Refugee Camp Thesh, Ukatis
It was late when Albrecht finally sat down to dinner. The crowd had thinned by then, leaving a few empty chairs at the foldout tables in the mess. He grabbed a foil-wrapped ration and took a seat. The ration had a smell reminiscent of dog food and a freeze-dried texture. His stomach had never fully adapted to over-processed fare, and this was arguably the very worst that branch of cuisine had to offer. He choked it down anyway.
Tomorrow morning a shuttle would take him and the rest of the Jedi who stayed behind back to Coruscant. They had made good progress these past couple weeks, but there was still so much to be done. He wanted to stay and keep going. His overworked, underfed, and sleep-deprived body did not agree.
He looked at the people around him. Men and women, old and young, healthy and sick, strong and feeble. He still couldn’t think of them as refugees. They were Ukatians. His people. To the relief workers and the other Jedi, they were foreign statistics. Another world hit by the Mandos. A few of his peers had pulled him aside to speak of the destruction of their homeworlds, telling him they knew what he was going through. He said nothing, for his burgeoning empathic abilities told him that not all were sincere, and plenty of the others believed Ukatis deserved this fate, whether they were willing to admit it or not.
He supposed he ought to try and get some rest. Most nights he was too anxious to sleep, either gazing up at the stars half expecting the invaders to return and finish the job. He worried over his sister, who was still in the hospital, and his brothers in the army, and his mother at home alone with the baby, and even his father, about whom he’d heard no word…
“Albrecht?”
A familiar voice pulled him from his thoughts. He turned and saw Giselle von Ascania beside him. How long had she been standing there? “Giselle,” he said, managing a smile. He was glad to see her. Her dress was torn and muddy at the hem, and her hair was less than perfect. But she held her head high, still carrying herself with finishing school poise despite the circumstances. That made her beautiful in his eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“I was at the Palace when the Mandalorians came, or don’t you remember your daring rescue?” She smiled back at him. Though she hid it well, Albrecht could sense at once that she was lying. “I decided to stay a while and help the people. Mother was reluctant to allow it, but I pitched it as an act of charity and she seemed to accept the idea…”
He stopped listening to whatever far-fetched tale she was spinning. His gaze was drawn to her hands, which she held clasped in front of her. On the handful of occasions he had met Giselle at balls and dances and other formal functions, her hands were never bare. She wore white satin gloves, like all the other daughters of noble houses. He had always imagined them as soft, delicate, and lily-white—the hands of a lady. Well here they were, now bared before him. Apart from being rosy pink and somewhat plump, they were exactly as he had imagined.
“You haven’t been working,” he said suddenly, interrupting her story. She blinked in surprise, but before she could speak, he reached for her hand. Gently, he rubbed his calloused fingers over her smooth palm. “If you were, your hands would be as rough as mine.”
He released her, and she was quick to pull her hand away. Her expression was inscrutable—was she surprised? Afraid? “Perhaps,” she said at last, clasping her hands in front of her once again. “I haven’t exactly been doing hard manual labor.”
Albrecht’s brow furrowed. “I know you, Giselle. You’ll give money to the poor, but you could never wash their feet. You’d rather be at home, sleeping in your own feather bed, than in a tent at a refugee camp. So tell me what you’re really doing here.”
Her smile, already thin, disappeared entirely. “After you left to join the Jedi, my father was appointed to represent Ukatis in the Alliance Senate,” she began. “It conveniently coincided with my debut, so I moved to the capital with him. We were at the Palace when the attack began.”
“Where is Lord Vultan now?”
“We became separated. I don’t know where he is. Until I find him, I will stay here.”
Albrecht had pulled enough dead bodies out of rubble to know that Lord Vultan’s prospects of survival were poor. His remains may have already been found, but were too burnt by Mando flamethrowers to be identified. He said none of this to Giselle, for he could feel grief mingling with her hope.
“I am sorry,” he said, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he bowed his head. It was awkward, to be faced with someone experiencing a pain yet unknown to him, but the rules of decorum drilled into him since childhood helped him know what to say. “If there is anything you need, know that you can call upon me for aid.”
The corners of Giselle’s eyes crinkled faintly. “Thank you, Lord Albrecht.”
The Force whispered of danger. Albrecht spun around suddenly, his body growing tense as he looked about him.
“What is it?” Giselle asked, but he held up a hand for her to be quiet. By now the mess was empty and silent. The Ukatians had gone to bed in their makeshift shelters, and only half the relief workers remained awake during the night shift, mainly to make sure that desperate people didn’t try to steal food or other supplies. Despite the stillness around them, Albrecht continued to feel the jumping pulse of impending doom like a drumbeat before a firing squad’s salvo.
