This is just a preview of what I am working on. I am ALOT further then this and more then this has been posted on both KOTE and KOTE Mandos but despite not being able to post a PDF here on BFFC I thought you still might like to read some.
I ask that you do not post it anywhere else without first asking me. Whilst it is fan-fiction it is MY fan faction and I don't want it posted where people could steal parts of it or lay claim to it themselves.
Several of the characters can be found here: http://www.bobafett.com/boards/viewtopic.php?id=3254 with more of the story on kotemandos.com.
[Editor's Note: kotemandos.com is no longer active.]
Anyway, without further adue I present a preview of Children Of Mandalore...
Copyright Joanne Beck 2009.
All characters and events in this story, other then those clearly in the public domain
are fictitious, and any resemblance to any real person, living or dead is purely coincidental.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Star Wars is a copyright of Lucas Film Ltd.
This is a piece of fan-fiction and is not to be sold.
To the Knights Of The Empire Star Wars Costuming Club and KOTE Mandos,
For the past few years of friendship and trooping, long may it continue. And to Toria,
Best friend, Mandalorian, sister and the real Jai'gati Rrith.
And finally, to George Lucas; for allowing us to play in in his sandpit.
You all know me. Know how I earn a living. I'll catch this Jedi for you, but it ain't gonna be easy.
Bad fight. Not like going down the underworld and chasing murderers and bail-jumpers. This Jedi,
cut you in half. Little slicing, little dicing, and down you go. It's not gonna be pleasant. I value my
neck a lot more than three thousand credits, commander. I'll find him for three, but I'll catch him,
and kill him, for ten. But you've gotta make up your minds. If you want to stay alive, then ante up. If
you want to play it cheap, be hiring other hunters all year, trying and failing to catch him then go
ahead. My fee rises by the day. Ten thousand credits for me and my ship. For that you get the robe,
the saber, the whole damn thing.
Ã¢Â€Â“ Orthar Rrith discussing an Imperial bounty during the Great Jedi Purge.
Daris adjusted the fit of his jacket, dismayed to see yet another hole appearing in the fabric of one
of the arms. He would have to see procurement about a replacement soon, as there was no doubt in
his mind that Major Howeth would disapprove of one of his junior officers wearing anything but a
pristine uniform. The fit was getting loose anyway, what with the rationing that Command had
implemented over the last eighteen months. No-one could accuse his people of being slim but Daris
had a feeling the galaxy was going to notice their new leaner look in times to come.
The blaster pistol sat on his heavy desk next to his macro-binoculars no longer had that clean and
unused look either, the cold silver-gray metal now wearing the tarnished look of a weapon well
used. Daris's lower right hand reached for it, lifting the pistol off the desk and reminding him of a
time, not so long ago; when he'd been nervous and even a little excited about wielding it. Now it
was little more then a tool of his trade, something needed; if no longer entirely wanted. He slid it
into the holster on his hip, before looking at himself in the upright mirror fastened to the far wall.
The tired Besalisk that stared back at him was no longer the innocent youth who'd joined up to repel
the invaders and return home a hero. Too many hours of mindless duty followed by terrifying
moments of intense combat had aged his face far faster then time alone could have. The eyes in the
mirror were dark and shrouded, no longer looking forward to a life of excitement and adventure; but
instead hinting at having seen and done things that no sentient species should have.
Daris knew his father would be disappointed had he survived, he had wanted so much more for his
son. Harlom would often tell tall tales of Daris's uncle and suggest that Daris could join him at his
diner on Coruscant.
Ã¢Â€ÂœBeing a chef's a damn good tradeÃ¢Â€Â he would say. Ã¢Â€Âœeveryone needs to eat, my boyÃ¢Â€Â. The young
Daris would argue, adamant that he'd be a hero just like in his favourite holo-vids, but the older,
wiser Besalisk in the mirror no longer would.
