine white halls of the Ostari port were quick, the case he carried knocking against his leg as he retraced his steps. It did not take long to find The Justicar again, but it took long enough for him to wish he hadn't agreed to come weaponless. His approach to his ship was cautious. He checked the access panel, and the hull for explosives before starting up the ramp and into the vessel.



Except for the security notice, there were no indications anything was amiss with the Justicar. She appeared to be locked up and just as Sol had left her. There were no signs of tampering. No explosives. No booby traps. Nothing. Nothing at all, except for one small thing. On the pilots seat, in the cockpit, was a scrap of flimsi folded into quarters. The visible side held one word in basic characters. "Sol".

Upon a search of the ship, there would be no life signs. No hidden stowaways. Nothing out of the norm. Simply the note.



With nothing amiss outside the ship, his attention turned inward. It was a small ship, built for speed and movement. It did not take him long to make a careful sweep of the ship's singular bunk, and the cockpit. On The Justicar there were very few places to hide. Caution gripped him further when he found the ship empty, and the note sitting on the pilot's seat. He stared at the little sheet of flimsi before setting the case down in the copilot's seat so he could pick it up. Unfolding it took a little shifting and some flapping of the flimsy to get it to open up without much help from his right hand. In short order it happened, and Sol leaned toward the light coming in through the cockpit to read it.



It was short. Only five words were hand written on the flimsy. A single word in the center. Then four more beneath it. It read simply: " Chellak." Then, below... "This is the way."



The flimsi was pulled into a ball against his palm and thrown sideways into a corner of the cockpit. Someone was messing with him, and when he found out who.... Sol turned, taking a look at the case he'd been toting around. Could it wait? Was finding out who was behind this more important? -- He could always get other samples. But if this was a Mando'ade looking to start something it needed to be stopped before it went any further. Ripping himself away from that thought, and the implications of it, he slid down into the pilot's seat and began a power up. Comm calls were placed to port authority -- requests for security footage review, and then a call to those he'd come to meet. It went something like, "Will all due apologies I must cancel our meeting. I've a family emergency to take care of." This was against his better judgement. All of his better judgement. He was still going to do it anyway. He needed to keep this as far away from his family as he could. Clearance was received, and off he went following a note written on a piece of now crumpled flimsi.



Port Authorities complied with his requests and promptly sent over security feeds. Conveniently, the holo feed collapsed into snow as it was jammed for a moment or two during the exact time the Justicar had also suffered a breach in its security.



His guess was now riding on someone who was pissed at him and looking for a fight, someone who knew the basics. There could have been any number that found him, and had known he had had a hand in roughing up the status quo for Mandal culture so it would not be surprising. How did he know it was a Mandal? How many people in the galaxy knew how to read the language well enough to bypass everything he had in place? That meant he was most likely going to be flying into a trap. While he waited for clearance to leave Ostari, he checked the compartment hidden under the console for his blaster.



The compartment appeared much as it usually did... However.. His blaster was gone. In its place was a different pistol. One of a familiar matched pair. It was old and worn, but in very good working condition.
It was loaded and ready to fire.



"Son of a..." the hiss that came from him overshadowed the clearance he'd gotten to leave. A pain shot up his right arm, from fingers to elbow, causing his fingers to curl involuntarily toward his palm. That blaster was one he knew too well, and when he found the owner he was going to shove it so far up that beskar.... the compartment was slammed shut, Sol leaning over his right arm, his left guiding The Justicar out of the port, heading for space and his next destination -- and who ever was there waiting for him.



Chellak was a backwater world. There was nothing there of any import. On it, not far from the shipyard that served as a spaceport, was a tiny, dirty, and mostly empty cantina. A bothan was tending bar, wiping the metal surface with a dirty rag. Jazzy music played quietly, providing background noise to muddle the silence that was broken only by the occasional sound of a glass being picked up or set down.



