War: Sentinel

Interlude One Part 1

Misha IV, Ade'tome, Capital City

The breeze coming in off the sea was refreshing, after being cooped in a room for several hours with other planetary officials. It was cool, smelling of salt, sand and water, with that touch of sweetness that spoke of uninhabited, untamed wilderness. Pagiss Morrl paused outside her door, letting the wind ruffle her whiskers. There were some days she regretted accepting the position of Police Commissioner.

Today was one of those days. But there were very few beings out there the Togorian would trust to walk where her tracks led.

For a long moment she stood on her porch, letting her mind clear of the worries and frustrations the past month had set on her shoulders. From here she had a good view of Misha IV's capital city, sloping down to the harbor from the hill where Morrl stood, mismatched buildings of wood and duracrete on good-sized lots, spaced on wide streets. Even in Ade'tome with a population of almost a million the citizens liked their space—many buildings were defensible, and there was a vast underground network of tunnels that even the police had never fully mapped out. The setting sun was reflecting off the sea near the harbor where fishermen were readying their boats for a night on the waves. Light from the setting sun reflected off a freighter headed for the hanger bays on the north side of town where the communications tower and the fort Bral Kando'ruus dominated the northern skyline.

Life went on, even if a battalion of Separatist droids had kicked their militia out of the fort and set up shop there. The enemy commander was rarely in Ade'tome, spending most of his time in the mining town Hilmar to the north. But his second in command could control all of Misha IV from here; almost a third of the population lived in the capital city and in the tropical river valley to the west, far from the colder forests, mountains and glaciers to the north and south. All trade came through Ade'tome. If push came to shove Misha IV could feed itself in a siege, but they would eventually run out of other various necessities, like tibanna gas and medical supplies.

For now, the Separatists were letting the Mishans travel between planets in the system, but the Commissioner worried that the enemy would tighten its grip at one hint of resistance.

The planet wasn't—technically—under enemy control. Mishans could still run their government as they choose. But the Separatists had forbidden their military to assemble or practice, had kicked them out of all bases.

They aren't pointing any blasters to our heads yet, but they might as well be.

Morrl sighed and stepped inside, closing the door behind her and resetting the alarm. An excited chirping announced the arrival of her pet miniature griffin as it jumped onto the entryway table with wings extended, gray feathers and fur gleaming sliver as the cop turned the lights on. Morrl ran her paw down the animal's back, causing the griffin to arch her back in pleasure. "Hello Stormy."

She hung up her jacket, enjoying the feel of soft carpet under her paws—and froze, feeling her fur raising under her blue dress shirt and slacks.

Someone else was in the house.

Morrl pulled her lips back, drawing air into her mouth and past the scent organ at the roof of her mouth. Metal, ozone, leather, dirt and livestock. The intruder was wearing full body armor—she couldn't smell the person themselves. They were armed and a native to Misha IV. The Togorian knew what the planet's soil smelled like as well as she knew her own mother's scent. Her hazel eyes narrowed.

With a flutter of wings Stormy settled on Morrl's shoulder, trilling softly, and mouthed the commissioner's ear with her beak. "How are you, little one?" She asked, letting the sound of her question hide the light sound of movement as she drew her blaster.

There were three doors branching off from the entryway, and the intruder's smell was strongest near the dining room on the left. Morrl crossed into the living room through wide double doors made of seasoned red veshok wood, prying Stormy off her shoulders and setting the griffin on the couch. The animal voiced a soft complaint, but settled on the worn cushions, gray down feathers ruffled.

Morrl ghosted across the room in the dark, heading for the hallway leading to the bedrooms. Her house had lots of doors, and most rooms had multiple ways to get there. Her great-grandmother had laid the foundations, and in true Togarian fashion each generation had added on as the family got bigger, but right now the house was quiet. Her brother was off planet, her son was up north with his company, and her daughter-in-law had taken the cubs to her parents' house where it might be safer.

The intruder had entered through her office window—she could smell the foreign scents wafting through the open door. Morrl followed the trail down the hallway and through the kitchen to the dining room, and paused by the open door, weapon at the ready. Now that she was closer, she could identify other scents as well. Familiar ones…

"Su cuy'gar, Pagiss. Ke'shebe, gal'gala." You're still alive, Pagiss. Sit down, have a drink. The words were filtered through a voice projector, but Morrl knew that voice. Originally a baritone, hardened over the years by war and work, yet she knew from experience that the speaker still had a good singing voice.