The chronometer on the wall chimed once indicating that Daris was late, he would now have to rush
to reach his duty station before Howeth discovered he wasn't there. Grabbing the macros off the
desk, Daris ran for the door.
The run along the corridors proved problematic at best. A patrol had returned from a nearby
settlement and the troops filled the corridors. Their packs and cold weather gear forcing Daris to
weave in and out of them to make any headway. It looked like the patrol had been hit hard, with a
number of casualties clearly evident. At one point, Daris was forced to stop as a medical droid tried
to save a trooper with a gaping wound in his chest in the middle of the corridor. Thick clots of blood
had frozen to the troopers jacket in the cold Ojom air, and these were now hampering the droids
attempts to get access to the injury. It was quite clear to Daris, that what ever pain relief they had
been able to give him was not enough, as several of the troopers squad-mates held him down whilst
the droid finally inserted scanning probes and surgical tools into the wound. Daris slipped past the
scene, hoping that the trooper would make it; but noting the hollow look in his mates eyes as the
medical droid retracted its instruments.
It took a further five minutes for Daris to reach his post atop the northern tower, replacing Bevis
Grotman as Ã¢Â€ÂœOfficer of the WatchÃ¢Â€Â
Ã¢Â€ÂœYour late!Ã¢Â€Â whispered Bevis as Daris slipped in, ignoring the subtle looks and head shakes he
received from the troopers stationed in the tower. A slight smile broadened across Bevis's face
Ã¢Â€ÂœYou're lucky Howeth hasn't checked in yet, my friendÃ¢Â€Â. The two of them had signed up together,
helping each other through basic and covering for each other when the need arose.
Ã¢Â€ÂœThanksÃ¢Â€Â muttered Daris, well aware he wasn't in the Major's good books.
The door to the post opened and a trooper marched in before saluting the two of them.
Ã¢Â€ÂœLieutenant Jettster?Ã¢Â€Â he asked holding out a small data pad within easy reach of both of them, and
clearly unsure of whom he was addressing. Daris nodded returning the salute, and taking the pad as
the trooper smartly wheeled about and left.
Ã¢Â€ÂœI've been ordered to report to Major Howeth in the Command Post immediatelyÃ¢Â€Â Daris announced,
his stomach sinking as he read the information contained on the pad before handing it over to Bevis.
Ã¢Â€ÂœAnd I am to remain here for double duty!Ã¢Â€Â Bevis grumbled, not at all happy with the turn of
Ã¢Â€ÂœI guess we're both out of luckÃ¢Â€Â announced Daris, reluctantly heading towards the door.
The Command Post was bustling with activity. Troopers criss-crossed the room carrying data pads
filled with orders, requisitions and reports; and somehow managing to avoid colliding with others
doing more of the same. Charts and display screens manned by yet more troopers, lined the room
showing incoming data from a number of ongoing engagements; whilst a large holographic
generator sat idle in the center of the room. Major Howeth, resplendent in his pristine uniform;
stood alongside several officers who's rank insignia identified them as Generals, watching data and
numbers scroll across a nearby screen. Daris took a deep breath and approached, hoping that his
dressing down would be in private and had nothing to do with the Generals. He saluted smartly.
Ã¢Â€ÂœAh, JettsterÃ¢Â€Â Howeth returned the salute Ã¢Â€Âœto my office please LieutenantÃ¢Â€Â indicating the room at
the back of the Command Post and leading the way. To Daris's immense relief, neither of the
Generals moved to follow; instead simply nodding briefly to the Major and turning their attention
back to the display.
Ã¢Â€ÂœAt ease LieutenantÃ¢Â€Â Howeth instructed as they entered the room and before Daris's brain had even
considered coming to attention in front of the large, report strewn desk. Howeth took his customary
place sitting on a large Corellian leather chair behind the desk.