“Stay here,” he said to Giselle. “It’s not safe.”
“Can’t you protect us both, Sir Knight?” she asked.
He looked at her and just knew that she wasn’t going to obey him. She always was too curious for her own good, and stubborn too. On the other hand, hearing her call him Sir Knight was so endearing, he couldn’t find it in him to refuse her. “Well, come on then.”
The portent of doom led them across the camp until at last they reached a large, ornate tent. It had housed the ailing King of Ukatis ever since the battle ended. The royal guards stood at attention outside, and yet Albrecht couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.
“Guards, have you seen any suspicious activity?” he asked.
The soldiers said nothing at first, their expressions obscured by the darkness. “Go back to your tent, boy,” one finally ordered, his gruff tone carrying a not-so-subtle threat.
If he needed further confirmation that something was wrong, this was it. Standing his ground, Albrecht waved his hand, infusing his command with the power of the Force: “We have business with the king. You will let us through.”
“You have business with the king? I’ll let you through.” The guards stepped aside.
“What did you do?” Giselle whispered in wonderment. Albrecht pressed a finger to his lips and palmed his lightsaber before cautiously lifting the tent flaps.
The pulse of dread became an actual sound, steady and rhythmic. The king’s heartbeat was monitored by a machine at his bedside. Albrecht watched the green line jump, before his gaze slid to King Horace, second of his name. Only his head, flushed and glistening with sweat, was visible above the layers of blankets that shrouded his body. Albrecht had heard that the king was ill, but the energy and prowess he displayed in battle had given him hope that the old man might be in recovery. Now it seemed His Majesty’s victory over the Mandalorians had come at a terrible cost.
Movement in the shadows of the tent drew Albrecht’s eyes. He reached out and took hold of black fabric swathing a mysterious figure trying to get past him and Giselle.
“Who are you?” Albrecht demanded. “What are you doing here?”
A dagger emerged from beneath the figure’s cloak, glinting in the moonlight. Giselle screamed. Albrecht’s lightsaber ignited. The knife fell to the ground, a severed hand still clutching its hilt. Clutching their stump of a wrist, the figure fled out of the tent with a sound of tearing cloth.
It was late when Albrecht finally sat down to dinner. The crowd had thinned by then, leaving a few empty chairs at the foldout tables in the mess. He grabbed a foil-wrapped ration and took a seat. The ration had a smell reminiscent of dog food and a freeze-dried texture. His stomach had never fully adapted to over-processed fare, and this was arguably the very worst that branch of cuisine had to offer. He choked it down anyway.
Tomorrow morning a shuttle would take him and the rest of the Jedi who stayed behind back to Coruscant. They had made good progress these past couple weeks, but there was still so much to be done. He wanted to stay and keep going. His overworked, underfed, and sleep-deprived body did not agree.
He looked at the people around him. Men and women, old and young, healthy and sick, strong and feeble. He still couldn’t think of them as refugees. They were Ukatians. His people. To the relief workers and the other Jedi, they were foreign statistics. Another world hit by the Mandos. A few of his peers had pulled him aside to speak of the destruction of their homeworlds, telling him they knew what he was going through. He said nothing, for his burgeoning empathic abilities told him that not all were sincere, and plenty of the others believed Ukatis deserved this fate, whether they were willing to admit it or not.
He supposed he ought to try and get some rest. Most nights he was too anxious to sleep, either gazing up at the stars half expecting the invaders to return and finish the job. He worried over his sister, who was still in the hospital, and his brothers in the army, and his mother at home alone with the baby, and even his father, about whom he’d heard no word…
“Albrecht?”
A familiar voice pulled him from his thoughts. He turned and saw Giselle von Ascania beside him. How long had she been standing there? “Giselle,” he said, managing a smile. He was glad to see her. Her dress was torn and muddy at the hem, and her hair was less than perfect. But she held her head high, still carrying herself with finishing school poise despite the circumstances. That made her beautiful in his eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“I was at the Palace when the Mandalorians came, or don’t you remember your daring rescue?” She smiled back at him. Though she hid it well, Albrecht could sense at once that she was lying. “I decided to stay a while and help the people. Mother was reluctant to allow it, but I pitched it as an act of charity and she seemed to accept the idea…”
He stopped listening to whatever far-fetched tale she was spinning. His gaze was drawn to her hands, which she held clasped in front of her. On the handful of occasions he had met Giselle at balls and dances and other formal functions, her hands were never bare. She wore white satin gloves, like all the other daughters of noble houses. He had always imagined them as soft, delicate, and lily-white—the hands of a lady. Well here they were, now bared before him. Apart from being rosy pink and somewhat plump, they were exactly as he had imagined.
