Gone Fishing

Posted on Tue Dec 29th, 2015 @ 4:01am by Morgo Le'Shaad & Nimo Lemere
Edited on on Tue Dec 29th, 2015 @ 4:03am

2,494 words; about a 12 minute read

Chapter: Chapter IV: Rezer's Edge
Location: Fortress Halls, Jericho
Timeline: After "The Cousins Rezer"

OLD

From the sidelines, Goro shifted his weight from one foot to the other, dryly wondering whether the dar’jetii would have a working fog machine for their grand entrance. While he was nothing but a lowly foot soldier, the Mandalorian had seen his share of transactions made here on Jericho. He’d found that the majority of their clientele were not only rich and pretentious, but were compulsively melodramatic psychopaths—and he’d seen his fair share of fog machines. Glancing at Zrad, and then back again to the boarding ramp, the soldier steeled himself for the imminent fight soon to come. And in the back of his mind, Goro wondered if Zrad would be interested in a fog machine situated behind his throne…

NEW

Like the slow fade of fleet of ships disappearing out a hangar, the noise of Zrad’s welcoming party pattered off into a distant murmur behind closed doors.

Jericho’s hangar was quiet once more, and it was times like these that Goro could believe that the old prison fortress might’ve had its own grim dignity, before they had scuttled like a colony of rats into Jericho’s halls, too desperate for Goro’s liking.

Sitting on the edge of a crate, Goro listened to the slow whirring of the old ventilation system, listened for the signature creak of the aft fan that told him that one of its rusted blades was in need of a replacement. Thing was, nobody made parts for this kind of fan anymore—Empire made and crafted over a thousand years ago. Nothing in this derelict fortress was reparable, save for the life support system that blew out every once in a while…and perhaps a few walls.

There was little in Jericho that a little handiwork couldn't patch up, at least for the next couple years. Be it a broken step, a hole in the ceiling, or a few loudmouth di'kut that had insulted the importance of proper bricklaying, Goro had found that there was very little that mortar and a few well-placed bricks couldn’t fix.

The mixture of lime, sand, and blood was still stuck under his fingernails. He’d have to trade someone his remaining cigarras for a good manicure after this mess with Zrad.

With ears open to all the ways Jericho spoke to him in the quiet, Goro turned his eyes to the young man lingering in the hangar with a purposeful sort of slouch. The purple-red of his hair wasn’t so much of strange thing to see here in Jericho, but his attire—leathery with a touch style to it—was a departure from Mandalorian armor.

“Wear a helmet.” Goro said to the young man, his voice cracking from disuse. The last time he had spoken was three days ago.

“And hide this handsome face?” Nimo ran a hand across his face, smirking faintly despite the weary gesture. “Too late. I think he’s in love.” His smirk started to wilt a bit, tightening with displeasure. Rest assured, he was quite flattered, but this was not the place or time. Nor the right person.

Nimo’s beryl blue eyes flitted over to the other man. “But I thank you for your concern. And who might you be?”

"Who I am does not matter. What does is why you are here, ad'ika."

Goro's rough voice lost some of its edge with each word spoken, like a pipe flushing out years of rust with the new flow of cleaner water. His never blinked as he watched the young man with careful eyes of one who had watched many things play out in his life, none of them good.

Nimo chuckled. “Oh, just the usual—sneak in, destroy everything, loot the place, leave.” He smirked at the other man. “Doesn’t look like you folks tend to do much of that these days, what with all that feasting. Where do you guys keep your fowl, anyway?" Or ysalamari. Too soon for that question, Nimo figured.

Goro tilted his head.

"I do not know if you are joking." he said in monotone.

The pirate smirked, pleased at the ambiguity. "Oh, you mean my interest in your chicken? Yes, it's a joke." His red eyebrows rose. "As for the former...it is whatever you think of it. Nothing more or less." He looked off, smiling faintly. "It's not like your thoughts will change anything." Although he'd have to dispatch him if he disagreed with their plan...he crossed his arms, letting one hand rest by his jacket entrance--and closer to his staff pieces inside.

Goro watched the young man fiddle in that motionless way young men full of energy often did. There was always a kind of energy humming right under their skin, waiting to spark and jump to the nearest victim, arcing light and ferocity. Once upon a time, Goro had that same spark running through his veins. Long years in the crumbling expanse of Jericho had turned him into what he thought he'd never be.