Daris stood the other side of the desk, trying not to look guilty about being late for his post yet
Ã¢Â€ÂœI have important new orders for you LieutenantÃ¢Â€Â Howeth stated, adjusting a few data-pads on his
desk. Ã¢Â€ÂœDespite what is being reported on the news, the war is not going well for usÃ¢Â€Â Howeth paused
waiting to see if the revelation would garner a response from the young officer before continuing.
Ã¢Â€ÂœThe Vulptereen are decimating everything they encounter and we are unable to replace the losesÃ¢Â€Â
Howeth reached across his desk activating a small holo-projector. A scale replica of Ojom sprang
into life, the oceans and glaciers of the planets surface coloured blue-white by the projectors
emitters. Orbiting the miniature planet was a space station, large enough to function as Ojom's
spaceport and it's only physical link with the remainder of the galaxy, the image zoomed in to the
Ã¢Â€ÂœWe've managed to secure intelligence that leads us to believe the Vulptereen's next target will be
Odaca Spaceport, they want to capture it in order to begin landing reinforcements on the surfaceÃ¢Â€Â.
Daris looked on, shocked by what he was hearing and struggling to take it all in.
Ã¢Â€ÂœI don't have to tell you that if Odaca falls then our dwindling food shipments go with itÃ¢Â€Â striking up
a cigar Howeth continued Ã¢Â€ÂœAnnalists predict without further food shipments we'll be forced to
surrender in no more then six monthsÃ¢Â€Â He took a long drag on the cigar, inhaling deeply.
Ã¢Â€ÂœWe don't have enough troops left to defend the station...Ã¢Â€Â
Daris felt like he was drowning, the room suddenly felt considerably smaller then when he had
entered and Daris wasn't sure he wasn't safe and sound in his bunk simply having a nightmare.
Ã¢Â€ÂœS..sirÃ¢Â€Â he stammered at last Ã¢Â€Âœwhat about the Empire? Could they not..Ã¢Â€Â
Ã¢Â€ÂœThe Empire won't interfere in a conflict between non-humans, seems they don't care if we blow
each other to high orbitÃ¢Â€Â Howeth cut in. Ã¢Â€ÂœSo we've had to make... other... arrangementsÃ¢Â€Â
He pulled a small data pad from the pile on his desk and threw it to Daris.
Ã¢Â€ÂœYou're new ordersÃ¢Â€Â he paused to allow Daris a moment to activate the pad Ã¢Â€ÂœYou're to be our liaison
with the commander of these new troops. Ensure they defend Odaca at any cost, we can't loose it
and they are being well paid to ensure it remains in our handsÃ¢Â€Â.
Daris studied the data pad, his eyes scrolling through the data on Odaca Spaceport until he reached
the information on the new troops.
Ã¢Â€ÂœSir... these troops are Mandalorians!Ã¢Â€Â
Supercommando is a term commonly used to describe the elite warriors of the Mandalorian
culture. Well equipped and superbly trained Supercommando's are the epitome of the
Mandalorians, with just one Supercommando the equal to many times the number of regular troops.
It should be noted that the only other warriors to use the title were the Republic's Advanced Recon
Commando's during The Clone Wars, themselves trained by Mandalorians.
Ã¢Â€Â“ Professor R. Schnieder during a lecture on Warrior Cultures to Cadets at the Imperial
Academy on Cardia
The Adenn'oya settled on to it's landing struts, thrusters sparking as it came to rest inside the
cavernous port side docking bay of Odaca Spaceport. The somewhat battered craft managed to
exude an air of menace, the visible weapons systems and blunt, brutal shape clearly indicating that
this was far more then a simple transport vessel. Scoring and burn marks from weapons fire mixed
with the chipped paint work, ensuring the ship looked well used. Replacement panels gleamed
under the docking bay lighting, their unpainted finish contrasting strongly with the dull gray of the
rest of the ship. On one side, across an access panel and clearly visible despite years of wear, was
scrawled a marking; the intricate design resembling the skull of a beast, long teeth and downward
curving horns. This was a warning and an announcement, stating to all who looked upon her, that
The Adenn'oya was a Mandalorian ship, beware!