Chellak was not a vacation spot unless you wanted to find yourself a dirty little hole to sink yourself into for a while. It was the kind of place you went to if you didn't want to be found, after all who would look there? There wasn't anything to it. It lacked anything of any significant value to any major government. Its trade system relied on piggy-backing with other near-by planets, making direct shipping a nightmare and costly. There were no ores to be mined, no true botanical presence unless what you wanted was a food source that tasted like it could kill you. The only thing truly useful that Challek had was a sentient presence. The atmosphere could support industry, but with the war that industry had faded into nothing. There was just no need for droids much these days. Most people had sworn off of them after many had seemed to take on a life of their own, something far past the basic and standard A.I. that droids were supposed to be equipped with. The Justicar set down in the open field that served as its port.

There were only a few settlement colonies on world. These housed the people who had kept an eye on the droid facilities that had fallen silent in the wake of the war. Worlds like this made his skin crawl. There would be no true presence of any sort of planetary defense. These were sanctioned workers who were now out of work, governed by the corporations that paid the bills. What security that did exist here would be of the type that came with loads of red tape. Solomon sat in the cockpit of his ship, staring out at the open shipyard where several broken down vessels sat still and quiet, as if they'd sighed once, lowered themselves onto their struts and just gave up the ghost. This was a bad idea. It was a horrible idea. And yet, whoever this was -- even if it was Ker'dan -- was out there waiting for him. Giving his right forearm a gentle massage with his left hand brought no relief to the stiff feeling that was starting at his fingertips and working its way up his arm. At least he could feel that. Things had, indeed, improved.

He'd made the resolution, he reminded himself, to come here and see this through. That had been impulsive, and he would not be telling Trinity about it when he returned home, if he returned home. Home. He couldn't linger here. His ship was settled, the blaster grabbed up from the compartment beneath the console, and he left the Justicar where it sat. This time, he made sure the seals were made and that the security system was as tight as he liked it to be before heading out of the port. Where would he start looking? It wasn't a smart idea to walk down the streets asking if anyone's seen the owner of the blaster he carried. It was an old weapon, it could bring more than a few creds for anyone who knew where to sell Mandal tech this old on the black market. That would get him nowhere fast.

He checked his jacket, making sure the blaster was safely concealed beneath the nerf hide he wore, just at his lower back. Safety on, he had tucked it there in the waistline of his pants. If he kept his arms down, no one would see and so no one would care. The jacket was something Trinity had given to him. It was black with bright green accents along the collar and stamped into the leather running down his left arm in a matching bright green to the accents was the name of his favorite speedball team. He wished he'd brought something else with him, but it would do in this pinch.

As he exited the port, Solomon stopped a weary looking Challen. The native species of sentient life had droopy looking eyes that were wide and black, and held no visible fire of life. Its jowls were heavy looking, giving the creature a pit-bull like quality. He asked where the nearest cantina was. That would be the best way to find this guy -- or gal -- that he was looking for. People loved to talk when they were drunk. In short order he got directions that came in low level rumbling from the Challen, which was hard enough to decipher. But it was gathered that the general location of it wasn't too far away. Following the directions got him close enough that he didn't need to ask again. It was easy enough to spot the place with people coming and going. Entering, himself, he shifted off to the side of the room and took a good look at who was present.



As Sol moved into the cantina, the Bothan bartender looked startled but quickly feigned nonchalance and began to polish the bar slightly faster. None of the other patrons seemed to notice Sol. Most eyeballs and stalks remained timidly on their own beverage choices.



The handful of beings that were present were not many. And none of them but the bartender caught his attention. Bothans could be sly creatures, but this one -- something was up with it. It was just a feeling right then, but he followed it by moving up to the bar and ordering something common enough, though he was almost certain that in a place like this it was going to be a waste of good creds.



The Bothan remained stiff, but swept up the creds Sol laid on the bar. He was filling a metal mug when the door slid open and somehow a deeper silence filled the tiny bar with a quiet more intense than it had been...

Framed in the glow of daylight supplied by the open door, a tall figure created an eclipse that matched the stunned silence. An armored giant stepped through, T shaped visor sweeping across the bar and halting as he moved to the bar next to Sol. He stopped there, gauntleted hands coming to rest on the bar before him. The visor looked straight ahead, not at Sol.

