Chapter 37 : The Escape - Part 2
The smuggler's bay is exactly where Bo-Katan's coordinates indicated—Level 2847, industrial starport sector where CS patrols are sparse and questions are expensive. Ships here have questionable documentation and crews who don't exist in official registries.
I navigate through loading docks carrying R4 and minimal supplies. Everything else left behind—safehouses burned, networks compromised, six weeks of Coruscant operations reduced to what fits in a pack. The cortosis armor sits heavy under civilian jacket, constant reminder that paranoia saved my life two hours ago.
The extraction point appears ahead: modified Kom'rk-class transport with Death Watch markings hastily concealed under neutral paint. Professional work—visible only if you know what to look for.
But the figure standing at the boarding ramp makes my heart rate spike. Bo-Katan Kryze in full beskar armor, helmet under one arm, twin blaster pistols on her hips. She came personally.
"Varro." Her voice carries across the bay. "Thought you might appreciate professional extraction."
I approach cautiously, scanning for ambush despite knowing it's paranoia. "Didn't expect Death Watch's second-in-command to handle courier work."
"Didn't trust pilots to extract my best supplier without supervision." She gestures toward ship. "Plus, wanted to see if you're actually competent under pressure or just lucky."
Eight's analysis floods my neural interface: "Subject displays concern beyond business relationship. Verbal framing suggests pragmatic motivation but presence indicates emotional investment. Probability of attraction: 72.4%."
"Master's heart rate elevated," R4 adds privately. "Recommend maintaining professional demeanor."
Bo-Katan studies me while I close distance. Her eyes catalog damage—bruised knuckles from breaking window, slight limp from jumping between buildings, exhaustion carved into features by six hours of running.
"You look terrible."
"CS tried arresting me. Made extraction complicated."
"I heard. Fifteen officers wounded in firefight at your safehouse. That level of response means they wanted you badly." She moves toward ship. "We should leave before they mobilize starport patrols."
I'm three steps from boarding ramp when CS patrol rounds corner: four officers in tactical gear, weapons drawn. Lead officer's voice carries through bay's acoustics: "Stop! Coruscant Security! Drop weapons and submit to arrest!"
"Of course. Because nothing is ever simple."
Bo-Katan doesn't hesitate. Her helmet snaps on in fluid motion while twin blasters clear holsters. "Get to the ship. I'll handle this."
"There are four of them—"
"I know how to count." She opens fire before finishing sentence. Precise shots—not aiming to kill, just suppress and disable. First officer takes hit to shoulder, spinning backward. Second dives for cover. Third and fourth return fire.
Their blaster bolts hit her armor, energy dissipating across beskar plating harmlessly. She continues advancing, providing covering fire while I run for boarding ramp.
The ship's defensive weapons activate—automated turrets tracking CS patrol with lethal precision. Pilot's voice crackles through external speaker: "Boarding now or we leave without you!"
I reach ramp. Turn back seeing Bo-Katan fighting—she's poetry in motion despite brutality. Ducking, rolling, firing with both pistols simultaneously. Her jetpack activates briefly, propelling her backward toward ship while maintaining suppressing fire.
More CS officers arriving. Eight total now. Return fire intensifying. One bolt catches Bo-Katan's shoulder—beskar holds but impact staggers her. She recovers immediately, retreating under ship's covering fire.
She boards running. Ramp closes before she's fully inside. Ship launches vertically with acceleration that pins everyone against bulkheads. Through viewport, I watch CS officers attempting to follow with speeders. Futile effort—Mandalorian pilot is expert. We're beyond effective pursuit range within thirty seconds.
The ship breaks atmosphere at velocity that makes civilian vessels look stationary. Mandalore's shipyards are designed for combat craft. This transport has engines meant for rapid deployment and faster extraction.
Hyperspace transition happens ninety seconds after launch. Stars elongate into familiar blue tunnel. Safe. For now.
Bo-Katan removes helmet, breathing only slightly elevated. "That was more exciting than anticipated. Usually extractions are boring."
"Sorry to disappoint your expectations of boring."
"Wasn't disappointed. Was impressed." She holsters pistols, examining shoulder where bolt hit. Minor scorch mark on beskar but no penetration. "You kept running despite knowing CS was behind us. Didn't panic, didn't freeze. That's good survival instinct."
"Six weeks on Coruscant taught me panic gets you killed."
"Six weeks." She moves to ship's small common area, gestures to bench seating. "Most off-worlders don't last six days in Level 1313 without Jedi protection or Syndicate backing. You survived, built operation, made serious money, and only got caught when Republic decided you were priority target. That's actually impressive."
I collapse on bench, letting exhaustion hit now that immediate danger passed. R4 hovers beside me, running medical scan.
"Master's physical condition: depleted. Neural strain from earlier System usage, physical exertion from escape, chemical stimulants creating adverse reactions. Recommendation: rest for minimum 12 hours."
"Not an option. Need to stay alert."
"Master's alert state is compromised regardless. Rest would improve cognitive function more than continued wakefulness."
Bo-Katan sits across from me. Her armor makes soft clink against durasteel seating. "Your droid is right. You look ready to collapse. How long since you slept?"
"Twenty-eight hours. Give or take."
"That's tactically stupid. Can't operate effectively exhausted." She pulls off gauntlets, setting them on bench. Rare sight—Mandalorian warrior partially unarmed in another's presence. Gesture of trust or comfort, I'm not sure which.
"Didn't have choice. Extraction schedule didn't allow for naps."
"Fair. But you're safe now. Death Watch transport, hyperspace trajectory to Mandalore, CS can't follow. Sleep."
"Can't. Mind won't shut down."
She studies me with expression I can't quite read. "Adrenaline crash. Common after combat. You'll hit a wall in next hour regardless of wanting to stay alert."