Venting gases hissed as they escaped from the rapidly cooling engines, the gases forming a cloud
that shrouded the lower parts and stubby landing struts in a near fog. Station ground crew, at this
point normally rushing to connect refueling hoses or to supervise maintenance droids; paused,
clearly unsure if it was wise to approach such a craft. One or two of the more nervous fondled the
grips of holstered pistols before deciding to occupy their time with suddenly remembered work
elsewhere on the station. Despite this, and the ongoing war with the Vulptereen; the deck seemed to
be far more crowded with excited personnel than normal.
From the boarding ramp at the rear of the vessel, Rakarth was the first to disembark; his almost nine
foot tall bulk unfolding from the hold and emerging onto the space stations deck, heavy sword held
casually across one armoured shoulder. Around the deck, those Besalisk crew members who had
previously been making every effort not to be seen watching the arrival of the Mandalorians, gave
up their pretense and stared with unbridled curiosity. Several of the closest workers unsure of what
to expect from such a massive being, nervously began backing away. Rakarth simply stepped onto
the deck and stood there, sharp eyes taking in everything. Even without his helmet on the giant
Togorian seemed a terrifying figure, his Mandalorian armour appearing almost superfluous, an after
thought that seemed to barely contain his bulk.
Several other Mandos followed Rakarth down the ramp, exiting the craft and forming a loose group
not far from him, some carried boxes of equipment, stacking them on the deck, others just their
weapons; none spoke a word the ground crew could hear. The sound of the Mandalorians armoured
boots ringing on the metal deck announced the arrival of warriors, yet as always; none of them drew
attention quite like Rakarth.
From the darkness of Adenn'oya's hold Orthar Rrith, one of the last to disembark; watched the
unfolding scene, noting with mild amusement the look of trepidation on the face of a Besalisk
Lieutenant as he approached Rakarth. The armed escort that accompanied him appearing to wish
they had drawn almost any other duty today. As far as Orthar could tell, these did not look much
like professional soldiers at all.
Ã¢Â€ÂœS..Sir!Ã¢Â€Â said the Lieutenant, clearly trying not to appear too intimidated by the towering feline. Ã¢Â€ÂœI..I
am Lieutenant Jettster.Ã¢Â€Â He visibly composed himself before plowing on with what Orthar took to
be a well rehearsed speech.
Ã¢Â€ÂœW..Welcome to Odaca Spaceport, gateway to Ojom. If you and your men would like to follow me
I'll see you to your quarters and introduce you to Station Commander Dupree.Ã¢Â€Â Orthar hated
dignitaries and officials, no matter their rank. Pompous individuals who were only too happy to
send others to die in their place, whilst they themselves stayed nice and safe in their bunkers behind
the lines. This Jettster, like most of the officer class in almost every army Orthar had encountered,
no doubt had the credits to buy himself a cushy assignment or a father in a position of power, keen
to keep him here in relative safety; out of harms way on the station. Rakarth just snorted, clearly
amused that the Lieutenant thought he was in charge.
Ã¢Â€ÂœYou want the bossÃ¢Â€Â he growled, indicating back towards The Adenn'oya's hold with a nod of his
head. Orthar emerged from the shadows, side-stepping past several Mando's man-handling the
components of a large E-Web blaster cannon out of the ship and headed down the ramp towards the
Ã¢Â€ÂœYou are in charge?Ã¢Â€Â asked the increasingly unsure Besalisk, his eyes searching Orthar's black
armour for any signs of rank. As no two of the Mando's wore even remotely identical colours, let
alone armour; Orthar knew he would have a hard time.
Ã¢Â€ÂœI amÃ¢Â€Â responded the Mando, now close enough to note the patched uniform and well oiled blaster
pistol. Perhaps this Jettster wasn't just another jumped up lackey sent to lord it over the hired help
but a soldier, and if that was the case then that demanded at least a little respect.