“You haven’t been working,” he said suddenly, interrupting her story. She blinked in surprise, but before she could speak, he reached for her hand. Gently, he rubbed his calloused fingers over her smooth palm. “If you were, your hands would be as rough as mine.”
He released her, and she was quick to pull her hand away. Her expression was inscrutable—was she surprised? Afraid? “Perhaps,” she said at last, clasping her hands in front of her once again. “I haven’t exactly been doing hard manual labor.”
Albrecht’s brow furrowed. “I know you, Giselle. You’ll give money to the poor, but you could never wash their feet. You’d rather be at home, sleeping in your own feather bed, than in a tent at a refugee camp. So tell me what you’re really doing here.”
Her smile, already thin, disappeared entirely. “After you left to join the Jedi, my father was appointed to represent Ukatis in the Alliance Senate,” she began. “It conveniently coincided with my debut, so I moved to the capital with him. We were at the Palace when the attack began.”
“Where is Lord Vultan now?”
“We became separated. I don’t know where he is. Until I find him, I will stay here.”
Albrecht had pulled enough dead bodies out of rubble to know that Lord Vultan’s prospects of survival were poor. His remains may have already been found, but were too burnt by Mando flamethrowers to be identified. He said none of this to Giselle, for he could feel grief mingling with her hope.
“I am sorry,” he said, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he bowed his head. It was awkward, to be faced with someone experiencing a pain yet unknown to him, but the rules of decorum drilled into him since childhood helped him know what to say. “If there is anything you need, know that you can call upon me for aid.”
The corners of Giselle’s eyes crinkled faintly. “Thank you, Lord Albrecht.”
The Force whispered of danger. Albrecht spun around suddenly, his body growing tense as he looked about him.
“What is it?” Giselle asked, but he held up a hand for her to be quiet. By now the mess was empty and silent. The Ukatians had gone to bed in their makeshift shelters, and only half the relief workers remained awake during the night shift, mainly to make sure that desperate people didn’t try to steal food or other supplies. Despite the stillness around them, Albrecht continued to feel the jumping pulse of impending doom like a drumbeat before a firing squad’s salvo.
“Stay here,” he said to Giselle. “It’s not safe.”
“Can’t you protect us both, Sir Knight?” she asked.
He looked at her and just knew that she wasn’t going to obey him. She always was too curious for her own good, and stubborn too. On the other hand, hearing her call him Sir Knight was so endearing, he couldn’t find it in him to refuse her. “Well, come on then.”
The portent of doom led them across the camp until at last they reached a large, ornate tent. It had housed the ailing King of Ukatis ever since the battle ended. The royal guards stood at attention outside, and yet Albrecht couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.
“Guards, have you seen any suspicious activity?” he asked.
The soldiers said nothing at first, their expressions obscured by the darkness. “Go back to your tent, boy,” one finally ordered, his gruff tone carrying a not-so-subtle threat.
If he needed further confirmation that something was wrong, this was it. Standing his ground, Albrecht waved his hand, infusing his command with the power of the Force: “We have business with the king. You will let us through.”
“You have business with the king? I’ll let you through.” The guards stepped aside.
“What did you do?” Giselle whispered in wonderment. Albrecht pressed a finger to his lips and palmed his lightsaber before cautiously lifting the tent flaps.
The pulse of dread became an actual sound, steady and rhythmic. The king’s heartbeat was monitored by a machine at his bedside. Albrecht watched the green line jump, before his gaze slid to King Horace, second of his name. Only his head, flushed and glistening with sweat, was visible above the layers of blankets that shrouded his body. Albrecht had heard that the king was ill, but the energy and prowess he displayed in battle had given him hope that the old man might be in recovery. Now it seemed His Majesty’s victory over the Mandalorians had come at a terrible cost.
Movement in the shadows of the tent drew Albrecht’s eyes. He reached out and took hold of black fabric swathing a mysterious figure trying to get past him and Giselle.
“Who are you?” Albrecht demanded. “What are you doing here?”
A dagger emerged from beneath the figure’s cloak, glinting in the moonlight. Giselle screamed. Albrecht’s lightsaber ignited. The knife fell to the ground, a severed hand still clutching its hilt. Clutching their stump of a wrist, the figure fled out of the tent with a sound of tearing cloth.
