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Star Wars: Cold Vengeance

Chapter 5

Mortin watched the snowflake as it fell onto his hand. It was perfectly symmetrical with small, glassy arms that stretched out, even smaller arms coming from those to create a masterwork. It settled on his bare skin comfortably before the heat of his hand wiped it from existence, turning it into a small fleck of water.

Mortin wondered, as he slipped his glove back over his hands, if he and the rest of the Rebellion were doomed to such a fate. The Empire had them surrounded on this cold world that they had settled on and brought fire with them to melt them down, just as the snowflake had. Yet, the snowflake had gone peacefully, Mortin doubted that the next hours would be so quiet.

The outposts were falling fast, faster than what anyone had anticipated and even General Rieekan was panicking and he was deep in Echo base. There was a sense of doom among the men and Mortin couldn't really do anything about it as he watched from his post near the Ion Cannon. He gazed across the white expanse towards one of the recently fallen outposts. He had ordered the men there to fall back, but none had come back and now he couldn't even get a signal. All he could see was the black smoke coming from the ruins and the walkers that were now heading towards him.

Echo base had already been hit. Bomber had come in, low and fast, penetrating the fighter screen and dropped a mixture of Ion bombs to disrupt their electronics and proton torpedoes. The trenches had done their job, protecting the men from any collateral damage, but many of the turrets had gone offline when a nearby Ion pulse had overloaded the power generator. The technicians were working hard to fix it, but it was going to take time, time that they didn't have.

Reports had come in that the Empire was sending nothing but the most elite against them. The famed General Veers, the father of the AT-AT was leading the assault which was being spearheaded by Blizzard Force. The mostly mechanized heavy assault brigade was infamous for laying sieges to fortified positions, such as the one Mortin was currently defending. They didn't really use tactics, instead relying on their overwhelming firepower to simply bash their enemy into submission. It was barbaric, but effective.

There were also reports that a contingent of the 501st was supporting the force. This troubled Mortin even more. First there was Death Squad, Vader's personal fleet, in orbit, ready to rain death onto them as soon as they shut down the shield generator. Next, there was Blizzard Force and its AT-ATs, which were all making a beeline to him now that his first line of defenses were gone. Now there was the 501st, the last remnants of the Grand Army of the Republic, the best of the Republic, Vader's Fist. They really wanted the Rebellion quashed.

He could see them now, through his macrobinoculars. Small figures, clad in white, scrambling across the snow, at the feet of the walkers. Even with the high powered visual aid, they were impossibly small from this distant. So small that even the snow flurries that were whipped up by the wind seemed to blow them away. But, when the wind stopped and the flurries went away, they were still there. They marched defiantly forward in the shadow of the walkers, they kept just in front of it, never straying, never pulling ahead. It was a bit soothing to watch them, now that they weren't shooting and killing. They moved along like a herd of small fish around a larger fish, waiting to pick of little scraps of food like the ones back home on Mandalore.

He remembered his time back on his ancient homeworld as a child. It was harsh and unforgiving. The way of the Mandalorian was not soft, it wasn't for everyone.

"Run faster, *ad'ika*." The large figure, fully clad in heavy beskar armor kept a steady pace in front of him. He didn't look back at him as his feet sunk into the mud, but didn't slow him down. Tilus didn't slow down for anyone, not even his own adopted son. He expected everyone to keep up or fall behind.

Mortin was breathing hard and could barely see, the sweat kept falling into his eyes, stinging them. He wiped at his eyes with his soiled sleeve that was covered in mud. The rain had at least stopped, but it had left behind the mud. How Mortin hated the mud. It pulled at his feet with each step since they weren't running on a road. No. For the last ten kilometers they had been running across the wilderness with no real direction.

One second Tilus would be leading him through the woods, ducking under branches and vaulting over fallen trees. The next second, he would turn out of the woods and start climbing up a mountain to turn around and go down, jumping and falling down treacherous falls. Now they were going across a recently harvested field. Fall was coming and it would bring snow soon, but before snow, was rain and when rain hit tilled dirt, it created mud.