Ã¢Â€ÂœI'm Lieutenant Daris JettsterÃ¢Â€Â repeated the Besalisk, holding out a hand for Orthar to shake Ã¢Â€ÂœI'm
your Liaison Officer hereÃ¢Â€Â. His eyes seemed to scan the visor of Orthar's helmet, looking for
features that would tell him anything about the wearer. Beneath the helmet Orthar almost smiled,
this was a common reaction when people first encountered Mandalorians. The battle worn armour
and near featureless helmets could make even the toughest of sentients nervous, something that
Mandalorians would often use to their advantage; but on this occasion Orthar decided to cut the
Lieutenant some slack. It always helped business to appear approachable to your employer.
With a slight twist she removed her helmet, noting as she did so the slight breeze from the stations
air recycling system gently wafting against her exposed skin.
Ã¢Â€ÂœMa'am!Ã¢Â€Â said Daris, clearly surprised that Orthar was female, his eyes quickly darting to the other
Mandalorians unloading the ship to see if he could tell who else was not male; he couldn't.
When fully armoured up, it was near impossible for outsiders to tell who was who beneath a
Mandalorians armour; Females fought beside males, young with the old, Humans and non-Humans
side by side. Where Mando's were concerned, it paid not to assume.
Ã¢Â€ÂœJust OrtharÃ¢Â€Â she replied, looking him over with her remaining good eye. For most people the patch
over her left eye and the scars running out from under it, proved almost as unnerving as her helmet;
and she knew they did little for her looks.
Ã¢Â€ÂœShow my crew where to unload our gearÃ¢Â€Â she instructed Ã¢Â€Âœand then I'll visit this commander of
Ã¢Â€ÂœMandalorians!Ã¢Â€Â muttered Besalisk Station Commander Eggar Dupree to himself, pacing the plush
Naboo carpet that lined the floor of his office; for the umpteenth time since being informed the
Mandalorians ship had arrived.
Ã¢Â€ÂœWe don't need those scum!Ã¢Â€Â he exclaimed, pounding a clenched fist into the palm of a hand.
Ã¢Â€ÂœWhat fool thought we need those bastards?Ã¢Â€Â he growled. He poured himself a glass of expensive
Dornean brandy, downing the beverage in a single gulp and pouring another.
Ã¢Â€ÂœMy men can handle anything the Vulptereen can throw at us!Ã¢Â€Â
He had told Command that in a secure communique mere days before, well... not in so many words
of-course; but he had made his feelings on the subject quite clear to General Pu'Dunkin's aide, the
fact they had then chosen to ignore him simply rankled him further. He downed the second glass
and resumed pacing.
Someone in Command is trying to embarrass me! He decided Afraid of my raising star! I bet it's
that De'Salver trying to usurp me! He's always wanted my job!
At least he had that Jettster to blame it on if, or rather when; it all went wrong. Everyone knew you
couldn't trust Mandalorians. Mercenaries were only interested in the credits they were paid, not the
cause they were fighting for; and that kind of thinking disgusted and unnerved Dupree.
They're probably being paid by the Vulptereen to betray us at a critical moment! And here we are
letting them waltz in through the front door like welcome heroes!! The thought made him pause for
a moment, unsure of what to do next. If he was right then they had just handed the station to the
Vulptereen on a silver serving platter. He slumped back into the heavy chair behind his desk, the
enormity of the situation suddenly weighing heavy on his shoulders.
I should call out the guard! Have these Mandalorians arrested, detained... executed! A loud knock
rang out from the door to his office.
Ã¢Â€ÂœComeÃ¢Â€Â he instructed, voice loud enough to be heard, and suddenly hoping who ever it was could
not tell he had been drinking. The heavy wooden door opened enough to reveal his secretary, the
woman clearly nervous about something.