"If you are joking," Goro said quietly as he stood, stepping closer to the younger man, "I think I will have to kill you."

The old leather straps hanging off his aged, bronze armor creaked with every purposeful step.

"But if you are serious," the old Mandalorian went on, "I will have to ask you to lower your voice."

Nimo raised his chin, the spark in his eyes dancing in a more solemn rhythm. “I can be serious when paid enough amounts of money…” He glanced around before murmuring, “But I doubt I could be as serious as you when hatching escape plans with your friend Artem Vuul.” His eyes met Goro’s, gaze focused intently on the Mandalorian. Nimo had experience in trying to escape places like these before, where camaraderie served as the gold gild to servitude.

Zrad Rezer leered at Nimo just as the part-Aquar’s first boss did, expecting everything and giving nothing in return. The giant fishman got his dues thanks to Berry and their crewmates’ help...and now it was Nimo’s turn to empower. With a little extra cash, of course.

Something like recognition flashed behind the older man’s eyes, a grim tilt to his mouth as he chose his words carefully.

“The Dromachean boy,” Goro said at length, “He is dead.”

Artem Vul, the dark boy who had come here from the Core to care for the animals in Jericho, at the behest of his superiors to find a competent expert to keep the resident beasts fed and well, if not happy. Artem had been a green-eyed boy, with plans for his future as bright as his laughter.

It was ill-fated that Jericho did not treat Artem as kindly as that boy had cared for those animals.

Nimo’s eyes widened. “My apologies.” He tilted his head slightly, earring swaying. “So is this for the boy? Revenge, or to honor the abandoned plan?”

“Both.” Goro said, casting his eyes over the pirate’s shoulders, “He did not deserve what Zrad did to him. Not for those reasons.”

Sounds of celebration drifted from beyond the hangar, and Goro shifted, his expression twitching as he frowned.

“How did you know of Artem?”

Nimo glanced toward the sounds. “Does the name ‘Daneel’ sound familiar to you?”

For a moment, Goro glanced downwards, remembering.

“A lord. A count. Daneel was Artem’s mentor, “ Goro recalled, brown eyes narrowing, “He was supposed to come for Artem.”

Nimo smirked, thrusting his chest out as he announced, “And I’ve come in his stead.” He chuckled, settling down. “Well, thanks to the Dromachean damsel you dragged in. She also knows Daneel, and he tasked her with this.” His eyebrows rose. “But it’ll be for nothing if we don’t have your help.”

“It is already for nothing. Artem is dead.” Goro said, matter-of-factly, “Why did the count not come?”

The pirate shrugged. “We’ve been told he’s been detained. I’m not very much into intelligence work, as another crew member of mine specializes in it, but I’ve come to learn that may mean stuck in space traffic, kidnapped, or dead.” He raised his red eyebrows at Goro. “So we’ll have to make do with me. How does that sound?”

Goro took in a breath, looking at the young pirate, his lined face unmoving as he assessed Nimo, searching for any signs of deceit or hesitation that could spell certain doom down the line.

“Adequate. We move now.”

Nimo’s tailored leather boots quickly but quietly stepped down the hangar. He glanced at Goro as he followed. And stared. Maybe for a minute or two.

“So...what’s the plan?”

Goro kept his stride swift and brutal as he led Nimo away from the hangar, passing by a handful of milling Exiles without any acknowledgment. The pirate struggled somewhat to keep up, but once he found his rhythm, Goro had to admit he was impressed with the young man’s adaptability. Twisting his head to glance at the purple-headed Velusian, the younger man gave him an overly wide, toothsome smile that was both obnoxiously smug and genuinely tickled.

The silence between them stretched for so long that it seemed Goro might never answer. They passed under countless corridor arches, turning left, then right, as they carried on down a long and empty hall of stone. When Goro could hear nothing beyond the gentle flapping of the pirate’s leather coat against his slender calves, and the whirring of the overhead ventilation, he finally spoke.

“The plan is to win, pirate.”

Nimo’s nose wrinkled slightly. He suddenly was reminded of Berry’s green-haired first mate--stoic and succinct to the point of confusion. “And how do you propose we do that? Just walk in and slice and dice?”