"Faster!" Tilus demanded of the small thirteen year old boy who looked as if he was going to keel over and die. "Don't you fall." He demanded, still not looking back. He never looked back and while most would consider that an insult, it was a compliment. To be talked to and know that you were there. Tilus knew he was there and didn't need visual confirmation to know that he had kept up was a good feeling. To have Tilus look back to see if he was still there was an insult to him. For Tilus to stop and wait... to actually make him wait... There was no forgiveness in that.

Mortin didn't respond. He didn't have the breath to waste on words as he lifted his legs up high with each step. Each step was a battle. His muscles screamed for relief, but they had been screaming for many klicks now and he could push that away. What he couldn't push away was the weight. His body felt so heavy, as if the whole universe was trying to pull him into the ground and bury him. It was a mental challenge to fight against it, to bring his legs up again, to muster the strength to do it. He was so tired, he wanted to give up. At the moment, there wasn't much more that he wanted than to give up and just go to sleep right there.

Except that there was one thing that he wanted more as he gazed defiantly at the back of his father's red helmet. He watched it bob up and down with each step, the paint was chipping off, showing the old layer of blue paint beneath. The damn thing had been repainted so many time that others joked that the paint alone could stop a lightsaber and that his armor didn't need to be made of the special Mandalorian steel, beskar, which was special properties. It was one of the strongest materials in existence, even able to shrug off a lightsaber.

Mortin dreamed of the day that he would be allowed to wear his own set of armor. He wanted to be a true Mandalorian and a true Mandalorian wore beskar. At the moment, he was *naas*, nothing. He wanted to be something and in order to be something, he needed his father's approval. That was the first step.

Mortin kept up with his father, barely, but he kept up as they turned off the field onto the first road they had been on since leaving their village. It was the same road that they had used to leave. It was always this road that they used to leave and return to because it was a tough one, both ways. It wasn't paved and really wasn't a road. It was an old game trail that had been converted into a hunting trail used by people to get to the best hunting spots, deep in the mountainous woods.

It was easier in the woods, on the trail. The hard packed ground, used by Mandalorians since long before even the Neo Crusades millennia ago, didn't soak up water. It was slick though and Mortin struggled to keep his balance as he went down the side of a ravine down the a stream. They ran along side of the stream for another kilometer before crossing it, not even looking for a proper crossing.

Mortin plunged into the frigid creek that was fed by a natural aquifer in the mountains. It was ice cold, only its fast pace keeping it from turning to ice. The coldness but at him, sucking the breath out of lungs. He gasped, taking in a deep breath, not of air, but water. His first step was misplaced and he slipped on a moss covered rock. The water rushed over his head and the current picked him up.

Mortin grasped at the rocked in an attempt to stop so he could get his head out of the water, but he couldn't find purchase. He fingers glided along the perfectly smooth surface as more water rushed into his lungs, freezing him from the inside. It hurt as he hit everything on his way down.

His vision began to go black from the cold, the water, the drowning, the disappointment. He should have known that the rocks were going to be slick. He had ran this trail before, many times before and he knew. How could he let his fatigued manner make him forget. A true Mandalorian wouldn't forget, a true Mandalorian wouldn't slip on rocks. He was a disgrace to Mandalore, to his father. Death was the only punishment that was suitable for a failure to absolute.

Death didn't come. Heavy, padded hands grabbed him and suddenly he was lifted out of the water.

Mortin sputtered, coughing up water. Right into his father's masked face. The black visor stared at him, emotionless, not moving despite literally being puked on. The hands held Mortin up from under his arms above the water. The water was only knee deep.

When Mortin stopped coughing and could finally breathe, he stared back at the helmet. He couldn't' discern what his father was thinking. He could feel it in the silence. It was disappointment. Tilus had stopped, not to wait for him, but to save him. Mortin didn't think that there could have been something worse than making him stop, but making him save his life, it was the ultimate failure on his part. He felt like crying, but he didn't. Mandalorians don't cry.