He said nothing. Merely stood. Up close, the familiar blue painted armor showed countless pock marks and scars. The unpainted parts gleamed as only true beskar can.

The Bothan set the mug before Sol and looked at the big Mandal. His clawed hands shook. The t shaped visor slowly shook in a gesture that meant "No." and in a flash, the Bothan was gone, slipping into the back room.

There was a quiet shuffling as the other patrons excused themselves and escaped through the open door.



The Bothan had been in on it. Solomon noted that after having watched the alien move with stiffness, and its sudden disappearance into the back room. The bothan had known something was up when he'd entered. Could that have been a by-product of his face having been in the news during the war? The Queen Killer? It didn't matter. Nor did the dingy drink he'd been served. As smoothly as he could manage with his left hand, Sol reached behind him and pulled the blaster out from where he had it tucked, "If I was sure I'd have a chance in the ninth level of a bolt making it through that armor, I wouldn't stop myself from trying for the kill. You need to know I'm unarmed other than your blaster." Which he was sliding across the bar toward the metal encased hand closest to him.


Ker'dan didn't answer at first. He slowly pulled the matching blaster from its hip holster, and slid it to rest near its mate. Then he pushed them both toward Sol.



His voice came through the helm Comm speaker, a low rumble both familiar but seeming older now and with more rasp in it. "Don't lie to me, Sol. You know the weak points."

He still looked ahead, not at the younger man.

"You didn't come here to kill me, and even if you had that in you, you aren't the one carrying my bullet. Just as I have never and will never carry yours..."



"Why was it done, then?" He leaned forward against the bar, resting his right arm on it in a slight shift of his weight. It was beginning to feel heavy.



"I needed you to listen and you weren't hearing me. Further, you were under the Mechanic's sway. I was trying to keep you safe from him and from yourself.". He said. "But I was called away, Sol. I had to go and deal with certain things that would not be ignored. For that, I am sorry. It's a regret I will carry into the void."


The black t shape turned then, and looked into him. The eyes behind it hidden, but no less daunting.



"Safe from him? From myself?" When he finally turned to meet the dead eyed and steady gaze of the t-shaped visor. Just his head moved, Sol looking up toward Ker'dan as much as he could without shifting away from the bar, "You had us hunted, Ker'dan. Hunted. I really want to believe that it was because you were called away, and that they were using that to their advantage. But I was starved, locked in a cell until I was two steps away from death. My wife. Our child. Picked up like common bounties...."



The t shaped visor fell slightly. And there may have been a sigh, but it wasn't picked up by the helmet Comm.


"My orders were not followed. I never intended that to happen. You were to be kept safe, not imprisoned. Not tortured..."


Moving slowly, as not to startle the younger man, he pulled first one and then a second boot knife and laid them on the bar next to the matched blasters.


"I removed their helms and cut their throats when I knew what they had done."


"perhaps we deserved what the Red did to us..."



Even with how carefully Ker'dan moved, Sol flinched at the sight of the knives. It was a tiny jolt that came from his shoulders and faded quickly as Ker'dan set the knives down on the bar, "I had hoped that had been the case. I wanted to believe we were all mistaken, but after seeing how far into your systems Buffton's AI had gone -- I didn't know what to think." He judged his next words carefully, reaching for the glass the Bothan had left for him. He didn't lift it. "The Red -- no one deserves what that fodder could do. "



He did not speak for a long moment.


The mention of the name Buffton seemed to darken the visor, if such a thing were possible. Hinting at a hidden, but seething anger deep below the surface.

"I could not leave my best people in charge.. I needed them with me where we were called. If I had known..." here the sigh did come through the Comm speaker. "If I had known, there is still nothing I could have done. The threat was far greater, and we lost more than we gained stopping what we had to stop from coming any further into the galaxy."

The visor turned to Sol once more.

"There are precious few Mandalorian left, Sol. Precious few to keep the tribe in this galaxy. I do not mean those that wear the beskar outside but not the inside."


