And so our shared SW Universe continues. This takes place after Wind Chimes/Shadow Etude. Thanks to my partners-in-crime Karm and LSG for the storyboarding. And special thanks to LSG for the title help
And now, let the journey continue
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THE GRAY AND THE UNCHAINED: THE COST OF FREEDOM
Prologue“Moves you pfassk!” Punctuating his expletive, Bortr Kaylak flogged at the pitiful creature. Spitting at it as they shuffled past the incredibly fat Crolute, Bortr wasn’t even sure if it was a male, female, or an androgynous gender; he only knew that they smelled worse than a Bantha after Boonta Eve. “And none o’ you kriffing farbots best be laggerin’ whiles in th’ cut!” Another scourging of the electro-whip made for no argument from the assorted species, one and all miserable, hunched over, and generally hopeless.
As per usual, the slaver freighter was filthy and overcrowded with product. Each of the slaves had been fitted with a miniature detonator as well as an electro-collar around their necks. Grouped in disorganized lines, the slaves were forced to sit or hunch; there wasn’t enough room to lie down. They even had to sleep upright. Those that were unfortunate enough to fall were either smothered or trampled.
Even then, that wasn’t the worst: the slaves were practically starved, “served” a quarter-ration every three standard days. So those that died were…consumed.
That, combined with the fact that there were no refresher facilities available—the slaves were sprayed down within the room, a single drain located in the center of the communal cell—was enough that any olfactory senses were deadened at best…at worst?
Well… thought Bortr, grateful for his rebreather,
we’ll see ifs some’un kin die from in
haling! He laughed at his own humor, or what passed for wit for Bortr.
In good humor, the Crolute thought about what he’d do as soon as this shipment of product was delivered to Myzm III. He’d finally qualified for a percentage of the take; no more “freelancing.” He grinned. He would finally have enough for that
gynoid he’d been looking at. Certainly he’d use her to replace Third Wife…although he had hopes that she would even supplant Second Wife. “Them Kloaners are good ‘nuff, mayhaps e’en has meself a new Prim’ry!” He said to no one in particular. His rebreather made his guffawing sound even more porcine, reflective Bortr’s incredible obesity.
He caught a glint out of the corner of his eye;
nothing in the communal cell should…
shine. “What th’ kriffing hells?” He softly cursed. He had to lay about with the electro-whip a bit to get the product to move out of his way. He
knew he’d seen it… Turning his head from left to right, he tried to get another glimpse of the shiny…
There!Working the electro-whip in a flurry, he half-jogged, half-trampled the product underfoot. It was a good thing that Myzm III bought in bulk… Finally, he came across a small crowd of product, each with their backs to Bortr. He gave them each two “warning” floggings before he readied to really get to work on them.
“Gives us th’ shiny!” Incredibly, they didn’t move and even after scourging one product to the point that the dark blue blood pooled on the deck they still refused to move. Finally, grabbing a thin shoulder in his fat fist, Bortr turned one of slaves around bodily. What he saw gave him more than pause, it completely took his breath away.
Instead of a frightened, broken product, fiery, intelligent eyes glared at Bortr underneath a hardened face. Yelling, the slave brought his hands up. “The Sons have come! Throw off your shackles!”
But Bortr wasn’t listening; the product had somehow
removed the collar. More disturbing, he had the detonator in hand. And before the fat Crolute could act, the product touched a button, completing the circuit triggering the explosive. Only, instead of a confined detonation, it activated over a dozen, each one in key locations coinciding with the slaves' overseers. Before any of the other crew-members of the slave freighter could react a final, more powerful detonation blew the doors from the wall, opening all communal cells.
“Come sires! Siras!
LET US BE FREE!” The cries resonated throughout the ship, echoing across all onboard audio frequencies and in numerous languages. As one, the slaves became one organism, searching out and destroying that which had tormented them…
<<<<< >>>>>
Startling awake, Bortr was instantly aware of the pain. Slowly rotating his head, his gaze came to rest first upon his right arm, the one with the whip. Or rather, the bloody stump where his arm had been. Shrapnel had embedded itself throughout, peppering his body with mini-flechettes. One—he promptly realized—had pierced his right eye. Bortr screamed, a wet, gurgling sound. But no one paid him any mind.
Using his one good eye, he surveyed the scene around him. The floor was lined wall-to-wall with the blood of various beings, making a viscous black carpet. And standing just a few meters from him, he saw a group of product surrounding two figures. One was a Togruta male, his face and montrals a crosshatching of lacerations mutilating his head. The other…
Standing over two and a half meters tall was a…humanoid in what looked like…armor? Only, this armor was black, blacker than null-space. And the armor covered every part of…it. Even the light seemed to dim around the armor, like it was being sucked into the plates like a black hole… Closing his only working eye, Bortr began shaking, terror beyond
anything he’d ever experienced coursing through him.
‘Tis Nic’Rhon,
‘tis…! He thought, naming the Crolute deamon-god of myth.
