Haruun Kal

[The Jensaarai]

The soft woot of a sensor on the bridge alongside a flashing  amber light in the console tugged The Mantis from his light slumber. Aboard the battered ore freighter, the Jensaarai Defender had rested, conserving the few supplies he had found in hopes that between they and prolonged meditations, he would survive the journey from the chaotic world of Mon Cal to wherever the force may lead him.
 

When he hd left the world, the rebel siege was in full swing. It had been easy enough amidst the chaos of the surface and the skies to make it to an unattended Sith freighter and slip through the battle, unscathed for the most part.

 

Righting his seat, the Defender’s eyes scanned the console for the source of the bleeping. It took only a moment, a faint distress beacon. Perhaps it was far off or it’s battery was dying, signaling it’s advanced age. Maybe it was caught beneath some level of obstruction that messed with it’s beacon. It was hard to tell. The Mantis tapped the console as he pondered the situation. He knew what he needed to do, it just took a few moments to convince himself of it.

 

Grabbing the yoke, the Defender manually brought the craft about. Somewhere within the fringes of whatever system he was traversing someone was or had been signaling for help. It was an old transponder code, one that the Sith craft did not recognize as legitimate. Still, it checked out. It WAS a distress signal.

 

Having just escaped a Sith held world and having committed what would surely be categorized as an act of terror, The Mantis was cautious; more cautious than he usually was. That was something to say the least. He sent no response, no message seeking clearance or classification. If there was someone on the world in need, he would find them himself. The craft was designed for hauling goods, weighty cargo. It was not made for advanced scans, searching for lifeforms and the like.

 

Slicing through the atmosphere of Haruun Kal, the beacon’s call became clearer. It came from a . . . ship? That made sense. It was the make and model of it that did not. It was a ship that wound have been natural amongst the old Army of The Republic, a Kaminoan craft designed for ferrying clones; not one that had any place plying the galaxy in today’s day and age. Unless . . . The Sith were resurrecting a lobgnlost army. That was a long long time ago. More than a lifetime. It seemed Sithly enough to make sense.

 

Setting the ship down on a rocky ice shelf out of sight of the wreckage, The Mantis donned his Jensaarai armor and cloak, his weapons expertly affixed. Securing the craft, it’s industrial locks jarring into place, The Mantis set off into the clear air. The force swirled around the force user, shrouding his presence, his signature, his very essence in a veil of secrecy and unknowing. He was the shadow that was there and gone in a blink, something that at once one saw but could not see, doubting the very existence of what might have been but was not.

 

The Jensaarai was a ninja of the soacelanes. He, they, existed by not existing. Their presence was never known or sensed. They worked in the shadow. They were the shadow; not being of darkness, but beings of muted light. The sand in the bottom half of the hour glass. Created by the sins of the Jedi and the arrogance of the Sith, and yet drawn inexplicably to the light.

 

He moved, darting from shadow to shadow as he made his way from outcropping to rock along the mountainside. Crouched high in the crisp cool clear air, The Mantis overlooked the overwatch and the, was it really a clone? overlooking the mountainside below.

 

What was going on? Was this some sort of military outpost? Nothing seemed to add up and yet, The Mantis was here, alone. If this was a trap, he would spring it. If this was a rescue, he would carry it out. If this was anything else, then he would do his best to help those in need and stop any evil that might be seeking to permeate the galaxy alongside the Sith war force that threatened the freedom of the known universe.

 

Even as the force shaded his existence, The Mantis jumped, arcing in a long somersault, landing on his padded feet at the edge of the overwatch behind Tilt.  “Do not be alarmed soldier,” he spoke, his voice calm and commanding, almost ethereal in quality. “I am escaping an Imperial world under siege and picked up your distress signal. Are you ok? Are you alone? Who are you?” he asked, his eyes scanning the trooper before him, ready to spring backwards off the edge into open air if needed, or to heft a weapon from his armor and respond in self defense. Still, he hoped for better. He hoped this man was not the last survivor of some doomed vessel, a solitary Sith creation that would need purged. In his heart, The Mantis regarded the soldier and hoped for the best.

[The Jensaarai]

The Mantis stood unmoving. He could feel the weapons of the clones trained on him. Beneath his light armor and cloak, his muscles stood tense and relaxed, ready to spring into action in an instant. The force flowed about him, line a stone just below the surface of a river. It rippled and changed and obscured him beneath it’s wake, trailing a wake across the surface if the world, hiding him against the chaos of the natural. Yet, he stood here still.

 

He did not know who these clones were. Their faces gave away their genetic identity. Such knowledge was commonplace to those who read and studied history. The Jensaarai made doing so an integral part of their training.  
 

Behind his unmoving masked helm, The Mantis spoke softly and with calm surety. “The Republic is no more. The Galactic Empire, no more. The Sith, sworn enemies of the Jedi, seek to purge the galaxy of them, of anyone that might stand in their way. They have the truth, yet corrupt it. They have given themselves over to the depravity of their own minds, over to the shadows of the galaxy. As for me, I am but a thief, a man of honor, a lowly vagabond trying to survive in the shadows without succumbing to them. As for why I am fleeing, I think that would be obvious. I stole something.” The Mantis fell silent after he answered. This clone wanted to play games. Very well, he had one more question, “Why do you have a distress signal activated?”