"Those of us that remain have returned to the hidden coverts we once used after the empire's purge. Keeping The Way as we can. “


"I called you here because I wanted to make it right with you, Solomon. You deserved answers. And vengeance, if that is your desire. You have the right. I don't have the time to put it off anymore."


"If you're dying, old man, just come out and say it. You're sounding like things are running final for you -- really sounding like it." He lifted the glass, and then set it down again. Placing his left hand on the bar, he pushed off and faced Ker'dan head on, "I don't want vengeance, though I did at one time. I don't need it now."



"All I ever wanted for you was for you to be able to stand alone and think for yourself. No burdens. No guilt. No fear. I worried that Sadhric would mold you into something like him. Always hiding, always paranoid. I didn't want that for you."


"He isn't an evil man. And we would all have died were it not for him.. But his burdens are his to carry, just as mine are for me alone. Neither of us should have ever tried to make you into anything resembling us."


"For that, Solomon.. I am sorry."


He faced Sol head on, silent now. Still as stone.


Sol gave a small huff, rolled his shoulders, and felt a fierce pull to the left corner of his mouth as Ker'dan spoke, "have you ever spoken to him about what you wanted for me? Have you ever heard him say anything about his view on things? You two -- you say the same things. You both wanted the best, and to protect me. You both wanted to help. And you did. I'm not still not sure how I like this version of myself, but I wouldn't have gotten here without you." He drew in a breath, looking up at the blank gaze of Ker'dan's t-shaped faceplate, "So, that's where it sits. And now, if you want my forgiveness, you're going to have to take that bucket off your head."



Gloved hands rose to grip the sides of the silvered helm, then paused there for a long moment. Then Ker'dan lifted the helmet off and held it in the crook of one armored arm, the metal making soft noises as it touched.


His face looked very different than when last Sol had seen it. Once, he had dark hair with silver at the temples. Now it was white, and patches were missing where white scar tissue striped its way across his head and down his face. The face itself was the same, but it was twisted with burn scars now. Puckered along one side where some edged weapon had cut into him. That scar ran from chin to brow, leaving one of his Grey steely eyes a mess of knotted tissue, scarred over and gone. The remaining Grey eye locked on Sol. He was old now. Wrinkles and scars and little else. The proud jaw crooked on one side from being broken and left unset.

His voice came now without the masking noise of the helm Comm.

"I can live without your forgiveness... But I could not leave you without making right what little I can. It was never about making myself feel better. Only trying to... Give what I can."



Sol stood patiently, watching Ker'dan remove the helmet he wore. What was revealed almost made him regret what he was about to do. All the same, he stood quietly, looking Ker'dan over before drawing his left hand up, back, balled his fingers into a tight fist and let a left hook fly for Ker'dan's off-set jaw.

It would not be as strong of an action as it would have been coming from his right, but there was still strength to it, still some power. His right had slipped off the counter, hanging motionless at his side when he moved.


Ker'dan's head snapped back, and something happened Sol had never seen. The big man stumbled to one side, and very almost went to one knee.


He spat a gob of blood onto the floor and that single Grey eye returned to meet Sol's.


"Goddammit Sol, don't cock your arm back if you're going to hit a man. Use your body."



"You'll have to forgive the sloppiness," he hadn't moved in immediately after throwing the punch to give Ker'dan a hand up, but it did happen, "I was never good with my left hand. Are you alright?" He'd have smiled if it weren't for his frown, or the concern in his voice.



"As alright as I can be." he muttered, touching his jaw and moving it tenderly.



"What the hells happened to you.You look like a Kryat chewed you up and spit you out ...twice..." he turned back toward the bar and reached for the drink he'd ordered, but had yet to drink from. Picking up the glass, he shifted it closer to Ker'dan, avoiding the weapons sitting on the bar. All of this was done with his left hand.



He lifted the helm, and replaced it on his head, voice again tinged with static by the Comm speaker.


"Not your burden, Sol. And not yours to worry over. Victory has a price. This is the Way."