“The lizards. Ysalamiri, Artem called them.” Goro remarked, turning to look at Nimo, “They are what keeps your friends weak, and the dark Jedi here harmless.”

Their boots thumped against the floor, kicking dust and debris into the air as they marched, their faces flickering between shadow and light as they passed under broken arches and shattered lamps.

Nimo’s lips thinned. Morgo did mention that strange word. Some kind of water magic lizard with a similar effect of certain stones on Velusia, ones that sapped Berry’s strength.

“We’ll have to kill them.”

“And anyone who takes too much interest.” Goro nodded, “Can you kill?”

Nimo balled a fist. “Of course.” He smirked over at Goro. “Can you?”


“Of course.” Goro echoed, expression dubious, “Why would you even ask that?”

Nimo chuckled. “I’m just a fun guy like that.” His blue eyes lighted. “I recognize this junction from the blue print. C’mon!” He tore ahead.

Goro watched as Nimo jogged further, his coat fluttering behind him like a poor-man’s banner, kicking up dirt behind him. The Exile dodged as a pebble flew past his face, looking tiredly after Nimo. The young man had such energy, such a brightness to him that Goro was oddly reminded of Artem.

Artem Vul, who had caught him throwing scraps to the vornskrs, and promptly corrected his technique with a coquettish smile. Whatever dubious affection Goro held for the oversized cats and lizards, he’d shared it with Artem. And they’d bonded, despite the odds. Despite the worlds between them. Despite the fact that Goro hardly talked and Artem had done enough talking for the both of them.

Despite that Artem had a smile that Goro found himself trying to outline when he spread mortar on the countless bricks in Jericho.

Goro could smell the den of ysalamiri before he rounded the corner to the door that would lead to their habitat, the sharp sting of their fecal ammonia rank within the air. But still, it reminded Goro of calmer times. When Artem had been alive, and not rotting at the bottom of a rancor pit for the sport of a man who knew no honor.

This pirate was not Artem, nor would helping him bring his friend back. But maybe it would help an old man sleep better at night, to know that he’d done something.

As he came up behind Nimo, the door before them was shut, an access panel glowing red beside it. The pirate was peering through the circular window within the steel door, angling to catch a better look at the ysalamiri, clustered here and there from rusted metal supports that stood entangled with growing vines.

With a quickness that spoke of familiarity, Goro punched in an access code not his own. He watched with some amusement as Nimo flinched at the rusted sound of the door unlocking, echoing down the hall as it popped open with a hiss.

Within, the ysalamiri, like a sea of slithering scaled bodies, slipped closer to the overhanging ledge. They knew the sounds of the door that preceded their daily food.

Nimo paused, staring at his scaly cousins. It wasn’t his fault they hadn’t evolved yet and were caught by Zrad. They had to go.

But as for his partner of convenience...he glanced over at Goro, smiling faintly. “After this, there’s no turning back. You really up for retirement?”

Goro was silent for so long, Nimo began to think that the older man hadn’t heard him. He opened his mouth to repeat the question, a bit awkwardly, before he heard man’s gravelly voice.

“I like to fish,” he answered, as if that were explanation enough.

A smile cracked on Nimo’s handsome face. “I know a great water planet for that. Just the fishing part, though. Catch me later and I can send you the coordinates.”

“I do not think there will be time for catching, if we succeed, Lemere.”

Below them, within the ysalamiri habitat, the lizards began to hiss impatiently, climbing over each other to be the first to eat.

Nimo tilted his head. “Nothing an automated transmission can’t solve. Now that we’re working together, can you tell me who you are? Not that you’re one to talk…”

The Exile’s dry lips twitched, “Goro.”

The pirate grinned, the cylinder in each hand extending out and fizzing sparks. Judging from the charred ends, it didn’t look intentional--but it looked dangerous, and that was all Nimo needed.

“All right, Goro. Let’s do this.”

Goro blinked at the pirate’s smile, roguish and full of ill-intent. And though the Mandalorian did not mirror his mirth, he felt something familiar spark within his veins, like the sputtering of an old engine, come back to life.

Cocking the rifle at his hip, Goro raised the heavy weapon, larger than his own thigh. A gloved finger upon the trigger, Goro looked out beyond at the mass of reptiles.

“Let’s.”

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