 

 

[The Jensaarai]

The Jensaarai slowly nodded. To be stuck on a world so long, to be out of touch with the realities of the galaxy for so long, it was almost criminal. Who would have done such a thing? It was apparent though that these were not forces of the Sith; although, where they allegiances might lie was still an unknown.
 

   “I go by many names Captain, many of which are unpronounceable even to me, but you may call me Pryf.” he answered the clone’s question before turning to conversation quickly away from any further inquiries and back to the topic at hand. “If you and your men are to accompany me, I would ask that you provide some manner of consumables so we all might survive the trip. I had to leave with little notice and am not well equipped for taking on passengers; although, I would guess you and your men have had it worse.”

 

”As soon as you are ready, we can be off.”

 

________________________________
 

It did not take long before the Jensaarai and his newfound passengers were settled, albeit somewhat haphazardly in the highly used and abused ore freighter. The Sith Imperial creat on the side of the ship would help them blend in once they entered more charted space lanes. The Mantis left it unsaid that he hoped the chaos of Mon Cal had prevented the hauler from being entered into any sort of galactic stolen vessel registry. The thing would need abandoned, scuttled, or stripped sooner than later. Still, it served their purpose.

 

As the craft lifted off from the world, the still-armored man, set about engaging the autopilot to see them clear of any gravitational wells before he made his way back to the dirty cargo hold where the clones were able ton stow whatever gear they had wanted to bring along. It was not accommodations any self-respecting ship’s captain would be proud to offer passengers, but it would have to do.

 

Careful to avoid brushing the wall and dirtying his cream cloak, The Mantis stepped inside and nodded to the troopers, his voice an enigma, but warm, behind his helm. “We should be clear to jump within the hour. Never knew a hauler that couldn’t be outpaces by a legless bantha rolling uphill, but we’ll get there. Wherever there is. Tell me, where is it you boys are looking to go?” he offered a datapad, he had found amongst the ship’s supplies. It was open to a heavily regulated newsfeed of the Sith Imperial News Corps. Still, short of telling stories, it was the best way to offer the castaways a glance at the greater galaxy. He only hoped they could read through some of the more obvious propoganda. “I warn you though, not everything is as it appears in the holonews feeds.” It would not be hard to find news of the desecration of the industrial shipyards of Mon Cal at the hands of terrorists and dissident factions of malcontents and vigilantes. A bit more digging might also reveal a few still shots of potentially wanted subjects now branded enemies of the state for what might be considered war crimes against the Imperial government of Mon Cal. Among them would be a single blurred photo of what might have been the clones’ newfound host with the charges of terrorism, use of incendiary devices to inflict wonton damage, and criminal destruction in the first degree. Something about blowing up medicinal production facilities on Mon Cal . . . 

 

 

[The Jensaarai]

The Jensaarai nodded in thanks, tucking the piece of dried meat into a fold in his robes to save for later as he listened to the men talk and update themselves. Of course they would have questions, it was only natural. Unfortunately, he would not have all the answers; even those he did have he could not reveal the full expanse of, lest he saturate his own opinions into them or reveal himself and his people to the plagues of darkness about the galaxy. Still, they deserved to know something of what the galaxy they  were reentering had to offer.

 

At the outcry of emotion regarding Mon Cal, The Mantis opted to interject. “It is my belief that a resistance force had or is currently driving the Sith forces from that world. The war you may remember is gone gentlemen, but for those willing to stand on the side of what  is right and honorable, there are still a great many battles that will need fighting. Droid armies still plague the galaxy. Even the Jedi have one now. So too do slave armies run amok and some users of the force put themselves above all others. I am no Sith or friend thereof, in fact, this ship is to be used in such a manner as to right the wrongs perpetuated about the galaxy and allowed by the forces of darkness. If you are willing, there is an old Imperial, and dare I say past Republic, world and populace that could benefit from the skillsets I am sure you possess. What say you to taking the fight to the enemy, being a bit of a rebel against the hordes of darkness that seek to overwhelm our galaxy these days?” he asked, his voice a bit playful at the question before he added a bit sarcastically, “It is where I was going originally. But if you’d like, I can take you to Coruscant. Last time I was there the Sith crashed the moon into the thing. Killed trillions. Lots of real estate available.”

[The Jensaarai]

The Mantis smiled, his body relaxing visably. “Well then, if you are in, Coruscant is not where you want to go, not yet. Not sure the four of us can take it alone. Not yet. Lets brush the rust off those guns of yours and go help some folks in need. Any chance you fellows can make yourselves look a little less like clones and a little more like unsavories? Ryloth won’t be too friendly to us rebels; maybe even less to government-types sniffing about.”

 

As their conversation waned, The mysterious rebel returned to the cockpit to launch them to hyperspace and towards their rendezvous on Ryloth. He was not sure who they would be meeting there, but he knew if these clones were serious about doing the right thing they’d be a great asset to the Rebellion. If they were shady, his fellow rebels would be able to sniff it out and Ryloth would be a good place to leave them if they became too unsavory.

 

Once launched, the masked spy set about changing from his armor into a grubby Imperial jumpsuit, accenting it with his collapsed staff and a few vials of agridium powder to play the part of the would-be hijacker of said ship.