Gauntleted hands touched one button on the helm, and two or three on one wrist before he asked. "And what's wrong with that arm. If you'd used your right, you'd have knocked me down."





"The price of Victory," he answered, echoing Ker'dan's words back to him, bending his left arm across his upper body, laying his left hand on his right bicep, "Its not the worst price I paid, but its effects are lingering. You going to live for a while longer yet? Or are they building your pyre as we speak?"


The big man looked at Sol for a long moment. The ghost of the gravelly chuckle could be imagined at Sol's answer.


The helmet cocked slightly to one side, as Ker no doubt scanned Sol's arm in several ways with the Helms built in optics.


"The Armorer might be able to help you with that. She's got good hands."


He seemed to ignore the other question.


"Do you have a way to contact him?"



With his left hand he gave his right arm a gentle rub, "I've had people looking at it. The best medical help money can buy -- they found nothing. Darien's been helping me manage the symptoms, and things were better until you broke into my damn ship." He had to force that out, causing his voice to sound tight because of Ker'dan's last question. He was left shaking his head, "And no. I lost him in The Red -- I haven't heard anything from him since before the crisis."



Ker'dan made a noise in his throat that gave the impression he was displeased with both answers. But he said nothing and moved his head in the subtle way that only Sol might recognize as him paying attention to something on his private helm Comms.



While Ker'dan focused onward, Sol chanced a glance toward the weapons that were sitting on the bar. It was a preemptive thought, one that came from being backed into one too many corners. He knew where the exit was, and that there had to be one out the back. The question was: could he get there fast enough if -- Those were not stupid thoughts, but he cleared his throat and pushed them to the side for now, "What is it?"



The t shaped visor turned to Sol.


"Proximity alert. One too many locals got too close to the Covert. They've begun egress ops. It'll be quiet and quick unless something takes a shot at us."

His body language said he was tired.


"Do you need to go?" Sol read the droop of Ker'dan's shoulders, the overall sag in how the old Mandal stood there, and glanced toward the door.



"Yes, but not because of the egress. I've got to find Sadhric."


Breathing out, Sol looked down and off to the left, toward the bar, "If you find him, call me. I haven't stopped looking, but it’s led me nowhere."


"I was hoping you'd have a lead... You know how hard he is to find. He knows all my tricks now."


The big Mandal grunted again, sullenly. Then he turned his visor on the matched blasters and the two vibro knives on the bar.


"Take those."


"My father gave me those guns and his father gave them to him..."


"There were times I wished you were my son, Solomon... But it's better that you aren't. This way, you're free. Of the burden, and of the helm."

There was a lot in that statement left unsaid.



His attention was brought back up to the helmet and t-shaped visor which he was seeing from a profile view in a snap, "No," he turned his eye down to the bar, and shook his head, taking a half step back as if it would do any good, "Don't you dare say good bye like that. Gods be damned, Ker'dan -- not like this."



"I didn't say goodbye."


"I said take it the damn guns, you fool. You came here unarmed like an idiot."


One gloved hand rose slowly, and rested gently on Sol's good shoulder.


"There is no word in our tongue for 'friend'. No word for 'ally'.". He said.


"These things, I believe I learned from you."



"I would have been armed if someone hadn't stolen my blaster from my ship," he countered, glancing toward the heavy hand that settled on his shoulder. He sounded annoyed, but only lightly. After that Sol was looking back up at the visor, "I won't take them both. I can't use them both. I'll consider it a loan until you give me back my blaster." It hadn't been his favored hold out. That one had been lost some time ago. The one he kept on his ship was very light, and battered. It had also been modified with off-handed sights, and a comfort grip meant to reduce kickback up through his arm. "And no, there is no word in your language for 'friend', or 'ally', but there is a word for 'brother.' "



"I killed my brothers." the big Mandal shrugged.