But then, he heard talking. Normal, Galactic Basic. He opened his eye, focusing on the speaker. It was the Togruta male…
“And you’ve secured the bridge, Ornil?” He had his arm on the shoulder of a Kel Dor…a product. “Well done, brother. Nam’as Nuen! Do you have a final count?” The Togruta was addressing a skinny Sullustan…product. It said something in its singsong language. Whatever it said, the Togruta looked angry, angry and pained. “Damn. I know that they volunteered but…heroes.” He said quietly, then louder: “Heroes one and all of them! It is to our honored dead and absent friends that we raise our voices in gratitude and admiration!” Every single product cheered, those with weapons in their hands raising them in salute or triumph.
“Yes, at least that slug Myzm will miss his much needed shipment of slave/exfoliators!” The Togruta responded to a question that Bortr did not hear.
“Scrubber! Scrubber!” A tall, well-fed human ran up, addressing the Togruta. “Look what me an’ Rax found!” Something in the human’s tone made Bortr scrutinize him.
Oh hells… he thought. In the human’s hand was the datanode that had been secreted within the bridge of the ship, its cache of Myzm III’s laundered credits the
real treasure of this trip. That money was cleaner than a Jedi’s underclothes. Bortr was at a loss to describe the failure he felt. Which for Bortr, didn’t take much…
Genially, the Togruta—Scrubber?—embraced the human. “Excellently done, Hortl! When you see Rax, tell him that he’ll be getting
four cycles at the tables! And yourself, brother.” He said fondly. “Indeed, I am
proud to count you all amongst my
sires and siras!” Again, loud cheers echoed throughout the bulkheads, echoed in Bortr’s head.
Before the roar of products’ voices had quieted, Scrubber walked over to another alien, one that was
not product. Turning to Scrubber’s voice, Bortr saw it was a Siniteen, the enormous, pulsating cranium etched with veins. “Kal’Estp, good job with the firing solution. Once we’d pulled them into regular space, it was a womprat shoot.” The Togruta was smiling broadly.
The Siniteen—Kal’Estp?—nodded his acceptance. “Scrubber…I am sorry. My calculations were in error considering the logarithmic function had multiple unknown variables and my suppositions were not within the given tolerances apropos of the gravitic influences—”
He abruptly stopped as Scrubber held up a hand, a compassionate look in his eyes. “Kal’Estp, brother, we could not have made the intercept without your knowledge of fourth-dimensional trigonometry. As always, the Sons are indebted to you.” The Siniteen seemed to find comfort in that, a grin suddenly appearing upon his face. Clearly, this Togruta was the one in charge…
And Bortr saw that this Scrubber was staring straight at him, his fierce, yellow eyes burning directly through him. Slightly turning his head, Scrubber said something to the Black Armored humanoid that Bortr had named
Nic’Rhon. In unison, they both walked straight at the Crolute. Pathetically, he attempted to make himself as small as possible, regardless that every movement that Bortr made incited further pains within his body.
“Slaver…” Scrubber’s voice dripped with contempt and controlled anger. “Do you work for that sleemo Myzm III?”
Bortr made a small, high-pitched noise, nodding his head in small dips of his multiple chins. Even if he could talk, he didn’t want for
Nic’Rhon to steal his soul through his voice to feed to the
nyx’m’h within the Hellspont.
“I have but one question to posit and I’ll return you to your master.” The Togruta never once blinked. “Do you know the Cryptno-Code to release the lock on the credits’ datanode?”
Wheezing a laugh, Bortr stopped short. “Wha…er, naw…”
Scrubber’s face became completely impassive. “Then what use are you for us?” Almost imperceptibly, he nodded at Black Armor.
The enormous, armored humanoid stepped forward, Bortr stammering and cringing, his left arm held out as if to fend off an attack…for all the good that it did him. Raising his armored boot, Black Armor powerfully kicked downward crushing the Crolute’s head, caving in Bortr’s skull, blood and brain matter creating a grisly pool on the deck.
The human, Hortl, spoke up from behind Scrubber. “Um…Boss, didn’t Kal’Estp already slice the encrypt for the credits’ datanode?”
Scrubber turned casually, a gleam in his eye. “That was the first thing he did when we wrested control of the ship. Please make certain to return…
that—” The Togruta gestured to the gory remains of Bortr, “—to Myzm.” He winked but then sobered quickly. “Hortl, standard procedures for these kriffing slavers: capture all you can and space them. Any companions amongst them…strip them and herd them into the airlock. I’ll decide what to do with them shortly.” Hortl nodded and left to complete his task. Black Armor stood, unmoving and unconcerned regarding the blood and offal he was standing in. Scrubber called him over while he unconsciously pulled on his one remaining lekku, a habit he’d adopted ever since his previous masters had flayed the amputated one.
“My friend,
now is the time to move against Myzm III. Our timetable has been accelerated somewhat but from what our agents at Ord Trasi tell me, our primary objective is fundamentally understaffed.” Scrubber held up a datapad that he’d unclipped from his belt. “Look: the
Justicar. This should suffice…”
As Scrubber continued to strategize, the rest of the freed slaves went about the freighter, “liberating” weapons and personnel and, whenever they came across a member of the crew, enacting retribution…