Morrl snorted, holstered her blaster, and entered the room, turning the light on. "Nice to see you too, burc'ya." She raised an eyebrow. "You could've gotten shot."

Jatnyn Orar sat at the head of her dining room table, chair at an angle so he would be facing her no matter which door she entered. With dark red and black armor and a brown jumpsuit the Mandalorian reminded Morrl of an alpha griffin, eyeing the leader of another pride. The Orar alor's helmet was implacable, visor set in red and gray with a black stripe down the right side and jaig eyes as a memento of past deeds.

Many would find a Mando's helmet imposing, but working in law enforcement on Misha IV guaranteed encountering Mandalorians. And Morrl had known this one for decades. Following his suggestion, she sat down next to him. "And yes, I will have a drink."

Jatnyn had a bottle of her local tihaar set on the table with two glasses. Morrl eyed it suspiciously as he poured two finger lengths into each snifter. He had broken into her good stuff—that batch had been laid down by her great grandfather. But she said nothing. If he thought this conversation needed some liquid confidence, she would trust him on that. In fact, the Togarian had thought of breaking into that very bottle herself after the events of today.

Morrl took a sip, lips curling slightly and whiskers twitching as the liquid burned down her throat. To say things were not going well would be an understatement.

Jatnyn took his helmet off and took a sip as well. For the moment, nothing needed to be said. They were old business partners, comrades in arms. The man would say what needed saying in time. There was no need for small talk—Morrl had long ago learned to appreciate the Mandalorian habit for brevity. They were much like Togorians, in that fashion. Most humanoids talked too much.

The Commissioner studied her guest while they drank. While she would never be attracted to a species with so little fur, Morrl had learned what humanoids valued when it came to good looks. Jatnyn was a rancher and local sheriff by trade, with a little bounty hunting on the side. Most men who led that kind of life would be weathered by the age of forty, hard. But helmets protected the wearer from the elements, and Jatnyn had aged well. Brown hair dusted with silver, hazel eyes almost the same shade as hers and a clean-shaven square jaw, he was almost handsome. A scar on his jaw he had received from tussling with a murder suspect long ago marred his good looks, but it was off-set by laugh lines around the eyes.

But those eyes weren't smiling now. No, they were hard. Jatnyn Orar had every reason to be angry—his people were in hiding. Some had died. While the Separatists were making an effort to not antagonize most of the population, they had hit the Mandalorian community hard.

"I hope I didn't startle you too much when you came home. The jumpsuit's new, and my kit has been washed. It's for the best that my scent isn't recognized."

He didn't say more. Didn't have to. Two pieces of Jatnyn's armor were visibly not his own, and would probably never be painted to match the rest. The green plate on his left shoulder had belonged to his sister-in-law, who died several years ago. The blue gauntlet on the same arm was new. His younger brother, Col, had been killed during the brief fighting when the Separatists realized the Mandalorians weren't going to follow the program.

And Morrl had heard that Jorso, Col's orphaned son, and Laaran, Jatnyn's youngest, had recently gone missing.

In a clan of barely a hundred, Orar's recent losses were worse than unacceptable. Worse than tragic. Their alor had called them back to Misha IV to rebuild the clan, only for them to be caught in the crossfire of two governments that only saw Mandalorians as mercenary pawns who had no place in the war if their loyalty couldn't be bought.

Morrl put her glass down on the wooden table. "The Council has agreed to give in to the Separatists' new demands." Her griffin jumped on the table, seeking attention, and she absentmindedly rubbed Stormy under the chin.

Jatnyn grunted. "Good." His hazel eyes were hard, angry.

The Togorian laid her ears flat against her skull. "General Martel took little convincing, but Leonie still wants to, I quote, 'kill the barves.' She understood why we couldn't fight them when they first arrived, but wonders why we need to help them find whatever they're looking for. It's planting and calving season in the north." People weren't going to be happy leaving their ranches and farms to supplement the pirates' slaves that were digging on Ghost's Head Mountain even if they worked in shifts.

"I'll have to talk to her. Governor Leonie Graner may be a hardened businesswoman and rancher, but she knows nothing about war or hostage negotiations."

"And all of Misha IV has been taken hostage," Morrl said.

"Exactly."

Not a bad way to think about it. Let the Mandalorians be the troublemakers, fighting a guerilla war independent from the Council's rulings so everyone else on the planet appeared to be obedient hostages. Convince the Seppies the civilians were no trouble so if the enemy slipped or help arrived, the whole planet could rise against them.