Mortin waited for his punishment. First would be scolding, yelling, he would be beat down with words. Then he would be be physically beaten, not with fists, but with work. They would run for another twenty kilometers, until dark and then he would be sent to bed without dinner. The weak don't eat, the weak don't' survive. That was what he expected, but what came next surprised him.

Tilus, still carrying the shivering form of his son, walked out of the water and set him down, gently onto a dry patch of dirt. He kneeled. "Are you okay?" He said, softly, voice filled with concern.

Mortin stared at him. This wasn't the tongue lashing he was expecting, the verbal beat down about how he had dishonored his heritage.

"*Ad*, you okay?" He repeated and pulled out a small hand warmer from one of the leather pouches on his belt. Once exposed to the air, it generated a surprising amount of heat almost immediately and put it in Mortin's hands. The warmth stung at first, making it feel as if there were tiny needles pricking him, but that quickly dissipated into a soothing touch.

"I..." Mortin finally said and broke down. Mandalorians don't cry. "I'm sorry." He fell to his knees, the warmer still in his hands. "I failed." Tears streamed down his cheeks as he looked at the ground and his muddy knees. His clothes were torn on several places from branches and cuts from rocks. He was bleeding in multiple locations, but he couldn't feel it, he was numb.

"How?" Tilus asked and then pulled out a small package from the same pouch. He unraveled it into a metallic blanket that was good at keeping heat. He threw it over Mortin's shoulders and with the hand warmer, he quickly warmed up. "Tell me how you failed."

"I made you stop." Mortin said between sobs. "I put myself in... in..." He couldn't speak as the guilt wracked his whole body.

"So." Tilus said with a bit of a chuckle. "If I hadn't you would have died." He said it so obviously. "Would you have preferred if you had died. I wouldn't." He reached up and pulled off his helmet, revealing a grizzled face that had once been considered handsome. The once golden hair that had flowed was now patched, parted by deep scars and his face was contorted by burns. Tilus had been through alot and had only recently returned to Mandalore to raise Mortin, an orphan he had found on Ryloth.

The child, only two at the time, had been wandering the streets of Lessu, the capital city of the world inhabited by Twi'leks. It was a world was one of the few planets farther away from the galactic core than Tatooine and that made it a safe haven for criminals. Tilus had been there looking as a pit stop on his way back to deliver the body of a wanted man. He walked down the streets, always curious to see the local scenery when the small child had come up to him.

Beggars were common in a backwater planet like this. Tilus imagined that they even considered begging to be a form of employment, there were so many of them. Most were afraid of him in his armor and left him alone, but this child walked right into his path, forcing him stop or run him down.

"Wuipi." He stuck out his hands. He was asking for money, demanding it really, not begging for it. The boy that wore nothing but worn rags and a layer of soot on his skin that was stretched over his thin frame fully expected money.

Tilus looked down at the miserable form. He wasn't going to give his hard earned money to this grub. The world's poor was not his problem, that was something for the poor to solve themselves, if philanthropists wanted to step in, so be it. Tilus wasn't a philanthropist. He stepped around the boy wordlessly who watched him walk away. Tilus could feel those green eyes dig right through his armor.

He didn't see the boy again, how could he in a large city. The day was spent restocking supplies and just looking. The body was in a deep freeze and would keep. The contractor didn't expect him back for another three cycles so he had time to spare and even though work made him feel useful, Tilus did enjoy downtime. It was time to just relax and think. There was so little time to think anymore. The galaxy was always moving forward and at times, Tilus was afraid he would be left behind, so he did his best to make sure he was always there and knew what was going on. His father had been left behind. He died old and senile, unable to tell apart his son from the farm animals that weren't even there anymore. He didn't want to end up like that, it scared him when his own father who had sweated to provide for him and his mother had forgotten his face and all recollection of what was going on.

Tilus returned to his ship once the sun was setting, that was when the thugs and less savory residents of this city came out. None would be a challenge for Tilus if one of them were to try their luck, but it was just easier to avoid unnecessary fights. On a planet that was mostly populated by fiercely independent Twi'leks, killing one of them would cause a storm.