From somewhere, he produced a harness and holster set and spun Sol around as he set it up on the younger man. One holster went on his left hip, the other Ker'dan attached to the harness under his right shoulder, fitting it so that it sat comfortably. Both blasters went into the holsters. "This way you can reach either of them with your left hand easily. They're both loaded." Ker'dan showed him the knives then stuck one in a thin sheath and tucked it at the small of Sol's back. The other he sheathed and handed it to Sol.


Solomon had no time to react to that. Ker'dan was reaching out, and turning him around. Sol jerked forward and to the left in response, attempting to shrug off Ker'dan's hands. The result was that his jacket was ripped free of his body. A heavy hand was closing around Sol's right arm, having caught it in Sol's quick withdrawl. Before Sol knew it he was wearing a set of holsters that were heavy with the blasters that had been sitting on the bar. It had been a long time since he wore anything like it, so there was some shifting as Ker'dan presented the knives. "You aren't going unarmed, yourself, are you?"



The look Ker'dan gave him was palpable even with the blank t shaped visor.


"You have to ask?"


To underscore that, he held up one gauntlet, which held a cable grappler, and set of whistling birds. The other had a small flame thrower and wrist blade.


Eschewing the large and bulky jet packs some mandals wore, Ker'dan opted for boot jets, which made his boots a little clunky, but gave extra room for a small ankle holster on each, that held smaller hold out blasters.


A smirk came to Sol as Ker'dan held up his gauntlet. "Point proven," he said to the older man, shrugging and shifting the weight of the holsters just a bit across his back.
December 17, 2019



"One more thing before you go." Ker'dan said, adjusting one gauntlet. "I need to hire someone, and I don't trust anyone... I don't trust my old contacts in the outer rim sectors. I doubt they'd be crazy enough for what I have in mind anyhow. Do you know anyone who fits the bill?"



"Heh, if I were still in the business of doing stupid fodder, and selling my soul, I'd take the job. But nah. If I'm going to suggest someone I'm going to need to know what you're planning." He reached out and picked up the full glass the bartender had served before making himself scarce, and lifted it to his lips. He got just a taste of it against his mouth before lowering the glass and its liquid contents. "And how much are you willing to pay?"



"Already told you. I need to find Sadhric." he shrugged and checked the other gauntlet. "However, I very much doubt Sadhric will be happy to see me... So I need someone crazy enough to get him for me, once I find him." the big Mandal seemed satisfied with his armaments and looked at Sol again. "Even if you would, I wouldn't let you." he rumbled. "As for pay. I've never been one to low ball for a hard job.



He set the glass back down, and took a long hard look at the man dressed in Beskar, "I don't like the thought of sending anyone into anything with just a basic understanding of what's expected, Ker'dan. But, I might know someone. I haven't talked to him in a few years but last I saw him he was pretty hard up for creds."



"I didn't say he wouldn't know what he's walking into.. I said crazy enough to do it."



Sol grunted. The sound came from deep in his throat, "You ever hear the name Malachai Leban?"



Ker'dan swore in his native tongue.



"I'll take that as a yes. If you don't want him, I can try to find someone else."



Ker nodded in acceptance of this. "Have him contact my private Chanel..." Turning, he drew a hold out blaster from one boot sheath and paused to put his free hand on Sol's shoulder. "... And Sol. Take care of yourself, and your family. Should we fall, remember us. Very few know our ways, remember our Creed as it truly is. It should not die with us."



As Ker'dan drew that smaller blaster Sol nodded and said, "If I can reach him, it will be within the next two standard days." He was then tensing as that big heavy gauntleted hand settled on his shoulder. It took a fraction of a moment for him to be able to look up and meet the blank stare from Ker'dan's visor. When he did, Sol forced himself to nod, "I'll make no monuments," he promised, "But I could never forget. Take care of yourself, too, old man. Call me if you need me." But don’t need me./



The helmet nodded once and then the big Mandal slipped out the door and was gone.

Solomon had one last task before leaving the filthy cantina behind. He spared a moment to locate the place’s surveillance hub behind the bar, to break past its coded defenses, and to wipe it clean of any and all traces of the conversation he’d just had with Ker’dan Akir.