If they had fought when the Separatists first arrived, they would have been slaughtered. The Misha system had a small military. One orbital defense station above Misha III, two old Corellian Corvettes, and four squadrons of Z-95 Headhunters were the entirety of the system's navy, although anyone owning a spaceworthy ship with weapons could be counted on in a pinch. Almost half of Misha IV's population was a member of the militia, including the cops and most of the Mandalorians—Misha III's militia was smaller. Small numbers, compared to the droids and pirates.

"Why are you really here?" Morrl asked.

"My source tells me that the Republic is planning a rescue mission for their captured Jedi." Jatnyn took a sip of his tihaar, and calmly eyed Morrl over his drink.

The Togorian's tail twitched in astonishment. The Republic army was coming? That meant help was on the way! They could finally fight back instead of rolling over like a dog for its master…

No, that wasn't right. Jatnyn's hazel eyes were cold, emotionless. She knew him. If the Grand Army was on its way to Misha, then the Oraralor would've called a secret Council meeting to plan how best to support the attack. He wouldn't be here sipping on hard liquor and waiting for her to react.

"What's the catch?" Morrl asked suspiciously. Then it hit her. "A rescue mission. Not a planetary assault. They're only coming for their Jedi! Fierfek!" She spat. Stormy jumped, eyes wide, feathers fluffed.

"According to my source, rescuing thejetii is the main objective," the Mandalorian said drily. "They don't have enough intel for a covert rescue, so they're coming in hard. The GAR doesn't have enough uncommitted resources in the area to be certain of liberating the system. If they do drive out the Seppies, it'll be entirely complementary." His voice hardened. "I already talked to Mortel, and he agrees with me. Tell your people, do not join the fight unless it looks like the Jetiise are winning. If they don't liberate the system we can't have the Separatists retaliating on us."

"You're not going to fight?" Morrl cursed again, this time in Togorian. "They have invaded our home, killed your people, now they're making us do their work for them, and you're not going to fight?!"

"Not if it will gain us nothing!" Jatnyn snarled. "I lost a brother, I lost a daughter to them, and you think I don't want to kill every shabla one those hut'uunla shabuire?"

Morrl almost flinched. She could smell the anger and fear coming off him; the alor hadn't made this decision lightly.

And what did he mean by losing a daughter? She knew Laaran had been taken captive, but hadn't heard anything else. Did something happen to Cyrne, or had Jatnyn had word from the prison?

She stayed silent.

Jatnyn shook his head and slowly took a breath, then another. "I did not say I would not fight. I said we should not join the fight with the Republic. That doesn't mean we can't gain anything from this gift-wrapped diversion."

Morrl raised an eyebrow. She wanted to ask about his daughter, but now wasn't the time. They had business to attend to. "What do you mean?"

~#~

Su cuy'gar(Soo COO-ee-gar): used as 'hello,' but literal meaning is 'You're still alive.'

Ke'shebe(keh SHEH-bay): Ke (a prefix to mark a word as a command) and sheber (to sit) make 'sit down.'

Gal'gala(GAL-gal-a): have a drink

Burc'ya(BOOR-sha): friend

Jatnyn (JAT-neen): combined jate (good) and nyn (hit)

Orar (or-AHR): thunder

Jaig: a stylized sigil made to look like the eyes of a shriek-hawk, usually placed over the visor. Mando version of the Medal of Honor.

Tihaar(TEE-har): alcoholic drink, made from fruit, strong and clear, like fruit brandy.

Jorso (JOR-so): from jorso'ran, an archaic form of shall bear

Laaran (lah-RAHN): singing

~#~

A/N: 1/4/16

This took longer than I thought it would…hope it was worth the wait.

To be fair life has kept me busy. Work, college applications, etc. That and this story keeps making itself more complicated—not that that's a bad thing. ;) It just means a lot more background work and digging. Also the bad guys are giving me some trouble. So like I said, research…

Apparently tihaar is supposed to be a kind of fruit brandy—I've tried to write it true to the books and real life, but if anyone knows hard liquor or could point me towards some kinda Alcoholic Drinks for Dummies book I'd appreciate it. All my family drinks is beer and wine… and I only know those so far as "This tastes good." I couldn't tell you the difference between a pinot noir and a merlot, which is kinda embarrassing considering I grew up in wine country.

No promises on when the next chapter is coming out cause this year looks to be as crazy as the last one…

I'll be introducing the bad guys in the second part of the interlude, then comes the action…

Reviews would make me very happy. :D