Tilus deposited the supplies he brought back with him to the hold. He put away the supplies in his very organized containers, making sure to put the newer things on the bottom of the containers so he would use the older supplies first. He had enough to last an entire standard month if he ever needed to. Though, in space, he doubted rescue would come for him in time if his ship were to break down. Not that people didn't care, space was just big and even the most populated hyperspace routes could appear empty due to the vastness of scale.

When he was done, Tilus turned around to head to his rack to get some sleep when he was startled by the child. The child had managed to sneak aboard the ship and was there with his hands out. He didn't say anything, he simply demanded money, or probably food this time. Tilus, now that he was on his own ship, examined the boy, he was very thin. He could see his ribs and his belly sunk into his abdomen. He was surprised the boy had enough strength to stand.

"Go away." Tilus waved his hand, but the boy didn't move. He stared at Tilus, still demanding. It was starting to annoy Tilus. How could a child like this demand anything from him, he held nothing over him. "GO!" Tilus pointed in the direction of the airlock where the docking ramp was still down. The ship would sense when he was asleep and automatically close it.

The boy shook his head and took a step forward.

Tilus wasn't going to shoot the boy, though the thought did cross his mind. "You want food?" He growled and the boy didn't respond, though his stomach did give off a very distinct gurgle. "FINE!" He yelled and opened up the contained behind where he produced a single package of rations. The boy didn't move to take it, but his eyes were on it, dead set.

Tilus tossed the package at the boy's feet. "Take it and go." He pointed at the airlock again. He was going to manually close it when the boy left.

The boy grabbed the package and held it close to his chest before turning and walking off the ship. Tilus closed the ramp and went to sleep, feeling drained.

The next morning, Tilus woke up refreshed. He quickly took a sanistream shower and put on his armor to go exploring the city some more. He heard that the casinos weren't actually that bad from a vendor. Supposedly since gambling cost money, only people with money would go there, naturally. He wouldn't have to deal with any more beggars, though that meant he had to get through the beggars first.

"FIER'FEK!" Tilus raged when the boy was there when the ramp went down. He had his hands up, the empty ration next him. There wasn't a single crumb of the nutrition bars that tasted like the backside of a Wompa at its best. "Go away." He said and walked past the child. He was going to ignore and just go waste a few credits at the sabaak tables. Maybe a few drinks as well, some Turisian ale sounded good.

He walked through the crowded streets of the slums. He regretted landing his ship at this part of the city, even with his helmet's filters the air had taken on the sour smell of body odor and waste. He was going to give his armor a deep clean and a fresh coat of paint the next time he got the opportunity. He looked down at his armor, currently black with chips of red showing. He needed to sand it as well, but he wouldn't. Each layer was a story to him that he didn't care to wash away.

Out of the corner of his eye as he looked at himself, the child was there. He was there, those green eyes staring at him as he stood unmoving among the thrall of people. Tilus cursed to himself and half expected him to raise up his hands in that defiant way. The child had won before, he wasn't going to win this time.

Tilus made it to the casino, a large building constructed to look like a Hutt palace. It had glowing, neon lights that flashed in Huttese. The signs beckoned to all, if they didn't draw your eyes, then they made sure to attack your eyes with the colors and advertise the promise of a good time. A good time was what Tilus needed he entered through the front that was guarded by twin Gamorrean bouncers who didn't even look at him, a Mandalorian wasn't the kind to just cause trouble for no reason. He entered, but not before seeing the boy standing just far enough away to not draw the attention of the bouncers. He glared at Tilus defiantly.

The inside was just a colorful with not just lights, but dancers and all kinds of patrons in frilly clothes. There were old spacers gathered around a bar, talking and drinking, laughing the day away as they shared what was probably a story, blown way out of proportion. Twi'lek females danced and swung their agile bodies around slender poles, their lekku whipping the air. They wore slave collars around their neck, leather straps that were decorated with jewels that twinkled.