The ship's common area is utilitarian—benches, storage lockers, basic facilities. Nothing comfortable but functional enough. Through viewport, hyperspace streams past in eternal blue tunnel. Mesmerizing if you watch too long.
"Thank you," I finally say. "For coming personally. Could've sent pilots."
"Could have. Didn't want to." She leans back, armor plates shifting with movement. "You're worth more than most suppliers. Quality equipment, reliable delivery, actually thinks strategically. Losing you to CS arrest would hurt Death Watch significantly."
"Business reasons then."
"Partly." Her eyes lock onto mine. "Also wanted to see if you'd actually come. You had options—flee to Outer Rim, disappear in Hutt Space, start over somewhere Republic doesn't care. But you accepted Mandalore. Why?"
Eight whispers: "Honest answer recommended. Subject values directness."
"You offered refuge. That's rare."
"Plenty of places offer refuge for right price."
"You specifically offered it. Made difference."
Her expression shifts—something between satisfaction and surprise. "So you came to Mandalore to see me again?"
The directness catches me off-guard. Mandalorian culture doesn't do subtle apparently. "That was factor."
"Good." She stands, moving to storage locker. Pulls out ration pack and water. "Eat something. Even if you can't sleep, nutrition helps with crash."
I accept food despite not feeling hungry. The ration pack is military-grade—designed for nutrition rather than taste. I force it down while Bo-Katan watches.
"Your operation on Coruscant was impressive," she says. "Syndicate connections, clone network, even Republic officers buying off-books. That's sophisticated network for six weeks. How did you build it?"
"Identified market gaps. Supplied what people needed. Maintained reputation for quality."
"And avoided moral complications about arming multiple sides of war?"
"No. Didn't avoid them. Just learned to live with them."
"Complications exist. Business is business."
She nods slowly. "Pragmatic. I respect that. Mandalore will be similar—Death Watch fights Satine's government and Maul's Shadow Collective simultaneously. You'll be supplying warriors killing each other over political ideology. Can you handle that?"
"Already handled it on Coruscant. Same principles apply."
"Different scale though. Coruscant was gang warfare. Mandalore is civil war with stakes affecting entire sector." She sits again, closer this time. "Death Watch needs you. But I need to know you won't collapse under pressure when casualties mount."
The honesty is refreshing compared to Coruscant's constant deception. "I've enabled 107 confirmed casualties in six weeks. Supplied equipment for Senate bombing, gang warfare, Titan massacre. Sold to terrorists, criminals, and Republic military simultaneously. Psychological damage is already done."
Her expression doesn't change. "That's blunt admission."
"You want honesty? I'm functional merchant with deteriorating conscience and two AI advisors arguing about whether I should eliminate remaining ethics entirely. But I deliver quality products and maintain contracts. That's what matters for your purposes."
"You're damaged."
"Aren't we all?"
She laughs—genuine sound that softens her warrior exterior. "Fair point. Every Death Watch member has blood on their hands. Difference is we're honest about it. Satine pretends Mandalore can be pacifist while hiring mercenaries for dirty work. We just acknowledge warriors fight and wars have costs."
"That's refreshing after Coruscant's hypocrisy."
"Thought you might appreciate directness." She checks chrono. "Four hours to Mandalore. You should rest. I'll wake you when we arrive."
The exhaustion is catching up. Chemical stimulants wearing off, adrenaline crash approaching, neural strain from earlier System usage all combining into fog of fatigue.
"Alright. Four hours."
I lean back against bulkhead, closing eyes. Sleep comes faster than expected—body overriding mind's protests about staying alert.
Dreams are fragmented: CS raid replaying on loop, Anakin's face demanding surrender, Mira's refugees holding out credits while children starve, Bo-Katan fighting in endless corridors where every bolt finds target and nobody dies despite violence.
I wake to Bo-Katan's voice: "We're approaching Mandalore. Thought you'd want to see this."
The viewport shows it—Mandalore filling vision with green surface and orbital stations. Beautiful in way Coruscant never managed despite its grandeur. This is world still connected to nature despite technological advancement.
"Death Watch operates from Concordia primarily," Bo-Katan explains, pointing to one of Mandalore's moons. "Government controls surface, we control moon. Stalemate that's been ongoing for years."
"Until Maul arrived."
She glances sharply at me. "What do you know about Maul?"
"Too much from transmigrator knowledge. But can't reveal that."
"Heard rumors. Shadow Collective destabilizing region. Figured Death Watch was involved somehow."
"Good instinct. Maul is problem we're addressing." She doesn't elaborate. "You'll be based on Concordia. Pre Vizsla wants to meet you—commander of Death Watch, my superior. He'll evaluate whether you're asset or liability."
"Pressure's on then."
"Don't worry. I vouched for you. Vizsla respects my judgment." She grins. "Usually."
The ship approaches Concordia—smaller than Mandalore but still impressive. Mining facilities cover surface, converted to military installations. This is fortress moon where warriors train and plan.
Landing approach takes fifteen minutes. Pilot is cautious, avoiding detection by Mandalore's orbital sensors. Finally, the ship settles into underground hangar carved from Concordia's interior.
Bo-Katan stands, replacing gauntlets. Full warrior configuration restored. "Welcome to Concordia. Try not to die immediately—that would reflect poorly on my judgment."
"I'll do my best."
The boarding ramp lowers onto hangar deck where dozens of Mandalorian warriors work on various ships and equipment. All in armor, all armed. This is military base where every person is combatant.
"I just fled one war zone to land in worse one. Progress."
But Bo-Katan is here. Death Watch offers protection. And 511,000 credits plus AI advisors means I'm better positioned than Coruscant's desperate beginning.
Forward momentum. In some definition that keeps meaning what I need it to mean.
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