Ã¢Â€ÂœLieutenant Jettster and.. err.. guest, are here to see youÃ¢Â€Â she stated.
Guest! What guest?
Ã¢Â€ÂœShow them in please MarcieÃ¢Â€Â he replied, unsure of why Jettster would be escorting a guest and
wanting to get back to solving the Mandalorian problem before it got out of hand. Dupree rose out
of his seat as the door opened further to admit Jettster, his thread-bare jacket still not replaced
despite the dressing down Dupree had given him about it when the Lieutenant had come aboard;
Ã¢Â€ÂœMandalorian!Ã¢Â€Â gasped Dupree, unable to keep his horror disguised, a half outstretch hand returning
unshaken to his side.
Ã¢Â€ÂœI amÃ¢Â€Â Responded Orthar, ignoring the tone in his voice and coming to a stop the opposite side of
Dupree's desk. She had replaced her helmet following the unloading of her ship and now let the
cold hard featureless stare of the helmet fall onto the Besalisk officer. Dupree, for his part; simply
set his jaw and attempted to out-stare her from across the desk, as if somehow trying to intimidate
the armoured warrior stood before him. It didn't work.
Ã¢Â€ÂœCommander DupreeÃ¢Â€Â interrupted Daris, not failing to notice the raising tension or the open bottle
Ã¢Â€ÂœMay I present Orthar Rrith, err... Captain of the Mandalorians.Ã¢Â€Â he glanced at Orthar to see if the
impromptu title was acceptable, she did nothing to indicate otherwise. Dupree simply sat back in his
chair, clearly unhappy with the way things were going. Orthar just nodded once, as if that simple
action was enough of a greeting, her blaster rifle cradled across her arms.
Ã¢Â€ÂœThis is my stationÃ¢Â€Â stated Dupree after several long seconds of silence. Ã¢Â€ÂœI command here, I set the
rules. Whilst you are here, you and your... mercenaries, will follow my orders to the letter or find
yourselves floating home!Ã¢Â€Â Dupree spat out the word mercenaries, as if it was something to be
wiped off of the sole of his boot. Daris inhaled, almost expecting the Mandalorian leap across the
desk and pummel Dupree into a paste, or swing up that blaster rifle and riddle his body full of
incandescent bolts of light. Daris wasn't sure if it was a good or bad thing when she did neither.
Instead she let the blaster rifle fall to her side and removed her helmet.
Ã¢Â€ÂœI'm being payed a lot of credits by your government to defend this station any way I see fitÃ¢Â€Â she
said, placing the helmet under one arm and reaching into a pouch on her belt to pulled out a small
gnarled piece of root, biting off a piece and chewing; before placing it back where it came from.
Ã¢Â€ÂœYou got a problem with that...Ã¢Â€Â she spat on the hard wood desk, leaving a dark brown stain Ã¢Â€Âœbite
meÃ¢Â€Â With that she turned and left, replacing her helmet as she went. Dupree looked like he was
about to burst a major blood vessel, clearly never having been spoken to in such a way before. Daris
looked on, unable to shake the feeling that this was not going to be an easy assignment at all.
Ã¢Â€ÂœWhat's this war about anyway?Ã¢Â€Â asked Dhar'khad, removing his helmet and placing it with the rest
of his gear on the over-sized Besalisk bunk. The smooth youthful features of his face contrasted
greatly with his battle worn armour and brutal looking array of weapons. His innocent looks and
easy going nature had proved him popular with a number of females back home.
Ã¢Â€ÂœWho cares?Ã¢Â€Â replied Gorath, sat cleaning his rifle; he paused to pull a new rag from a pouch on his
belt. Ã¢Â€ÂœAs long as they pay us I'll fight for them!Ã¢Â€Â He slammed a new charge into his blaster and
took aim down the sights, then; satisfied that the weapon was in perfect working order, he stood it
next to his jetpack on the ground. Ã¢Â€ÂœAs far as I am concerned, this is all about the payday