Star Wars: Suicidal Queen

Suicidal Queen

 Daemen Irath could not shake the images of the Imperial flags flying above the Wanderhome Starport from his mind. Shredded and in flames, the silken material fought for breath as Imperial personnel raced to escape the incoming armies of the Rebel Alliance. What remained of the Empire was in tatters. Despite a brief moment of rejoicing for its demise, he did not desire the power vacuum left in it death throes, which left nothing to claim or conquer for himself and an old, even more powerful nemesis standing in the ashes.

The Imperial Guilds of Wanderhome were defeated, scattered, and on the run. The Emperor was dead. Darth Vader was dead. Weak vision. Weak execution. And we are fallen as a result of it, he thought in a rage. Shirtless, the Zabrak Sith was dressed in nothing more than the black ankle-length rijani skirt that he wore and the sandals on his feet. Crippled in their escape from the port, the Rambling Rover's air units blew hot air over him, and he felt the sweat rising on his skin.

"Stop dwelling on it, brother," Keets whispered. "There is no merit in it." His tenor voice carried in the YT-1300's cargo bay, which had been turned into a makeshift triage and morgue. Sitting on a munitions crate by one of his dying guildmates, he sighed and rubbed his forehead. His left arm was bound in a sling from a blaster hit in the shoulder.

"It shouldn't have gone like this!"

"But it did. And what has changed? Nothing." Keets pulled the blanket over his dead companion's face. "We are still wanted men. Our executions are assured. But how we die," he said, running his fingers over the hilt of his lightsaber, "is yet to be determined, and I fully intend to be my own author when that moment comes. We who chase the shadows relish chaos, and yet here we are as much a victim to it as any. No way to know what guilds escaped the aftermath. No way to know who is lost, captured, or dead." His eyes lingered on the corpse before him. "The others will come to rely on you, Daemen, to get us through this."

"<ELITE> had no leaders, Keets. We were all equals."

"And we will hang as equals, not matter what guild we served, if you don't find a way out of this." He ran his hand through his curly locks. "I am so tired. Ah," he said, turning to the short soldier in Scout Trooper armor as she approached him with an offered flask. "Socorran raava?"

"Yes, Master Keets," Soelle replied with a slight bowing of her head. After Keets had taken a sip, she offered the flask to Daemen with imploring eyes. "Master Daemen?"

"Don't call me that," he said, turning his back to her. "I'm no one's master. Not anymore."

"Avari reports the others have finished scouting the docking area. They're waiting for you—"

"Go away, Soelle!"

"It's been decided and put to a vote, Master Daemen," she replied, not backing down from him. "We're waiting for your orders."

With the dark side riding high within him, the Sith turned on her. "Without my inclusion? Who's brought this to the table?" He snatched the double-bladed lightsaber from his belt.

"Your vote wouldn't have mattered. It's unanimous, and it was my idea to call for a vote of leadership." The notorious basebuster stared at him, unflinching in her defiance.

Forced to smile, Daemen asked, "Whatever happened to that little Imperial soldier who bowed to me with such deference in the starport in Wanderhome?"

"She's standing right here in front of you, as always, waiting for you to acknowledge her presence."

Had she been anyone else, Daemen would have ignited his lightsaber and killed her—slowly. But there was something disarming about the little basebuster from Socorro, her eyes, the admiring way she looked up to him, even in his worst moments. He had betrayed her once at a cost of her tears and nearly her life. She had forgiven him, her loyalty unbroken, and he had sworn never to allow it to happen again.