DbD Thirty-Six: Phindar, Part Two (Patreon)

“You have all been assigned your targets,” Ali’ya told the group of former rebels and resistance members assembled around her. “Your mission is to bring them in for questioning. We need them alive,” she stressed, feeling the hate-vengeance-righteous anger pouring off more than a few of them. Ideally she’d have rejected them as unsuited for the mission, but they were short-handed as it was. “We need to know where they’ve taken their victims.” That seemed to calm most of them down, though it was far from all. “Go.”

As they left, Ali’ya turned to her master. Master Bulq simply gestured towards the door. I wonder what he’s planning, Ali’ya thought as the pair made their way through the government buildings. Whatever. It can wait for later. The Syndicat cannot.

“Where are we headed?” Master Bulq asked.

“Their headquarters,” Ali’ya answered. “The rebels have number enough to corner some of the leadership in their homes, but they lack the weapons and training needed to take on the base.”

“You plan to leave justice in the hands of the Phindians,” Master Bulq observed.

“It is their system, Master,” Ali’ya replied. “They are the ones who were harmed.”

“Normally planetary governments are tried by the Republic courts.”

Ali’ya turned, giving her master a sharp-toothed smile. “Then it’s a good thing Syndicat is no longer Phindar’s planetary government.”

Laughed echoed down their bond. “I suppose so,” Master Bulq agreed. He halted suddenly. “There.” Ali’ya frowned, but reached out with the Force. She could hear it screaming. Crying as another victim was hauled forth.

“No more delays,” Ali’ya said, taking out her lightsaber.

“Agreed.”

*

Unlike the planetary capitol, Syndicat’s headquarters were well-guarded. A half-dozen Phindians, clad in blaster-resistant plates, watched over the entrance from a pair of Watchtowers. Each of the two towers had a heavy repeating blaster, pointed at the gate. For any ordinary opposition, this would be difficult if not impossible to overcome without alerting those inside. Unfortunately for the guards, Ali’ya and Sora Bulq were far from ordinary.

Master Bulq got there first. With a Force-assisted jump he leapt to the top of the first tower, coming down with a heavy Djem So blow that cleaved the turret gun in half. Pivoting, his lightsaber easily cut through the guard’s light armor. Just moments later his padawan arrived. Not bothering with the turret she struck out with pinpoint accuracy, piercing the neck of the turret gunner before pivoting, her arm extending in what was normally a Soresu defense. Instead her long blade cut through the necks of both surviving guards.

The watchtowers had fallen without a shot being fired. Nor were they content to stop there, instead rushing across the building. With a Force-enhanced blow Ali’ya struck down the door that blocked their way. The entrance to the Syndicat headquarters was an open warehouse where they processed food and narcotics alike. The Jedi pair paid the workers no attention, dashing off deeper into the Headquarters.

“The leadership is to the left,” Ali’ya mentioned as they ran.

“Yet the pain comes from the right.”

Ali’ya nodded in agreement. “The leadership will be better protected. While I would prefer to handle them both together, time is of the essence.”

“What would you have of me, my padawan?”

Something was definitely off, Ali’ya decided. But now was not the time. “Take the leadership captive. I’ll handle the erasers.”

“Be mindful of your feelings,” Master Bulq warned her, and Ali’ya sighed, releasing as much of her anger as she could manage. “Good. Keep a level head and all will be well.”

“Yes, Master.” Pain rang out through the Force once more. “Meet up back here?”

“Agreed.”

*

Garro Derida was not a man prone to fear. As a youth he had hunted jaguars with his father. As an adult he saw the corruption, decadence, and the immoral horrors of the Syndicat. He was far from the first to raise arms against them and he would not be the last. He fought a guerilla war against them, sabotaging their Renewal machines, rescuing fellow dissidents, stealing goods and burning down their drug farms. Yet now, as he lay strapped to a table with the strange metal plates being brought close and closer, as his torture wounds were wrapped, he could not help but feel afraid. Darkness crept in, and Garro closed his eyes. He thought of his family, of his brilliant wife and their three hellions. He memorized their faces for all he knew it wouldn’t help.

Bang. Slam. A deadly hum and a scream from a voice he knew. Then sparks, the metal plates halting their inevitable descent. And suddenly the Renewal machine was thrown back, out of his sight, and hands--claws--were tearing through his restraints. Garro sat up and immediately winced as his body adjusted to the new position.

“Easy,” the furry stranger said. “I can heal that.”

“I--how?” Garro managed, staring at the felinoid that towered over him. “Who are you?”

“I am Jedi Padawan Ali’ya,” and Garro gasped. Jedi. On Phindar. Once, when he’d been a young man (barely more than a boy) he’d hoped that the Jedi would come to Phindar, would root out Syndicat and that all would be well. Once. He’d grown much since then, come to realize that the Jedi were restrained by the Senate. That as long as Syndicat’s puppets ruled Phindar they could expect no help. To hear that his boyhood dream had come true . . .

“Can I heal you?”

Oh, she was kind as well. Or at least caring. Probably. “Yes please.” Light glowed from the Jedi’s palm. He felt warmth flowing through his leg. He bit down harshly as skin reformed, cells regenerating across his body. He felt hungry, hungrier than he’d ever known, and utterly exhausted. He slumped, falling into the Jedi’s arms.

“Pushed a bit too far,” the Jedi was saying. “Healing takes a lot out of you when it’s slow. We’ll have to get you some food, and you’ll need to rest.”

“No time to rest,” Garro managed. “Need . . . Syndicat needs to fall. Too powerful.”

“We’ve got that well in hand,” the Jedi said, and Garro felt a spike of panic. “Hey, easy. The Prime Minister and his officials are under arrest. My Master is handling Baftu and his cronies right now.”

“Then it’s over,” Garro sighed. “And now it begins.”