The tables were all occupied and Tilus hated playing with more than a couple of people. More people meant more opportunity for malice and he couldn't keep track of everything. He found a table, in the center of the floor that had only three others, a wookie, a human and a Rodian who were silently playing. He joined them and threw in a cred chip to pay for his hand.

It was hours and two thousand credits later, in his favor when Tilus quit. He had fun, the other players talked quietly, apparently they had just finished a trade run to the core and were putting their paycheck to good work. They didn't mind losing so much to the Tilus since he went ahead and joined their conversation. He shared stories and they did the same, leaving the Mandalorian feeling good. It was rare to come across decent people in a place like this. He gathered his winnings and left.

He shouldn't have been surprised when the child was there. Where else would he go, he was obviously an orphan and homeless. Yet, Tilus had hoped that the boy would be gone.

Again, Tilus walked back to his ship and again, he saw the child follow him all the way back. He didn't attempt to board the ship this time though, instead he stood at the bottom of the ramp with his hands up. The empty ration package was still there.

He thought about just leaving, getting into the cockpit and taking off. He was leaving the next day anyways, why not leave a little early. He knew why. He would never hear the end of it from the others. They would never stop berating him for being chased of an entire world by a child.

Tilus threw another package at the child which landed a few feet behind him and he closed the ramp and went to bed, not even taking off his armor.

The child was again there in the morning. He was a stubborn one. He, unlike the others beggars wasn't afraid of him.

Here on the third day, Tilus sat in his cockpit. He was ready to go. All he had to do was turn on the engine and take the ship up to space and make the jump. The child would be gone from his life. He just needed to hit the one button to turn on the engines. It was so easy and yet it was so hard. He knew the child was there, perfectly placed so the ramp would end at his bare calloused feet. The child was waiting for him as he had waited the past few days.

"Why is it so hard?" Tilus' head rolled back into his seat and he grabbed a small handful of his hair. He sat up and flicked on a monitor to the security feed for the outside of the ship. He was there, right where Tilus had predicted him to be and the two discarded packages next to him. He stared intently at the ramp.

It was a long few minutes for Tilus. He thought heavily about what he was about to do. He now knew why it was so hard. He saw a Mandalorian in the child, the stubborn will to live. The child had seen him, a strong figure capable of surviving and latched onto him. The child was found his best bet for survival and didn't waste the opportunity like a true Mandalorian. Mandalorians didn't waste anything and leaving the child to his fate would be a waster.

The ramp came down, the hydraulics hissing until there was a thud as it hit the ground.

For the first time, Tilus glared back at the child with his own eyes, no longer hiding behind his helmet.

"Don't make me regret this." He said and turned back and walked into his ship. The child understood and quickly came aboard.

Now, looking at Mortin, just over a decade over, he didn't regret it. The child had grown up to be a fine lad who always listened and strived to be the best that he could to repay him for saving his life. He watched as he rubbed his bloodshot eyes, trying to stop the tears of failure. There was no failure. Sure he had raised him to never fall behind, but now it was time to teach him the next lesson, one that he was a little disappointed that he didn't already know.

"Yes, you fell behind. You fell, but you would have died." Mortin sobbed in a shuddered breath and looked up, his green eyes glossy. "To let you die would have been a waste. I gave up my old life for you. I've invested so much time, effort and... love to let it get washed away in a few inches of water. Don't let the things you love get so easily taken away."

Mortin watched as his father got back up and put his helmet back on. "Now." He said in a stony voice. "Keep up." He took off not looking back to see if Mortin was there because just like on Ryloth, he knew that he was right there on his heels.

Mortin gazed out at the walkers. They were very close now to his position. He could hear them, their mechanical steps echoing far across the white. Even if they were going to be burnt out like like a snowflake, he was going to make them suffer for it. Over the years, Mortin may have grown old and lost some of his old youthful self, but one thing that he never lost was his stubbornness. He turned and left his position. He was going to go down to the trenches himself for this.